My Dear Prof

MY DEAR PROF

'We have a problem...' Madilyn said, musingly, and ran a manicured hand up a shapely thigh to straighten her pantihose.

I concurred. 'Yes, it is time we take drastic measures to get us out of the shit.'

Madilyn and I had landed up as roommates in the ladies' hostel two years previously, and although we came from different backgrounds, we soon discovered that we had much the same opinion of the world, viz. that Mother Nature is a bitch and needs to be screwed as often as possible. We had also discovered exactly where Mother Nature was located, and we were screwing her as often as possible. However, there were serious impediments, chief of which was the hostel rules, which stipulated: (1) no males, regardless of whether they are gentlemen or not, were allowed in the ladies' rooms; (2) the common room could be used only by senior students for spooning or ladling purposes; (3) all students have to log out should they leave the hostel after supper or over weekends, and log in upon their return, 'so that we can give proper account to your parents re your movements on campus', be that laterally or up and down; (4) first year students have to be back in the hostel by 10 p.m., unless, of course, you had died of boredom during the evening; (5) hotels, bars, alleys and thickets are off-limits.

There used to be another rule, stating compulsory church attendance twice on Sundays, but that was later dropped because of the growing of number of Seventh Day Adventists among the hostel inmates. This increase had nothing to do with a change in faith, but simply to bypass an irksome rule. The Adventists, who soon included Madilyn and me, did not 'advent' on Saturdays, but attended dances like the rest, and spent Sundays in bed praying for a crop failure after sowing our wild oats the previous night. You see, we were mostly using the famed rhythm method of birth control, but when you are in a hot embrace you tend to forget exactly where you are in your monthly cycle. As they say, there is many a slip 'twixt the tool and the twat. That is why we were really a praying hostel, all due to Mother Nature. After a few months we started backing up our prayers by keeping a small supply of condoms handy at all times, because we were really out to screw old MN.

We scraped through our first year and decided that we would be better off in private digs. Many householders in town had a room or two which were rented out to students, but we set our sights higher and found an affordable two-bedroom flat. At least, it would be affordable if everything worked out according to plan. If push came to shove we could screw the landlord (we had made sure it wasn't a landlady), but it was not the ideal solution. Our plan was simple, because we banked on Mother Nature - or should I call it Father's Nature? As we had learnt in Psychology 101, sex is the most powerful driving force in nature, including human nature, and we were planning to capitalise on it. Officially prostitution was illegal, but massage parlours and escorts were allowed. The majority of escorts were there to escort the male customer temporarily to a little heaven, of course, but they worked as individuals. Madilyn and I had decided on the 'sandwich approach', i.e. to give our customer double pleasure, and this way we cornered the market. Our advert in the paper either read, 'Come and experience the Trinity in our lush surroundings!' or 'Do you want to be the meat in a human hamburger?', or 'Give your banger a tweet!'

We only entertained over weekends because we were still fulltime students, but because we gave excellent service, we were soon fully booked Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights. Our regulars included several men of the cloth who came to enjoy being part of our own little Trinity; they probably paid us out of the collection plate. Visiting academics were directed to us for 'effective stress release' and our fame spread. We were fast becoming a national asset! Even international visitors commented favourably on the way they were spoiled in our flat. And the beauty of it was that we were being paid, tax-free, to enjoy ourselves!

After a year we had to start turning clients away, and there was pressure on us to turn 'professional' and do it fulltime. We discussed the possibility, but realised that one could only be an escort up to the age of forty, at most, and then you have to be able to fall back on something else, preferably a sporting billionaire. In addition, the academics relished the idea that they were screwing and sucking two nubile and delectable students, so there was a second reason for completing our degrees. Yes, we were tapping into a goldmine, because virtually every lecturer fantasizes about fucking his or her students one way or another, the male students one way and the females the other way. However, a complication arose in our third year because we contracted chicken pox after a sandwich with a father whose son had gone down with it. That meant that we lost both income and academic input for four weeks, and had to do a lot of catching up after that, which had a domino effect on our escort bookings.

We were both doing Psychology as one major and that presented no problem to either of us. We would breeze through it because of our deeper understanding of human nature through all our intimate social connections. There is no better way to learn that than by fucking around. In fact, we could have added a substantial portion - and several corrections - to Freud's analyses and conclusions from personal observations, and would have better represented the female take on sex. Madilyn's other major was Human Movement Studies, and all she had to do to catch up on her physical fitness was to jog to class and back to the flat during the week, in company with the instructor, doing joint push-ups in the park, and do a little more fucking over weekends.

