Free Spirits Ch. 05: The Dean

All Hail the Dean

Denise's phone bleeped. Lucky she was in the car; her phone lived there, permanently attached to a charger cable.

Her sartorial choices left little room for a phone. Boxers and running shoes were her usual warm-day apparel, like today. And nothing else. She was notorious on campus for many things, but only freshmen commented on her attire. It was her most visible foible, but the least interesting one.

Unless she stuffed the phone down her shorts (which she had resorted to on occasion) or strapped it to her running shoes like a race tracking device (never!) she'd be forced to carry it in one hand. So, she elected most days to just leave it behind.

Fishing it out of the console by the cable, she flipped it over - Shelly had texted "The twins have found something you may want to hear"

By 'twins' she guessed Shelly meant the two new team members who seemed attached at the hip. Or at the crotch more accurately - they spent an inordinate amount of time on sex. And rarely stopped rattling on to each other. Very communicative, with good vocabularies and good imaginations, it was usually quite entertaining.

Whatever could that text mean? What would she 'want to hear' that couldn't wait?

Another text popped up - from the Dean! "If it isn't too much trouble, kindly visit me in my office". The Dean was a little old-fashioned and never got around to abbreviations nor emoticons. She'd rather die than end a sentence in a preposition, much less 'lol'.

Well. Were these messages related? In that event she'd be better off informed. The dorm it was!

The days of matrons and porters was long past, so it wasn't clear to Denise how she'd find them. Denise was bad with names. Go trolling down the halls, hollering "Runner new girls!" and see if she got an answer?

Parking behind the faculty building she grabbed some papers, stuffed them down the front of her shorts and slammed her car door. Her car was never locked, and God help anyone who wanted to steal something in it. The back seat was a disgraceful assortment of dirty clothes, papers and mail, old running shoes and empty sunscreen bottles.

The dorm was at the foot of the sloping quad, behind the old limestone church. Some early founder had figured it would be healthful for students to hike uphill to classes. Wake up the circulation, more blood to the brain. Well nowadays they knew it actually was a good idea to exercise before studying, so no harm done.

Entering the front door, she met a young man she recognized - a sophomore recruit to the running team. Gotta get better with names. He seemed apprehensive but brightened when he spotted her.

"Uh, Coach! I'm supposed to show you where to go. Third floor!"

Sounded fine to her. "Lead on!"

Up two flights of stairs - worn marble steps from generations of student feet. Old oak railings, brass gaslights converted to electric. Like every other old building on the quad as this building was built contemporaneously.

Denise sprinted two steps at a time; her young guide had a little trouble keeping up. She moderated her pace so as not to embarrass him.

Down a hall thick with smells of testosterone, estrogen and pizza, her sophomore pointed at a room with its door ajar, then hared off in the other direction. "Thanks!" she called to his retreating backside.

There was a hand-decorated sign taped to the door with 'Virgizza' in puff paint and sparkles. Peering at the official dormitory residence card she saw it was a double with occupants 'Virginia' and 'Melissa'.

Huh. So now she knew their names. And a handy moniker when referring to them in the plural, which was the more frequent occurrence.

Knocking, "CaMin!" came chorused from within.

They were propped up in one bed together on pillow-chair thingys facing each other, each studying intently. Pantsless, crotch to crotch in scissors position, a vibrator buzzing somewhere.

The other bed seemed to be unused, without sheets or pillow and strewn haphazardly with the detritus of student life - a tennis racket, two pair of running shoes, what looked to be a shoebox full of dildoes, well-used notebooks.

Each had a textbook and notes open on the bed, a pen in hand and a substantial wet spot where they connected sex to sex.

One wore a Hello Kitty shirt with sparkle paint, the other a tattered muscle shirt with 'Pussy Whore' stenciled in black on grey. And nothing else. Denise approved.

"Shelly says you got something for me?"

Virginia(?) uncoupled with a sucking sound, swung her lean legs over the side of the bed, put her bare feet on the floor. Leaving the other (Melissa?) with a fluorescent-pink two-headed cock vibrator slowly sliding out of her cooch, buzzing impotently. She reached down absently, twisted the head to turn it off without extracting it. She continued to read and take notes while her cunt drooled around the vibrator onto the wet spot.

