Bette's Four Bold Tasks

Author's note: I took a short break from the multi-chapter New England Triad series (N.E.T.) to write this standalone short story. Here I'm trying for a lighter and more comic tone. The action here takes place somewhere in New England (okay: Hartford County, Connecticut) a few months after the end of N.E.T.'s action. Some characters appear in both works. You do not need any familiarity at all with N.E.T. to understand this new story. I hope you also enjoy it. -- Peter

************

The university's graduate program in English was small. Most of the students seemed to be wives of professors in other departments or wives of business executives in the area--never husbands. Plus a handful of idealistic young men and women in their twenties who were hoping, against all odds, to build a career as a college professor. Probably none of us was going to set the academic world on fire, but graduate students were almost always a delight to teach.

Much graduate work in English here was done as independent-study projects. Which is why a charming, very smart, and very pretty natural-blonde twenty-something and I were alone in my office late Friday afternoon, poring over the Oxford edition of Jonathan Swift's poetry. Bette Schneider her name was, and she often liked to tease people about her German background.

"But Herr Doktor Professor Lancome," she was saying, "even allowing for..."

I interrupted, teasing back. "That's 'Herr Doktor Associate-Professor Lancome,' Fraeulein Bachelor-of-Arts Schneider!"

She smiled engagingly. "How about if I just call you Stephen?"

Flirting with an undergraduate would be an insane risk for a professor these days. Even flirting with graduate students had gotten dicey. But small sparks had been flying between Bette and me for a year, and I felt comfortable enough with her to take a chance now. I smiled back.

"That would be fine, Bette. In private."

"Got it."

Bette's brain was as fine as her body. She saw that the details of a fashionable woman's excrement in "The Lady's Dressing Room" had to be seen through shifting layers of irony and social criticism and also through a narrator who clearly is not Swift himself. And yet, and yet... even allowing for all that, wasn't there something just a little odd and unsettling in the language here? Would you bet any money that Swift didn't have some kind of problem with women?

"I think you're right, Bette," I said. "There is something unsettling in this poem, and it's hard to put your finger on exactly what it is or exactly where it's located. Might make a nice research project, trying to pin it down, if you're interested. I don't know if feminist theory might be helpful here. Mary Ellen Spivak might have some good suggestions if you feel like pursuing that angle."

Bette looked up from the notes she was jotting--looked at me as though I had said something wise and immensely helpful. Which I was fairly sure I hadn't.

Our conversation drifted away from Swift and onto personal matters--another thing you could do with graduate students that you'd hesitate to do with undergraduates. Undergraduates were too apt to misinterpret all familiarity as the first stage of sexual harassment--"grooming behavior" or something.

But the graduate students had lived long enough--and had gotten comfortable enough with their own sexuality--that they could tell casual conversation from flirting from harassment. They enjoyed the first of the three and sometimes the second too.

By now it was late in the afternoon, 4:30. Bette and I both could see that the chances were low of any more wise insights about literature flowing from either of us. But we were enjoying each other's company.

A small ornamental pin on Bette's sweater again caught my attention. It was a silver disk about the size of a nickel. A bas-relief image of what looked like a three-bladed propeller filled most of the disk. Between the tip of each blade and the edge of the disk was a small hemispherical cavity. A fourth small cavity was in the center.

"Tell me about your pin," I invited. "It looks vaguely familiar. I think I've seen one or two like it on people from time to time. Maybe with little jewels above the propeller tips. What's it mean?"

Bette looked uncomfortable and relieved at the same time. "Uh, yes, Stephen. That's part of the reason I asked for a conference today."

I swiveled my desk chair to face her. I crossed my legs, laced my fingers together and raised my eyebrows, silently inviting her to go on (while looking professorial to the max). My gaze shifted among her blue eyes, the pin, and that sweet, high, Teutonic bosom on which the pin perched. The nipples had to be pink, I judged. She is a very beautiful young woman, I judged. With a very impressive brain. Just my type, except for being about ten years too young. I was 39. According to her records, she was 25.

"There's an organization I've recently gotten involved with," she said. "It's called Lodestone. It's hard to describe. It's for adult women--you have to be at least 23.