My situation was different because my second major was History, and, although I knew that sex is the major driving force in history, as in the bedroom, you do get bogged down in the finer details of dates and who fucked/screwed/annihilated whom. Drastic times called for drastic measures, and I started planning, drastically. To start with, I made a drastic cut into my red bum-hugging pencil skirt, reducing it to a micro-mini which reached to 5 mm below the southern extremity of the pasella (not the patella, the pasella being a Xhosa word for a present).

The next morning I dressed carefully: yellow tanga panties and a soft bra, a crossover halter top, the micro-mini, and calf boots with high heels. All I needed was a slingbag to pick up men in a bar! But I did not want to be so blatant, which was why I put on a light knee-length coat suitable for summer evenings and autumn days. I was now armed and dangerous. I took a seat in the front row of the lecture theatre so that I could catch the prof at the end of the lecture to make an appointment. Failing that, I would go to his secretary for the same purpose. I managed to catch his eye in class and smiled very sweetly at him, which was probably why he tarried when the lecture ended and he saw me heading towards him.

'Yes, miss, I see you're back.'

'Yes, prof, the last scabs came off day before yesterday, so I am no longer contagious.' I licked my lips a bit suggestively and continued, 'I would appreciate an appointment with you at your earliest convenience to try and find a solution for my predicament.' Meanwhile I was toying with the top button of my coat to let him have a look at a bit of female real estate.

He licked his lips, checked his watch and said, 'I have another lecture after this, but check with my secretary. I don't have a heart of stone, you know.'

'I know, prof,' - another little slip of the tongue in the corner of the mouth - 'that is why I have the freedom to ask you.'

The appointment was made for 3:15 the same afternoon and I reported in good time, still wearing the thin coat, and with my notebooks in a shoulder bag, which gave the impression that we were going to talk about history. At 3:17 I was shown into the office and the door was shut behind me. That was the crucial moment! I put down the bag on a little table and started to unbutton the coat. Only four big buttons, but I did it slowly, looking around as though I was ill at ease. When I finished, I started to take my left arm out of its sleeve, looked at him and blinked. 'I'm sorry, sir, should I rather keep it on?' And I licked my lips again.

Licking his lips too, he said, 'It's alright, you can take it off. The office is a bit stuffy because the heater was on all morning.' With that, he took a step forward and helped to get my right arm out as well, and hang the coat on the stand next to the door, managing to brush a hand over my right boob in the process. 'Please take a seat, miss,' and he gestured to the couch. I sat down, crossed and then uncrossed my legs to draw his attention to the yellow panties. When he sat down on the couch, just within arm's reach, I turned my arsenal towards him and said, wringing my hands, 'I've missed four weeks of lectures and discussions, prof, and I don't know how to make it up.'

'Four weeks, eh? That is quite a lot, almost a third of the semester, and the exams start in three weeks' time. What about your other major?'

'That is Psychology, prof, but that is not a problem. My flat mate and I have been studying human sexual behaviour quite intensively over the last two years, and because that is the bulk of this semester's work, we should pass it easily.' I smiled sweetly and said, pointing to my dress, 'This is my lab coat, so to speak.'

I noticed his eyes sweeping over my assets and - there it was, that slight licking of the lips again. 'So you conduct experiments?'

'Not in the normal sense of the term, prof. Our customers are all male, of course. We call it the human hamburger, you know, two buns and the meat in between. In this instance the meat is more like a banger, you understand. We do this over weekends because most of our clients are hardworking academics who need a bit of stress relief. We have a score of clients on campus - I won't divulge the names, of course - and in turn they recommend our service to visiting lecturers. The clients normally pay for the service, but we do make exceptions.'

'I see...' he said, and he was looking at my yellow panties and then again at the nipples pressing against the soft material of the top, swallowed and asked. 'How much do you charge, miss?'

'For men on campus we normally start with a free demonstration, prof, and then negotiate terms. It does not necessarily have to be in cash, but more in kind, if you get my drift...'

'In kind, hey? Like telling which questions will come up in a forthcoming exam, eh?'

