The Professor and the Cheerleader
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Professor Robert McFeeley coasted on his bike, listening to the click, click, click as he backpedalled half
a rotation. He leaned into a turn and applied the brakes only at the last second, coming to a smooth stop three feet from the door to Albert Hall. Students seemed to know he was there without looking, and altered either their stride or direction in a smooth, unspoken coexistence with his vehicle.
He caught a door as it was opened by a student and followed her in, steering his bike into the building. He
never left his bike outside. It cost over a grand, and the campus police had given up looking for stolen bikes years ago. Pretty much any bike left unlocked and unattended outside had been stolen, and either was now abandoned, or soon would be. Then it would be stolen again, in a cycle that ended only when the bike got a flat tire, or it was pawned for a few quick bucks.
He admired the shape of the girl's bottom as she walked in front of him. It was a saucy one, undulating beneath a
skirt made of some kind of material that was slinky and moved a lot. She turned left at an intersecting hallway and Bob moved straight on, to his office. Watching the coeds was fun, but watching was all he could do. Unfortunately, as chairman of the English Department, there weren't many good looking girls in the classes he taught. For whatever reason, the babes didn't choose to be English majors.
Which is why he faithfully attended all the university football and basketball games, and quite a few of the other
sporting events as well. Volleyball was one of his favorites, with its long, lean, leaping girls. It was there that he could feast his eyes on nubile young things in the flower of maidenhood. Assuming there were actually any maidens left these days, by the time a girl got to college age.
His faithful attendance to these events made him a well known fan of the school teams, because he always sat on the front row, where he had an unobstructed view of the action.
What most people didn't know was that the action he was so intent on was of the female variety, particularly if there were cheerleaders involved in the sport.
Bob McFeeley was that guy there would be a photo of in the world where, if you looked up a term, there would be a picture of a person as an example. In Bob's case, it was "Mr. Average." He was of average height, with average looks. He was the kind of guy who, if you saw him on the street, you'd never notice, much less remember. He was the kind of guy witnesses couldn't describe to the police, the kind of guy those witnesses always reported as, "You know ... just an regular guy."
He didn't mind being just the average guy. Not really. His personality fit with that image too. For
example, he had a PhD and was entitled to be addressed as "Doctor McFeeley." That was even on the plate attached to his office door. But he never corrected anyone when they called him " Professor." In his mind, being a professor was an honorable and respected profession. He also felt that a man should be known
for what he produced, not some inflated title he'd gotten by jumping through a bunch of hoops.
He was active as a child, but not on teams other than the kind that form for a game, and then break up, never to form again. He could hit a ball, but only at every third or fourth at
bat. He hit about 30% of his shots in basketball. He'd been pretty good in tennis during high school, but couldn't find anybody his age to play, because very few
people in high school think it's cool to play tennis. In college he'd been the kind of racquetball opponent people liked to hone their skills on, because he could sometimes return the ball, but rarely ever won more than six or eight points in a game. And, just as he seemed to drift around in sports, he drifted from major to major, unable to find anything that he felt like he could be good at, or even like.
Until, that is, he took a class on Elizabethan poetry. The musicality, verbal sophistication, and romantic exuberance of the poets and writers who dominated the era that coincided with
the reign of Queen Elizabeth I set his imagination on fire. He went on to stay with English, avidly exploring the immense amount of variety the human mind had put on paper over the centuries. Sir Philip Sidney, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and Christopher Marlowe were still his favorites, though he didn't let that divert him from becoming an expert in other areas. It had led to his current position and, even more importantly in his opinion, to a grant that was allowing him to collect and catalog material that, until now, had been in private collections around the globe. He'd gotten the grant, which made the university happy. What made them ecstatic was that they were now known as the up and coming depository for original papers, first drafts, and original manuscripts.
Basically, Bob was the perfect professor, as far as the university was concerned. He brought them a little fame and some degree of fortune, and he was too ordinary to become embroiled in
Or so they thought.
Actually, that's what Bob thought too. He was forty-two, unmarried, with no real romantic prospects, about fifteen pounds overweight (though he was losing that slowly, now that he rode his bike almost everywhere), and almost nothing out of the ordinary ever happened around him, much less to him.
The collection was his passion. He thought of it as "his" collection, though of course it actually belonged to others. About a quarter of the collection had been purchased
outright, but many more were on loan to the university. He was working on a couple of wealthy dowagers, urging them to leave their pieces to the university in their wills, but they spent a lot more time sipping wine in the company of "that nice young fellow from the university" than they did having their attorneys draft things up.