"Lodestone is a strange blend of things. It's kind of a cross between a sorority and an honor society and a mystical outfit like Eastern Star and an Outward Bound program and a secret society sort of thing like Skull and Bones. It's for women who somebody has identified as potential movers and shakers in some way or another. The selection process is pretty unclear to me at the moment. For some reason they invited me to join. Two members looked me up, invited me out for coffee, and made a pretty convincing case. A lot of very impressive, very successful women are members, it turns out. It's a network: they help one another. I'm not permitted to name anyone.

"Many members choose not to wear their pin except at official Lodestone functions. Junior members like me have to wear our pins all the time unless we have a fairly good reason not to--we're in a uniform, say, or in surgical scrubs. The number and color of jewels on the pin's surface mean things. They're sort of like Boy Scout merit badges. As you see, I have none so far. I'm very new. I should have one jewel tomorrow.

"You're probably wondering, but I don't see the connection between a lodestone and a propeller either--if in fact it actually is a propeller. It might not be. Some things get explained only after you've advanced a bit in the organization."

I was surprised to see a bright, mature young woman like Bette get so caught up what seemed to be a rather silly secret sorority. But I decided I'd be nice and not scoff. "You said that Lodestone is connected to our conference?" I prompted.

For some reason Bette blushed. "I know this all must sound silly, Stephen, but please hear me out. Members have to advance through several levels. These levels have names like Boldness, Risk, Trust, Resilience, Change, Power... you get the picture. Each level has four tasks. You see the four holes in my pin. A little jewel is glued in for each completed task at that level. Each level has its own type of jewel. As the levels rise, the four tasks get harder. When you have finally completed every level your pin has four diamonds. I know this sounds incredibly Mickey-Mouse: you don't need to tell me! It's just one of those things. I'm sure the Masons and the Rotary Club have their own collection of silly rituals."

"And universities too," I reassured her. "It's okay, Bette. I'm not thinking any less highly of you."

She looked relieved. "Stephen, you can help me in this. It will cost you not a cent and only a few minutes of your time--and I guarantee you will consider it time very well spent. Could you do this for me?"

I had taken plenty of risks already this afternoon. What's one more? "Of course," I said.

Bette continued her explanation. "Thank you. Now, as I understand it, to some extent the tasks are pretty standard, and to some extent the tasks are tailored to each particular woman. I'm at the beginning of the first level. The first level is Boldness. The jewel color is red. Now brace yourself. My first task of Boldness is to display my body, close up, to someone who has never seen it. Someone to whom such display would be thought inappropriate. If the woman is heterosexual, as I am, the other person has to be a man. There's some debate about who to display yourself to if you're bi or a lesbian.

"I'm assuming that, as a married man, you don't get offended and grossed out at the sight of a woman with her pants off. Somehow I even get the impression you rather like women's bodies."

"Perhaps I do," I deadpanned, "now that you mention it." Bette smiled.

She walked to my office door, glanced about the hallway, closed and locked the door. She returned and stood before me.

"Obviously, I'm uncomfortable with the assigned task; and obviously, that's the whole point of having me do it. Becoming able to do many more things, boldly, even if they make me uncomfortable. So, obviously, boyfriends aren't allowed as partners here. Guys you are trying to turn into a boyfriend aren't allowed. But even if you've fantasized about them from time to time, male professors are just fine for the task. Assuming they haven't already seen you with your clothes off.

"You've already said yes, Stephen, and I'm holding you to your promise. Is now a good time? The hallway is empty, by the way, and all the office doors are closed, I think we're the only people on this hall."

"Wait, Bette," I said, my mind racing. "I presume Lodestone will want documentation of some sort, attesting that this task was successfully completed? Am I supposed to certify in writing that on Friday, February 5, Ms Bette Schneider removed her pants in my office, and I much enjoyed the sight of her lovely private parts? And then you give the signed document to a third party? Does the metaphor of 'time bomb' make as much sense to you as it does to me?"