'Yes, that is more or less correct, prof. You see, we also have a network of students who pay for such information. One thing I have learnt, prof, is that for the vast majority of us our time at varsity is the time to "hang loose", get a taste of real life to set your compass right for the future.' I had my hands on my boobs now and pointed themn suggestively at him. 'So many people drift aimlessly through life even after performing brilliantly at varsity simply because they never availed themselves of the opportunities offered by life on campus. It is quite sad.'

He sighed deeply. 'That is a profound insight, miss.... Stress relief? But it can so easily lead to blackmail!'

'O, never, prof. There are no hidden cameras or tape recorders anywhere, just the two us.' I reached for my bag and extracted our latest newspaper advertisement showing a banger between two hamburger buns, and the words, 'discretion guaranteed' in bold. 'Did I mention that we do role playing as well? Say you want to experience for yourself how Julius Caesar must have felt when first he saw Cleopatra? Now imagine not one, but Cleopatra and her personal female slave spoiling the Roman Emperor! As an historian, you will certainly be able to think of scores of situations which one could simulate and play through.'

'Discretion, eh? What about Louis XIV, or Henry the Eighth?' He sounded quite enthusiastic now.

'We could devise something along those lines, prof, provided the wives are not killed, because Madilyn and I will each have to play several roles, understand. Of course, both kings also visited brothels and committed adultery on many occasions: we have all the props for that as well. It is quite easy for either of us to play an adulterous wife, too, if that is what the client wants.'

He sat quietly for a few minutes, looking at the advertisement, then said, 'Saturday afternoons my wife plays bowls...'

'I believe we have an open slot this coming Saturday afternoon, prof. Shall I put you down for a trial?'

'What about a trial right here and now, miss?'

'Will we be undisturbed, prof? I would not like to put you in a compromising situation.'

He grinned genially. 'My secretary has a dental appointment at 3:30, miss, and I will lock the door, just to be on the safe side.'

I beamed my pleasure, pulled my hand through my crotch and held it to his face. He smiled and walked over to the door, checked that the secretary had left and locked it. I took the slingbag out of my bookcase, ambled over to his desk, sat down on the edge and spread my legs. When he turned around, I said, 'Are you looking for some action, cowboy?'

He growled like a grizzly, made as though he was hitching up his gun-belt, then pulled down his zip.

'I see you are armed, cowboy, but is it a Smith and Wesson, or just a little derringer?'

He slipped into his role with ease. 'I'll show you what damage my six-shooter can do to you, you little bar whore!'

'You're all talk, cowboy. The proof of the marksman is in the accuracy of his shots. See if you can identify the target first before you shoot of your mouth, you son-of-a-bitch!' With that I pushed out my pussy towards him and he stuck a hand into the top of my panties.

The next moment he ripped off my panties and sniffed it, saying, 'You're on heat, you little bitch! What price your cunt?'

'I only take gold dollars, cowboy. You have any in your breeches?'

'Only a gold bar, you fucking tart. First put your mouth to it and test its genuineness.'

I slipped off the desk, turned him around so that he was leaning against the desk, and went to work. His cock was standing at an angle already and getting sturdier by the moment. I rolled back the foreskin and licked the head before taking it into my mouth. Soon I had him groaning and humping me in the mouth, my lips sliding up and down the shaft and over the glans. I was getting hot myself now and started milking him in earnest. Yes, it was real gold and he was loaded. I swallowed his cum, going over the top myself when he started shooting. I pulled down my panties and pulled it over his head so that he could get a taste of my randiness, then backed towards the couch and hooked a finger at him. 'The hors d'oeuvre was passing fair, cowboy, but let's see how good you are at straight shooting.'

He undid his trousers, took off his jacket and advanced, his dick dripping drops of cum. I had a French Letter ready and said, 'Let's post this one to Napoleon, buster.'

I got fucked like a whore then, kneeling on the couch while he rammed me from behind - and enjoyed every minute of it! He only had the two bullets in his magazine, because he was in his late fifties, but obviously starved for sex, and he made them count.

I'm now doing my master's degree in History on prostitution on the Rand during the gold rush, and we play through the scenes regularly to get the real hands-on feeling for the subject. Because I have no other commitments during the week, we can play-act then, leaving Saturday open for hamburgers. It is a wonderful way to experience History, you know.