Teaching had, at one time, been his passion, back when he tried to elicit in his young students the same awe for literature that had kindled in his own heart. But the truth of the
matter was that the vast majority of his students were there because English credits were required to graduate, and not because they wanted to take the class. Even
the English majors seemed to be coasting along, much like he had been doing before he read that first sonnet by Michael Drayton, describing his passion for the woman he could not have.
And, truth be told, that had been the story of his own love life. There were plenty of girls that he'd noticed, and longed to have in his life in a romantic way. But, like Drayton's
love Anne, the daughter of Sir Henry Goodere, his employer, they always wanted other men than him.
True, there had been a few fellow lovers of literature, young women with whom he had learned the dance of sex. But by and large they were women who sought the attentions of a willing male more to flesh out their own fantasies, than for the purpose of forging lasting relationships. It was surprising how many English majors were also ardent feminists, up in their ivory towers most of the time, coming down to tryst with the male of the species only when lust drove them to it.
As things turned out, those demanding, controlling lovers had done him a favor, though he didn't know it until almost two decades later.
Which brings us back to the present, wherein Bob was sitting in his office on a Monday morning, leafing through the woefully incomplete listings of a shipment of papers and documents
purchased at auction as lot number 124, from the estate of one Marian Beatrice Eldridge. She had been a prodigious pack rat. Fortunately - at least Bob hoped so - she'd had
an eye for keeping the good stuff and getting rid of the junk. At least there hadn't been any junk at her estate sale.
More importantly, her late husband had been Anthony Eldridge, a man known in the literary circles Bob moved in as an expert on Shakespearean documents. Bob had high hopes that the six
fashioned filing cabinets of "miscellaneous academic papers" contained a treasure trove of either research, or even original documents
themselves. And he'd gotten them for a song, fifteen dollars per cabinet in fact, which was little enough that he hadn't even gotten around to doing the
paperwork to get reimbursed from the university account the grant funds had been deposited into.
The problem was that it would take hundreds of man hours to sift through them and catalog them all. And for that he'd need an assistant. He'd put up notices around the hallways, worded
thusly: "Graduate student wanted: Opportunities for doing original work of a part time nature in the investigation of Shakespearean documents, possibly leading
to publication of significant importance."
To his mind, that had it all ... Shakespeare ... part time work ... and the chance to publish. What more could a student ask for?
The problem was that eager grad students weren't battering down his door to get the position.
All that changed, though, when the cheerleader walked through the door, smiled, and said, "You're looking for a research assistant?"
He recognized her right away. Her name was Kendra. He'd heard others of her social group call her "Kat" before, but he preferred the more mysterious, less usual "Kendra."
That name was "mysterious" in Bob's mind, primarily because the only other woman he knew of with that moniker was Kendra Jade Rossi, who starred in some 40 or more films of
an "adult" nature. Bob had, at one time or another, owned VHS tapes upon which resided pirated copies of three or four of those films. Her name had been different enough that he'd looked it up. The etymology of Kendra was unsettled, but a popular one was, "A most clever but stunning individual. Formally known as the most beautiful woman on the planet. Any man would be lucky to have her even in his dreams." His second favorite was, "A woman who looks and acts like a goddess."
Naturally, when he found out one of the cheerleaders he so loved to watch had that name, he compared her to the woman he'd watched so many times while he stroked a load out onto a
hand towel. His initial evaluation determined that this Kendra had strikingly similar facial features to the porn goddess, though her hair was long and blond, while that of the fuck goddess was usually rendered dark in her movies. Eying her critically, he decided the cheerleader was more slightly built, overall, but might have larger breasts. She definitely fit her name. She was incredibly beautiful.
His fantasies about Kendra the cheerleader had been along the same lines of his fantasies of meeting Kendra Jade Rossi, who had an unaccountable fascination (in his fantasy) with
Elizabethan poetry, and loved to discuss that with him while she had romantic sex with him (in private, as opposed to business sex in front of a camera). Kendra, the cheerleader, was the one the other girls tossed up in the air, or who stood on the top of the pyramid before jumping, to be caught effortlessly by her friends or some male cheerleader (who naturally
copped a feel in the process of catching her), so his fantasies about her were of a slightly different nature. His fantasy about her involved the two of them being
on "Dancing With The Stars," the only television program Bob ever watched. He never told anyone he liked that program, primarily because in his fantasy, he was the star, and Kendra was his professional dance partner who couldn't help but fall madly in love with him during the show.
