THE PROFESSOR
© 2000
Author: Abelard
Subject Codes: MMMMF cons.

[Warning: If it is illegal for you to read sex stuff, my condolences,
but fuck off. The events depicted in this story are performed strictly
in the imagination of a professional. No not try this shit at home. If
you read on, please maintain at least one hand on your controls at all
times. If you wanna' publish this story for profit, ya' better ask me first. 
Finally, tell me what you think at <<Abelard_fra@hotmail.com>>.]

This story was originally published at asstr under the author's name, Ramsey 
Swain (misspelled in the asstr author's index as Ramsey Sawain). Ramsey 
Swain is one of the pseudonyms of mine, Fra. Peter Abelard. In the interest 
of collecting all my stories in one place, and ascribing them to their true 
author, I now put this story here with my other works.

			THE PROFESSOR

	She came through his office door, dark blonde ponytail swinging, gum 
snapping, and smacked her books down on the corner of his desk. Then she 
carelessly threw herself onto the visitor's chair as her knee length skirt 
rode up halfway to her crotch.
	She leaned forward, her hand on the edge of the chair, between her legs, 
and said, "So. Chaucer was a pretty sexy dude, eh?  All this 'thranging" 
stuff?"
	He thought, Ah, youth in the nineties!
	"And you would be?"
	"Well, I would be a star, but for now I'm only Georgeanne Barclay.  I'm in 
your Chaucer class."
	"Ah, yes.  Georgeanne.  I have noticed you in the back there, sleeping, or 
talking, or passing notes..."
	"Common, Professor!  Don't be an old fart.  I listen, I pay attention.  In 
fact I think Chaucer is kinda neat!"
	It was coming back to him now.  Georgeanne Barclay was the darling of the 
Eighteenth Century lit faculty.  She apparently was quite bright and this 
entrance was undoubtedly just a brash attempt to cover her awkward shyness.
	 Bullshit.  The girl was just a young and untutored flirt.
	"Hmm.  Well I think he's 'kinda neat" too.  And this 'thranging stuff' is 
just that, 'thranging.'"
	"So when May and Damyan are up in the pear tree in the Merchant’s tale, 
he's just 'thronging' her?"
	"Well, the present tense would be 'thring." He's 'thringing' her."
	"Ah! The present tense.  That anything like Pamela's present tense?"
	She was referring, of course, to the pun Smollet makes on Pamela's 
epistolary style.  As her lover is coming into the room to have sex with 
her, Smollet has her write in her letter, "You see, I am writing in the 
present...tense." ( It's an 18th century pun on being sexually aroused.)  
That Georgeanne would remember this from Donardo lectures was not 
surprising, but at least it showed she was paying attention that day.
	Georgeanne was sitting there pulling a strand of gum out of her mouth with 
one finger and then folding it back in and sucking on the finger.
	"There is a similarity...It takes a certain amount of tenseness to thring, 
of course.  Do you have a serious question?"
	"Oooh!  I like the way your mind operates, professor!  No, I just wanted to 
come in so you would notice me.  It always helps if the professor knows 
you...personally."
	"I see.  Well I will certainly notice you from now on."
	"And get to know me...personally?"
	"Depends."
	"Depends on what?"
	"Depends on whether I perceive a brain in that pretty head."
	"Oooh, pretty head! You coming on to me, Professor? You wanna thring me?  
How old are you, anyway?"
	What logical leaps!  "I am nearly old enough to be your father, and, no, I 
don't want to thring you, as attractive as the idea sounds.  I merely 
mention that you have a pretty head because you do.  The question is, is 
there a brain inside it?"
	"Oookay.  I'll be good.  Yeah. I think Chaucer demonstrated a deep 
thrusting intellect and a penetrating wit, all in the service of a well 
endowed sense of humor."
	"Hmm.  Don't forget that he represents the climax of late medieval 
artistry, was a man of affairs, an intimate at court, a passionate student, 
and a consummate craftsman."
	"Wow!  Climax, affairs, intimate, passionate, and...."
	"Consummate."
	"Consummate.  You're really good at this!"
	"Years of practice, my dear.  Years of practice."
	Georgeann giggled.  "Well, I gotta go.  Oh, I do have one serious 
question."
	"Yes?"
	"Why do all the pretty young wives in Chaucer get away with all their 
mischief?"
	"Beautiful, therefore loveable, therefore innocent."
	"That's really kind of sexist, isn't it."
	"Well, its condescending, at least.  Unfortunately even Chaucer couldn't 
escape his times completely."
	"Yeah, okay, gotta go. See ya." She was up and out the door in a blur of 
color.  Two seconds later she was back.
	"Oops.  Forgot my books.  Bye-bye."
	Professor Hardin sighed.  In twenty something years of teaching he had 
never really accommodated himself to the bouncy ones.  As usual, he felt a 
bewildering rush, like a man standing between two sets of railroad tracks as 
trains roar by in opposite directions.