Virginia: "Leaving Human Development, over in Hatfield Hall, went to Prof's office for tutoring schedule, heard Prosser saying something about 'got that twat now!' Figured that had to be you."

Denise smiled at that.

"Had that gutless assistant with him, brought some pictures, they hid them when I came in. But I think I saw the running team! In the woods somewhere?"

Interesting.

"I appreciate the heads-up. But don't worry. The Lynxes' performance speaks for itself. I'll talk to the Dean."

She departed as Virginia(?) was re-coupling and Melissa(?) was fiddling with her phone.

Heading back up to the quad she decided she could turn in her track schedule on the way to the Dean. Entering the old administration building on the North palisade, nowadays used by buildings and grounds, she greeted the school staffer behind a counter and got a casual greeting in return.

"Got next week's rota!" Denise announced as she fished down the front of her boxers, pulling out a sweaty fold of hand-written notebook pages.

The staffer, an older man with a Bronx accent, took it with a comment about the beautiful warm day. He was more interested in practice field conflicts than nakedness, and long accustomed to the sight of Denise's athletic frame. Everything was apparently in order, and her practices could proceed as planned.

Crossing the busy quad Denise greeted a Senior team member Gene travelling in a cluster of other senior men, all dressed for rugby. She waved, smiled. They accepted Coach, respected her, some having been in her Physical Therapy class. Smiles and nods, nothing they haven't seen a hundred times before, they resumed their talk of plays and schedules.

Meeting a younger group of mixed Frosh hurrying somewhere heads swiveled, one young woman staring open-mouthed. Looking at Denise, down at her own shirt, back at Coach, again at her own shirt. Denise could almost hear new ideas forming in her fresh moldable brain.

The office she was heading for was in the northeast corner. The dean had a prime spot, with windows on the north and east sides and a separate entrance and parking space in the back. Denise used the public entrance in the quad, pushing through the oak-framed glass panel gilded with the Dean's office and credentials.

The foyer was not empty - Shelly and Virgizza were waiting. Quick work to get here before her!

Shelly: "We're going to prepare you for your Mundane encounter. Think of it as a Power Makeover."

Denise looked skeptical. "Is this necessary?"

Virgizza were un-dissuaded. "You have to meet these people in a way they understand. It's not for you; it's for them! So they know who they're dealing with!"

Denise acquiesced, not convinced but proud that her people had rallied round. She wanted to respect their concern.

Holding her arms out and spreading her feet, she let them have their way with her.

Shelly shucked out of her denim vest leaving a brief cutoff muscle shirt and shorts, slid the vest over Denise's arms, snugged it tight under her breasts. It was way too small to cover anything effectively, but that was not the point.

Stripping a hair tie from her own ponytail, she threaded it through the middle buttonhole in a larks-head knot, looped it over the toggle opposite to fasten the front. The vest was now a sort of push-up cuirass, with a four-inch gap down the centerline.

Shelly artfully adjusted the top. Boobs were still very prominent, nipples half visible at the border. Perfect.

Virginia removed her wraparound miniskirt, clearly thrown on just before racing over from the dorm. She was left with brief wrinkled boy-shorts, "cum dumpster" stenciled across the butt.

Wrapped around Denise's fabulous glutes, it didn't quite meet in front. Virgina seemed stumped, just holding it in place and staring at Denise's hips.

Melissa quickly unclipped her backpack strap, rotated the skirt to position the gap at Denise's hip. While Virgina held it there she fastened and adjusted the strap. Folding down the waistband to cover the strap, the skirt became even more breathtakingly brief.

The effect was somewhat diminished by the boxer shorts sticking out below. Annoyed, Melissa grabbed the hem of the shorts and stripped them down. Denise adroitly stepped out of them.

"Bend!" Virginia commanded. Denise, hands on hips, bent forward, back, side to side. They looked at her critically, Melissa absently fingering her own nipple through her Hello Kitty shirt. The top stayed in place; the skirt afforded just an occasional glimpse of bush.

Virginia stepped up, stood on tiptoe and tried to do something with Denise's hair.

Denise could feel her breath on her chest, smell her recent-sex-smell, see her tiny perfect buds of breasts through the stretched-out neck hole of her shirt. Cute!