Such are the fantasies of middle-aged, lonely men. And what's the harm?
"Professor?" Her voice was clear and sweet, in the high registers. Bob would have bet she sang soprano. He'd heard her shout, and say things to her cohorts, but not in this voice.
He realized he was staring, and jerked his eyes away from the front of her blouse.
"I'm sorry," he said, automatically.
"You have signs up?" she reminded him. "About a job?"
"Oh! Yes!" he said. His mind was trying to catch up. The problem was there was no way he was ready to entertain the idea that this girl
might want that job. "I do!" he said.
"Well, I need a job," she said.
"But you're a cheerleader," he said. Somehow he thought cheerleaders didn't need jobs. Didn't they get scholarships or something, like the other athletes?
"You noticed!" She both looked and sounded delighted.
"Of course I noticed," he said, before he could think to, perhaps, retain that bit of wisdom in his mind, unsaid.
"I guess that makes sense," she said, moving a step deeper into his office. "You always sit right on the front row. I'd recognize you anywhere, so I guess it's reasonable that you might recognize me too."
If only you knew, he thought to himself.
"So ... you're interested in Shakespeare?" he said, instead.
"Actually, I don't know that much about him," she admitted. "We read Romeo and Juliet in high school," she said, hopefully.
His mind, upon hearing that title, wrested control away from his libido. This was serious business. And she obviously knew next to nothing about Shakespeare.
"I haven't seen you in any of my classes," he offered.
"I took Dr. Poindexter's course on hippy English," she said.
Bob knew the course to which Kendra had alluded. Its formal name was English Literature 101: The effects of the bohemian era in American history on American
English. Roger Poindexter had somehow convinced the dean that this course had merit and freshmen flocked to it because it had a reputation for being an easy A, and it satisfied the English requirement for most non English majors. As far as Bob was concerned, Roger Poindexter was a putz, whose only goal was to pack his classes with cute young freshmen girls.
"What is your major?" asked Bob.
"Early childhood education," she said. "I want to be a preschool or kindergarten teacher."
He knew, of course, the exact year she had first bounded out on the court.
"You're a senior," he said.
"Yes," she agreed, her eyes widening.
"This is more of a position for a graduate student," he suggested.
"I could learn," she said. "I'm bright. I get good grades. I have to, to stay on cheer. Please, give me a chance. I promise you'll be glad you did."
He thought about the fact that the posters had been up for two weeks now, and she was the first person who had shown even an inkling of interest. Not to mention one of the most beautiful
young woman he knew of. She was by far his favorite cheerleader, and the one he most often fantasized about. Even in the months when the cheerleaders bundled up
during football games where snow flurries flew, she managed to look sexy enough to stiffen his dick on a regular basis.
He thought about that, critically. Having her around, even on a part time basis, was going to be hard on him. Literally.
But then again, forming something even on the outskirts of "friendship" with her would give him material for stroke sessions for the rest of his life.
The cartoon character on his left shoulder whispered, "Not a good idea, Bob," while the one on his right shoulder shouted, "Take it! Hire her! And then fuck her little cheerleader socks off!"
"I guess we could give it a trial period," he said.
She jumped up and down, squealing. It was a very cheerleader kind of thing to do. Her breasts bounced gently under her silk blouse.
"Thank you!" she gushed. "I promise you'll be glad you took me on."
"I'll take care of the paperwork," said Bob, somehow turning "took me on" into being on top of her naked body, in his mind's eye. "When can you work?"
"Would evenings be okay?" she asked, suddenly concerned. "I have classes, and cheer practice, but I can work between eight and ten most nights."
"I'll need to supervise you," said Bob, who wondered why he was pointing that out. Wasn't that obvious? And he had nothing better to do between eight and ten on any given night.
"Except for game nights," she said, putting one finger up to her lower lip. "But on those days, maybe I can make up for it on Saturdays."
"Okay!" said Bob, a little too eagerly.
Now he even had something to look forward to on Saturdays!
For Bob, it was equal measures of something very much like ecstasy, and a kind of slow torture that hinted at lasting for years.
The ecstasy part was because Bob was like lots of people who imagine meeting some celebrity and things working out so that the celebrity wants to become friends. Bob had done that with
Kendra the porn goddess hundreds of times. His fantasy about that was that he was her secret lover, the one she could turn to for really satisfying companionship and
sex, with no complications. He was quite sure in his inner mind that he could actually have that kind of relationship with Kendra Jade, if only fate would allow them to meet.