	As he sat there preparing his next lecture, however, he discovered that 
Georgeanne Barclay continued to surface in his mind.  La Vira had said that, 
not only was she a good student, she was also a good tennis player.  
Apparently the man knew her socially as well as academically.  There had 
been rumors about Donardo for years.  He always seemed to have a bevy of 
sweet young things in his entourage.  Hardin found himself wondering just 
how well Donardo really knew Miss Barclay.  Then he found himself wondering 
just how well he, Hardin, would like to know Miss Barclay.
	As if on cue, Donardo stuck his shaggy head into Hardin's office, "Yo, 
Hardin.  Lunchford and Rowan and I are considering going camping at Green 
Rocks next weekend.  Whaddya think?"
	Hardin gave a quick glance at his schedule.  He really enjoyed the 
camaraderie of the camping trips the group of English faculty went on.  It 
was pleasant to go pitch a tent in a state park, get drunk with these laid 
back guys and just relax.  Rowan was tapped into a good student connection 
for marijuana, and that usually added considerably to the relaxation.  He 
said, "Sure.  Count me in.  Mary is going to her sister's on Saturday, and 
taking the kids, so I'm at loose ends anyway.  I was thinking of going up to 
the Firestone do some research for the article on the Scottish revival, but 
it's nothing that can't wait."
	"Well, fuuk the soddin' Scots, and cim awae wi' uus!  I can pick you up 
Saturday morning about eleven, and we should make Green Rocks by 
mid-afternoon."
	"You got it."
________________________________

Just as Hardin waved goodbye to Mary and the kids on Saturday morning, 
Donardo came swinging into the driveway and stopped inches from Hardin's 
knees.  As Hardin glanced inside Donardo's van, he caught a glimpse of a 
familiar dirty blonde ponytail.  Georgeanne Barclay was in the car.
	 As they were loading Hardin's gear into the back of Donardo's van, Hardin 
said, "Good morning, Miss Barclay, are we giving you a ride somewhere?"
	She giggled and did a Groucho Marx, "I soitenly hope so," then stuck her 
tongue out and grinned crosseyed.
	Hardin raised his eyebrows as Donardo grinned at him, "MISS Barclay will be 
accompanying us to Green Rocks, Frank.  Think of it as part of the 
department's policy to get to know its students."
	Suddenly Hardin had the guilty thought that he was glad Mary and the kids 
had already left.  "Won't that make the tent a little crowded?"
	Georgeann spoke up, "Oh, professor Hardin, I don't take up much room.  
You'll be surprised at how easily we can all fit together."
	Hardin said, "Climbing pear trees are we, Miss Barclay?"
	She replied, "Thring!"

	After they picked up Lunchford and Rowan, Georgeanne took her hair out of 
its ponytail as they headed into the country.  "Lunchford nudged her and 
said, "Time to let your hair down, my dear?"
	She grinned and said, "Now, William, you know that we are going to a 
funeral.  You wouldn't want to upset Professor Hardin."
	They had the windows open on the bright, late spring morning and 
Georgeanne's hair swirled about her face freely.  All the way to Green Rocks 
Hardin's mind was in a similar whirl.  Torn between visions of orgiastic 
lust and pangs of adulterous guilt, he couldn't seem to get his thoughts in 
order well enough to participate in the easy comaraderie among the other 
four.