"Of course, Stephen. No one would ask you to do that in this day and age. Here's all you need to do. I will pose for you. You take a photo of me with my phone. Or if you prefer, I'll take a selfie. The photo will have a time-and-date stamp--say, today at 4:47 PM. Then you just pick up a piece of letterhead and write something like, 'From 4 to 5 PM on February 5, Ms Bette Schneider and I met in conference to discuss Jonathan Swift's poetry.' I show a certain person from Lodestone the timestamped photo, and I show her your note. She smiles, makes a mark in a record book, says 'Good girl!' and hands me an envelope with my second task. Then she glues a red so-called jewel in the top socket of my pin. I retain possession of the note and the photo. Nobody else sees either of them again unless some question of my integrity arises.

"Don't worry. Think about it. Even taken together, the note and the photo don't prove anything at all. None of this would stand up in court--or even a Human Resources hearing--for five minutes. How hard is it to temporarily change your phone's time and date setting? You're not anywhere in the photo. There's no evidence you were even in the building. Professors are always leaving their office doors open and/or unlocked. The 'evidence' is laughable.

"How could anyone get hold of the note and the photo in the first place? Do you think I'm going to post them on Instagram? If you're afraid of me blackmailing you, I'll gladly give you a signed statement that this is all my idea. And think of how much you could hurt me, and how much I'm trusting that you won't.

"Lodestone just wants a little evidence pro forma of this exploit, and they're basically trusting me not to cheat. The risk you're taking is not zero, but it's pretty low, I think. So are you okay with everything?"

"This is nuts," I said. "But all right: let's do it."

"I'll owe you a big favor afterwards," she said, smiling. "Would you like just my bottoms off or full buck naked? Either is allowed."

"Can we try it both ways?" I asked, reasonably enough. "Start with the bottoms?"

"You do know that displaying one's self half-naked--especially the bottom half--is about twice as difficult for a girl, and twice as wanton-feeling, as just taking all her clothes off would be?"

"I do. And it's twice as charming to her audience, too. But I'll allow you to take the rest off shortly afterwards, so you can feel modest again. Then you'll owe me two favors." Swift himself would have enjoyed the crackpot logic here, I decided.

Bette gave me a long-suffering smile, stepped out of her loafers, and pulled off her Peds. Unbuckling her belt, she said, "I'm no prude, Professor Lancome, but believe me, undressing for a man I'm not about to fuck is quite a new experience for me."

"I can think of an obvious solution to that one," I quipped. "Then afterwards you'll owe me three favors. And afterwards you'll feel you know me well enough to call me Stephen again."

She stepped out of her navy-blue chinos. She came over to me, bent over, and kissed me briefly on the lips. "Don't imagine that the thought never occurred to me," she said.

Bette moved back a couple of feet, allowing me to take in more of her body at a glance. She was wearing her oatmeal-colored pullover sweater and navy low-rise panties. She rolled the bottom of her sweater up to her navel. "I am now going to pull down my panties for you, Professor Lancome."

Slowly, she did, looking me in the eye all the while. She didn't look like she was especially enjoying this part of her task. On the other hand, she didn't look like she was hating it, either. She stepped out of her panties, moved her legs apart a little, clasped her hands behind her neck, and stood still, offering herself to my gaze. She was blushing again.

I turned my gaze downwards once more. A full blonde bush was too much to hope for these days, but Bette did keep at least some of her golden pubic hair, narrowly ringing her genitals and covering the lower part of her pubic mound. Her labia were hairless. Even with that severe trim, she looked beautiful and wonderfully sexy.

"Bette, you are lovely," I said.

"Thank you, Stephen," she replied. "Now that it's too late to retain a scrap of modesty, I'm starting to find this all fairly pleasant. Yes, I can do this, can't I. Who knew? May I have your desk chair?"

I rose and took the other chair. Bette sat, swiveled the seat to face me. She moved her bottom forwards on the woven seat, swung her left leg over the left armrest, swung her right leg over the right. Her face displayed a sweet smile as she leaned back. Her pretty, puckered anus, her perineum, and her pussy now were all boldly displayed. The pussy, with its ring of golden fur, gaped open a bit. It was much like my wife Ann's: gracefully curved outer labia; delicate, not-very-prominent inner labia; a touch of moisture here and there. Her clitoris wasn't quite visible, but I had a pretty good idea of where to look if I ever needed to find it.