Now he had some inkling of what that might actually be like as his cheerleader came to see him almost daily. Except she didn't fall into his arms ... or bed, as it were ... like Kendra
Jade always did in his fantasies. There was the ecstasy of being so close to her that he could tell she used peach scented body lotion, and the torture of not
being able to touch her ... to explore that ... to see if that body lotion was edible, for instance.
It was comical to his professional mind because he thought of references to couples in literature constantly. When he was in her presence, he felt weak, as if she had some kind of
magical control over him. On those days she wasn't there, all he could think of was what she might be doing. And with whom. He was fully aware that he was acting
like a lovesick teenager, but he loved that feeling, rather than loathing it. His masturbation sessions seemed much more satisfying since she had come into his office.
Granted, nothing had developed between them, in terms of a lusty romance, as they sifted through thousands of pages of arcane notes. Bob had to teach her not only what to look for,
but how to look through line after line on page after page of mostly handwritten entries. There was anything and everything in those notes, from observations on events in literature that (the author thought) coincided with dates and historical events, to scribbled grocery lists that, somehow, got filed away with everything else.
But, while he taught her how to interpret both the writing itself and the possible importance of what was written, they were physically close. And she was obviously comfortable
in his presence. She had that odd capability so many young people have to multi task, chatting about this or that, as her eyes ceaselessly scanned pages and her mind
categorized them, while her fingers moved them to the appropriate pile. She looked at him often, though not for long periods of time. And she smiled a lot, a friendly, open, inviting (at least in his mind) smile that always made his nut sack tighten briefly.
His eyes had always drunk her in like fine wine, before he "knew" her, and now his nose was assailed with wonderful scents. There was that peach scented body lotion, which he
inhaled in deep drafts, but equally sensual was the fragrance of her hair. It didn't matter if it was flowing loose, or in a pony tail. Nor could he decide which hair style he preferred most. When it was down, he wanted to run his fingers through it, maybe even brush it. When it was in that bouncy, perky pony tail, he wanted to approach her from behind and ram it to her doggy
style, to watch it bounce as her head tossed in pleasure.
As to his preferences in how she dressed, they were both clear and a little surprising to him. Before she came to work for him he'd seen her primarily in her cheerleader uniform, of
course. In it she was smoothly compact, her body a series of curves and bulges that hinted at a lush pulchritude that was denied the casual observer because the uniform
covered her so securely. She looked happy and healthy and ... well ... just fuckable, as she pranced and posed and flirted with the crowd. He wasn't alone in his observations. Literally hundreds of other men thought about her and the other cheerleaders just like he did. But he was both adult and intelligent enough to understand that he was having fantasies. Even before she had walked into his office, he understood that his fantasies about becoming Kendra Jade's secret lover and his fantasies about Kendra the cheerleader were just that - simple lusty fantasies.
Now, though, he got to see her in a multitude of different outfits. Most days she came to work straight from cheerleading practice. But she rarely wore her uniform. That was saved
for actual games, or the Friday just prior to a home game. Rather, she wore the kind of thing he imagined dancers might wear as they went to the studio to
stretch, and reach, and move gracefully and sensually. She wasn't a fashion slave, meaning that she didn't wear "ensembles" that matched. His
favorite outfit was a pair of spandex bottoms that were black and went clear to her ankles, and a pullover top that hung straight down from the tips of her breasts and didn't quite make it to the waistband of the bottoms. When
she wore that one he constantly imagined standing behind her with his hands on her hips (as if they were in Dancing With The Stars), and then sliding his hands forward, onto her flat belly,
and then upwards, until his hands were filled with warm, naked breasts. In that particular fantasy, she laid her head back on his shoulder and moaned as his fingers found already turgid nipples, and squeezed them gently.
Even as strong as that fantasy was, on Saturdays, when she wore plain street clothes, it was just as good. She preferred pullover tops, and she liked them loose. He was mildly
disappointed that she never went braless, because as he leaned over her shoulder to look at something she wanted him to see, he often got a shot of the creamy cleavage her
bras exposed. They were nice bras ... lacy, pretty, sexy bras ... but he wished, sometimes, that she would eschew them in search of comfort, or freedom, or whatever it was that made women leave a bra in the drawer.