	His mind was not put at ease during the afternoon either.  After they had 
set up camp, Donardo suggested that they hike up to the ridge, where the 
vista out to the north was impressive.  Georgeanne said she'd change into 
hiking clothes.  She emerged from the tent in sturdy hiking boots, 
widelegged hiking shorts, and a white tee shirt with no bra.  Her nicely 
tanned athleticism contrasted with her large chest, which wobbled invitingly 
at every movement. As they all stared, her nipples stiffened, making sharp 
points in the rounded white fabric.  She grinned at their open mouthed 
gaping,  "Wazza madda, Perfessers?  Don't I look appropriately dressed to go 
mountain climbing with four such distinguished gentlemen as yourselves?"
	Rowan said, "You look absolutely stunning, my dear.  Good enough to eat!"
	Lunchford chimed in, "Oh, I think she's on the menu...I think Donardo's got 
her pencilled in as dessert."
	Georgeann batted her eyes and said demurely, "Oh, my mommy taught me always 
to share.  I think there may be enough to go around.  Each of you will 
probably get a piece."	She turned and waggled her butt at the four men as 
she started up the trail.


	Hardin was never quite sure when it became inevitable, exactly, but after 
the campfire supper of steak and fried tomatoes, when Donardo and Georgeann 
returned from washing the dishes at the public lavatories, he had his hand 
on her ass, sliding down and flirting with the area where the wide legged 
shorts ended in her stong, tanned legs.  Donardo went over and sat on the 
picnic table, his feet on the bench in front of him. She came into the 
circle of light and sat carelessly on the bench, between his legs.  Her legs 
began to splay as Donardo put his hands on her shoulders.  She looked up and 
back at him and beckoned his head down to hers.  She whispered something in 
his ear and he kissed her on the temple, grinning.
	Slowly he brought his hands around and cupped her large soft breasts, 
gently massaging their sides with his thumbs and sliding his hands forward 
to capture her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.
	She thrust her pelvis forward and looked directly at Hardin.  "Professor 
Hardin, won't you please help a girl in distress?  My shorts have suddenly 
become very tight, and I would like it if you would come help me out of 
them.  Please?"
	As if in a trance, Hardin felt himself impelled forward.  He knelt between 
the girl's legs and opened her shorts.  As she lifted her hips, he slid the 
shorts down to her knees, revealing her lacy blue bikini panties beneath. 
Through the lace he could see her light brown pubic hair, and below that the 
satin sheen of the fabric showed the outline of her cunt clearly, its plump 
ridges on either side of the delicate slit.
	As her shorts slid to her ankles, she withdrew one foot and splayed her 
legs wide again.  Reaching forward, she took his head in both hands and drew 
it down toward her cunt.  Hardin found himself breathing the mixture of her 
sexual aroma and a light spicy scent, herbal and delicate.  The odor was 
intoxicating and it seemed to him that he couldn't resist bringing his head 
all the way in between her creamy thighs and kissing her plump cunt.  As he 
bit lightly at the fabric separating his mouth from her vagina, he was aware 
of the increasing heat and dampness coming through the cloth.

	She was tilting her head back, kissing Donardo over her shoulder.  He 
managed to pull away and said, hoarsly, "Let's go into the tent, children."  
  As Hardin withdrew from between her legs, Georgeann stood, causally 
stepped out of the other leg of her shorts, and stripped off her tee-shirt 
and panties as she disappeared into the tent.  	Donardo, Lunchford, Rowan, 
and Hardin followed.  Inside was a double bed air-mattress, which Georgeann 
now sat on and reached back for Donardo, who was the first man through the 
door.  He was stripping rapidly as he came to her, and managed to get 
everything off except his boots by the time he was crawling up between her 
legs, his cock hard and waving back and forth.  She accepted him up into her 
in one motion and his pelvis began the old dance.  He was thrusting in and 
out of her, and she languidly looked up at the other three men.
	"Mmmm," she gurgled.  "Why don't you all take your clothes off and have a 
drink?"

       	That semester Georgeann Barclay recorded another set of straight 
A's.



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