Victoria

He slowly stood up and looked on the floor for his bathrobe. It wasn't there, but he found it on the hook in the bathroom. He put it on and headed downstairs to see what Victoria was making for breakfast.

When he got downstairs, there was no smell of cooking coming from the kitchen, and when he got to the kitchen, there was no one there. When he looked in the cabinet, there were the two Scotch glasses upside down in their place. Everything looked immaculate.

He did smell the coffee in the coffee maker. He had always had the habit of refilling the water in the coffee maker and putting in a filter with fresh coffee when he finished a pot. That way it was easy to just flip a switch when he came down in the morning and it was ready to go. There was even a timer which he could set so it would be ready when he came downstairs, although he had hardly ever used it. Did he set it last night? He didn't remember doing so.

He went back out to the living room to check the sofa. Everything looked plumped up and ready for visitors. And no sign of clothing -- no lavender stockings, no garter belt, no black skirt, no white shirt, no high-heeled shoes. Nothing.

He looked over at the half bathroom, just in case. But its door was open and the light was out.

What the hell? This was disturbing. What was going on? He opened the front door, still in his bathrobe, and hurried around to the side where Victoria had left her bicycle. Nothing. Not even footprints or tracks of high heels in the grass. No tracks of bicycle tires. Had she put her stockings and high heels back on for the bicycle ride home, or had she gone barefoot in her own version of the "ride of shame"?

What the fuck? He had been wondering what they would do today. It didn't have to be a do-over of Friday night. Maybe she wanted to try some BDSM. That would probably be okay, wouldn't it?

* * *

The fact was, she was gone. As if she had never been there at all. She had been there, hadn't she? Was this all just some kind of crazy fantasy in his memory?

He thought back to the stories she had told him about other professors, especially the old guy whose life she had pretty much destroyed. He had felt disturbed and jealous listening to them. Were all those stories real? Were any of them real? At all? Or were they just one more example of her fucking with his head? That did appear to be her favorite sport.

He wished he wasn't so damn hung over. What could he do? He couldn't go looking for her, even if he knew which dorm she lived in. He couldn't call her, not that he knew her number -- what would he say? He was in no shape to go for a run to combat his hangover. He didn't want to go to his office to work on his class materials -- he might run into a colleague and any conversation, however innocent, would feel weird.

And after everything she had said about the books he had chosen for his eroticism seminar, he was going to have to do a lot more thinking than he was remotely ready for right now.

And then, what was it going to be like having Victoria -- Vicki -- in his class after this? Was she going to flash him in class? With those miniskirts she wore, it would be easy, especially if she decided to take a seat in the front. And if so, what the hell would he do? He hadn't done a very good job this time.

Suddenly he felt drained, utterly exhausted. Was he maybe just a little bit terrified? It seemed like everything had gone wrong. He had had a narrow escape. But for all that, if she had turned her bicycle around and suddenly reappeared, he would have brought her right back in again. He was every bit as helpless and stupid as that doddering old fool in the car wreck.

* * *

Winston turned and went back into his house. From the living room, he could smell the coffee brewing in the kitchen. On the other hand, he remembered, there was still whatever Scotch was left over in the bottle from last night in his liquor cabinet.

©2023 -- Ron Ehrs