She let her fiddle a moment then gently took her by the hips and set her down.

"Thanks guys, I've got it from here!"

"Take no prisoners!" Kelley admonished, looking serious. Denise smiled, made eye contact with each of them in turn, nodded, and turned to stride into the Dean's office, one hundred percent the Warrior ready for combat.

Melissa watched her backside as she blew through the Dean's office door, and nervously resumed fiddling with her nipple.

The Dean already had company. Seated across the desk from her the Anthropology department head Professor Prosser sat in the guest chair. He was grey, nearing retirement, and famous for his demanding classes and stern demeanor. He looked angry and gave Denise an accusatory glare.

Standing behind the chair was his department admin, somebody Brown. Mousy and fussy, he held a thick manila folder.

"Welcome, Denise! Please sit?"

The Dean waved at another chair pushed against the wall. Denise elected to stand.

The Professor continued where he was apparently interrupted. "We have here evidence of unprofessional behavior, student coercion including sexual coercion, and violations of the Faculty Code!"

The Dean looked weary, resigned.

"Present your case! And do it quickly please."

The Dean was a pragmatic leader. She'd left industry early in her career, having risen to the level of Vice President in a prominent company. Unhappy with commerce, she'd turned her considerable skills to education. Dean for over ten years, she was respected and fairly popular with the Faculty.

She enjoyed the job but occasionally it was a burden, like today. Today somebody was going to go away very unhappy, and grudges might be formed that would plague the school for years.

Brown laid the folder on the Dean's desk without being asked. The Dean was annoyed, but tolerant.

"Tell me what you think. I'm not going to read through this whole file. "

"Here we have documentation of repeated transgressions by this Associate. Starting with inappropriate dress we follow with accusations of corrupting students, being a bad influence on the student body. Her non-professional behavior is an embarrassment to the faculty and to the institution!"

Brown opened the folder and laid out a sampling of photographs and typed statements.

"The Associate regularly takes a selection of students to remote locations to perform who-knows-what kind of rituals."

Brown pulled out a photograph of the running team in the woods. Dean glanced down. It was fairly clear the Denise was naked but for running shoes. Other runners were dressed in only spandex and brief tops, some torn and quite revealing.

The picture had clearly been taken from a place of concealment.

"We have witness statements of her attending school facilities while topless - the dining hall, administration offices, even classrooms!"

Other typed papers were produced. The Dean ignored them. Denise was notorious for her sartorial carelessness; nothing new here.

"Today she was seen driving around campus, apparently with nothing on at all!"

Denise protested. "Not true! I always wear appropriate shoes; foot injuries can take half a season to heal!"

Dean looked down at her desk, a fugitive smile crosses her face.

"So, you have no issue with the Associate's scholarship, the progress of her students, nor her duties as a faculty member?"

Professor Prosser looked distracted. "No, it's not about that. It's about deportment!

For goodness' sake, just look at her now! She's barely covered, and probably put that outfit on just for this meeting!"

Denise nodded. "It was not my idea. Some of my students suggested I adjust my outfit, as an olive branch. Just trying to be considerate."

The Dean smiled again. "Professor, what do you want?"

"What do I want? Isn't it obvious? This evidence of impropriety is enough to dismiss her from the faculty! End her career as an educator! She is a menace to the institution!"

Dean was silent, picked up a document, glanced at it, dropped it. She folded her hands.

"Do you have anything more to present? Professor Prosser?"

He shook his head. Brown pushed the folder across the desk, as a cat offers a dead mouse. Dean ignored him.

"Associate? I'd like to hear from you."

Denise shrugged her shoulders.

"These pictures? We're a running team; we dress to maximize our performance.

Of course, we go to remote locations. That's where the trails are. That twisted accusation is just semantics, and we all know it."

The Professor colored, started to speak but the Dean held up her hand.

"Embarrassed faculty? That's what this is really about. Some are embarrassed to admit they're human, afraid to talk about sex, afraid of their own students, of their own impulses.

Well? Fuck the dress code. Fuck professional. Fuck coercion - that's a damn lie. Fuck bad influence - you just talk to my team and know that's bullshit."

"My way is, support my students in every way that's human and real. I don't decide for anybody what that means; they're free to come to practice or to class or not.