To me, nobody's gaping vaginal opening will win any beauty awards on close inspection, so I'll just report that Bette's was right where it ought to be--and looking extremely inviting despite its lack of heart-fluttering good looks.

I was entranced, overall. I stared appreciatively. With Bette's top still on and her legs spread wide, she looked especially wanton and unbelievably sexy. And as beautiful as ever.

"Take my picture?" she asked. "My phone's in my shoulder bag."

I retrieved the phone and framed a picture, trying to fill the frame mostly with her body, not so much with my office furnishings. All the time I was moving the camera around and playing with the telephoto zoom, Bette was looking towards my eyes. Her lips, clenched tight at first, slowly formed a smile. I gave up all hope of hiding my erection.

I finally took the picture, and we reviewed it. It looked just fine. As porn photos go, it was very well-composed. And the exposure was very good: the dark areas had detail, and the bright areas were not washed out. The time and date stamps were in place and were not blocking the view of Bette's body,

"We've satisfied the requirement," Bette announced, "apart from the short note from you. Now would you like to see me naked too?"

"I would indeed."

She got out of the chair and stood, facing me. She bit her lower lip, hesitated for a split second, then quietly muttered, "Oh, what the hell." Then, with both hands, she pulled the sweater over her head and tossed it onto my desk.

Her off-white bra looked like a C-cup. I'm not fussy about the size of women's breasts, actually. What delights me is not sheer size but a beautiful shape and just-right firmness. My wife Ann's breasts are smaller than average but the most beautiful I've seen and felt.

Bette reached back, unhooked her bra, then tossed it onto my desk too. Her breasts were a little larger than average and possibly the second-most-beautiful I've seen. They were sort of tubular in shape--my favorite style. They looked nicely firm but not over-firm. As predicted, the areolas and nipples were pink. Gingerly, I reached out a hand and touched one.

"Go ahead," she said.

The weight, density, and firmness of her breasts were close to perfect. I caressed them gently. My finger drew a circle on her pink areolas, and the nipples stiffened.

"Bette, you are gorgeous," I said.

You'd think that by now she would be beyond blushing, but she blushed yet again. Then she sat again in my chair. Her bottom moved forwards. Her legs went over the armrests again as she leaned back.

"Would you like another photo for your records?" she asked. "You can use your own camera if you like."

No sane man would turn down an offer like that. Nor would I. That took less than a minute.

I put my phone down. Bette stayed in the chair, legs spread, and wiggled her bottom forwards still further. Her labia were now a centimeter or two in front of the seat. She looked me boldly in the eye, very subtly licked her lips, and raised her eyebrows. I perceived that an invitation had been issued. Cunnilingus to start, followed by copulation. I would love either or, especially, both.

I put my hand on the side of her head and looked into her blue eyes. "Bette, we need to do some long, clear thinking before we go any further. Much as I would love to. Believe me, I would love to."

She sighed audibly, but her face looked a little bit relieved as well as annoyed. "I know, Stephen," she said. "I'm not only a student, I'm your student, and we will be in a student-teacher relationship for months to come. Besides that, I suppose if anyone finds out, they will try to crucify you, no matter how loudly I say, 'There's no problem here, folks!'"

She sat up and closed her legs. Little tufts of gold peeked up from her pubic mound. She looked absolutely lovely. She took a deep breath and managed a smile.

"Thank you for this afternoon, Stephen. You were wonderful. Doing this was a big stretch for me, and you helped more than you realize." Bette rose and picked up the clothes on my office floor. She pulled up her panties gracefully, then put on her Peds and trousers. Now she was half-naked in the opposite way from before. This way was beautiful and very sexy too. There's nothing like trousers to make naked breasts look even more naked. She retrieved her bra from my desk and put it on, then her sweater.

"Next time you see me," she said, you'll see a little red jewel at the top of my pin. I hope it brings back pleasant memories. It will for me, whenever I see it."

"For me too, Bette."

She put on her jacket, leaving it unzipped, then picked up her phone, notebook, and shoulder bag.

"Oh, the note from you," she remembered.