It's not that I don't give a damn; I do. But they have to want it, or they learn nothing, and I waste effort that could go to another student.

I model freedom of choice by making my own choices, some far from comfortable for other people. Fuck it; I'm not choosing for anybody else, and I make that clear.

So my students understand mentally and emotionally, they should make their own choices too. Something that works for them. Something brave."

She paused, making an effort not to come off as defensive nor sarcastic.

"I'm not going to apologize, and I'm not going to change. I'm going to continue running, and supporting my students and team, and continue dressing and acting as I see fit.

Have a problem with that? That I truly don't give one fuck about. Because I'm not here to fit in with other faculty or be ruled by someone else's choices.

I'm here for me, for my students and for my team."

She said this all matter-of-factly, which actually was how she said everything. The only way she knew how.

Dean sat back, considering. She spoke.

"Professor, I see your concern and understand it. You have been heard.

Associate, I hear you, and appreciate what you are doing and what you mean to do."

The Professor looked like he wanted to speak but didn't dare interrupt the Dean. She continued,

"Let me tell you about a recent phone call, just this morning. From parents of a Frosh, a High School State runner! Enrolled here because of the reputation of the Lynxes.

They told me their daughter had been having trouble with all the changes college required of her. Away from home, among strangers, with a new running team and a new Coach. She'd described herself as a small fish in a big pond, and how that made her feel small and useless.

She'd talked of dropping out and was uncertain of her future. It was clear she'd lost heart!"

"Yesterday they got a call from her, their precious only daughter, out of the blue. She was excited again, her old self. She was certain she'd continue here, finish here, major in Sports Medicine with an emphasis on physical therapy!

More importantly, to them at least, she was proud of herself and OK with being in the 'big pond'.

"How did this wonderful change happen? they asked. Well, because of counseling by "Coach Denise the running Goddess" who had straightened her out, told her plainly how she was welcome here, how she was valuable and accepted just as she was.

"Her parents told me of their relief, that she again talked about running and about the new team. She'd found 'her people' she said and was planning a future with them. Happy and excited, sure of her direction, wanting to help people "Like Coach does", inspired and ambitious and newly dedicated."

"Fearless, they described her."

Well, these parents are over the moon, and support the school 100%, want their daughter to have Coach as her advisor. They talked of doing something for the department! And these are parents of means, able to support the college significantly. Who knows? A track resurfacing, a whirlpool bath, perhaps a modernized physical therapy facility?"

The Professor could stand it no longer and interrupted.

"Selling out our principles?! For gadgets and landscaping?"

Dean: "Parents and alumni support our institution, a community is vital to the colleges' success. A Coach that reaches students, motivates and counsels, inspires, is fundamental to that support. Support that enables better teaching, reaching more students.

Isn't that why we're here? Why we became educators? How this institution grows?"

Silence for a beat.

The Dean summarized, "I'm confident I've seen enough evidence of impropriety, and documentation of behavior that could end a career."

Prosser leaned back in his chair, confident that he had made his point clear. Brown smirked unpleasantly.

Dean: "The serious violations include stalking a faculty member and students; secret filming and recording without permission; violating privacy and violating the Faculty Code of trust and mutual respect.

The Faculty Code is not just empty words! These violations are enough to bring the accused before the Regents; possibly enough to lose tenure."

Alarm and panic rose in Prosser's face, confusion in the assistant's. This sudden change in the tide of the conversation shocked them.

Dean broke her role for a moment and spoke earnestly to Prosser.

"Drew! You are an Anthropology Professor! You've travelled the world, studied moral systems of 100 peoples! Done field work with cultures of every stripe! How can it be hard to understand, our running team has a culture of their own? With their own standards, their own celebrations and rites, their own sense of propriety? Their own joining rituals, recognition of achievement? Nothing they do is beyond the pale of cultures you have seen and studied yourself!

You are a good teacher and a valued member of college. I challenge you, to challenge yourself. Understand this special culture. But do it openly, with interviews and permission and scholarship. Be sensitive to privacy concerns. Perhaps there's even a monograph in this, to help the world see the rising generation's changing stance on relationships and community. Use your good name and sterling reputation, to help others understand!"