Yes, when it came to attire, he was surprised to find that he preferred her in something other than her cheerleader uniform.
And, as he reflected on the changes in his life since Kendra walked into it, seeking part time employment, he understood for the first time why his original Kendra, Kendra Jade,
might have been willing to go on what he had previously thought was that stupid reality show where she sought treatment for sexual addiction.
Bob had always thought "sexual addiction" was an oxymoron. But now he wondered if he wasn't sexually addicted to his little blond Kendra.
He understood, of course, that nature demands that men be addicted to the thought of true love with, and impregnating, the female. That was the basis for perhaps half of the
great literature of the world. It was clearly the basis for what was produced between 1558 and 1603, when Elizabeth the First was the queen over a struggling nation beset on all sides by political strife. That literature, in all its forms, had captured the imaginations of countless men and women over the years and no doubt led to equally countless liaisons where insemination took place, and babies resulted.
So his lust for the cheerleader was manageable on an academic level. The problem was that he just couldn't stop thinking about fucking her little cheerleader socks off.
Since applying for her job, she had always been chatty. That was how he had learned so much about her. Such as the fact that she had been born at home on the farm in rural Kansas, and that her aunt had been her
mother's midwife. She had what, to a city boy like Bob, seemed like a mystical knowledge of plants and animals, and how to raise both. She knew all about hunting and
she actually carried a small pistol in her purse. Bob had seen it one day when she dumped it to find some elusive item she was looking for. When he had pointed out that the university prohibited guns on campus, she snorted and said she'd rather be tried by twelve than carried by six. She had two older sisters, and her favorite food was key lime cheesecake. She mourned
the fact that cheesecake was forbidden to her at present, because she had to watch her weight so carefully. Bob almost laughed when she said that. She was in fabulous
shape, and the sweat stains visible when she came straight to his office from cheer practice made it obvious that she was working hard.
That she was willing to appear in public with mussed hair and sweat-stained togs and was completely unembarrassed by it, was something that also made his balls tighten.
She didn't put on airs. She didn't think she was special. She was just herself and if people liked that, that was fine ... and if they didn't ... well that was okay
too. As for Bob, he thought she was gorgeous all the time. He was a tad bit uncomfortable about having had a quick fantasy about licking her salty skin one day when a sweat stain between her breasts caught his imagination. He'd never wanted to lick the sweat off a woman before, but now that seemed like something he wouldn't mind doing.
And, while she had so casually talked about her own background, she had, mysteriously, learned more about him than just about anybody else he could think of. Her innocent questions
seemed to come from honest interest, and it was easy to share with her the triumphs and even failures in his life. It didn't seem odd at all. She was just easy to talk to.
And yet, whenever they were talking, there was always a kind of tension in the air. It was like he was sitting on the edge of a cliff, watching a beautiful sunset, but worrying about
the cliff crumbling, and him falling. He could literally feel this tension sometimes, but he attributed it to the fact that he wanted to know more and more about
her, but didn't inquire, because he had no right to know the kinds of intimate things he wanted to ask about.
One example was when he made what he thought of as a clumsy attempt to find out something about her boyfriend, who she had never mentioned, even once. She had not, in fact, given him any
information of any kind about her sex life.
"You don't have to work on Friday nights," he had said on one such night. "Your boyfriend will be angry with me for dominating your time."
She hadn't even looked up from the page she was examining.
"I don't have a boyfriend," she said.
"That's insane," he blurted, unable to understand a world in which that could be the case.
"No it's not," she said, still not looking at him. "I'm not really interested in boys."
He had a sudden and horrifying feeling that she was a lesbian. He must have gasped, because she looked up suddenly. Then she laughed.
"You think I'm gay!" she giggled. "That's not what I meant. What I meant was that boys complicate your life. They're insecure, and you have to keep stroking their egos.
They want to dominate all your time, and they get jealous if you have a simple friendship with another guy. They want sex, but it's a one way street, because
they're no good at it. I just don't have time for all that drama."
He'd been so relieved about the not-being-gay part that he couldn't control his curiosity.
"So what do you do about ...?" He stopped, as his face turned pale. He wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
"Sex?" She raised both eyebrows, but there was a hint of a smile tugging up the corners of her lips. "Why professor! People will think you're a dirty old man, asking a
cheerleader about her sex life."
"I'm sorry!" he gushed. "Really. I don't know why I asked that."
"Because you were curious," she said, as the smile formed fully on her lips. "Don't feel bad. You're normal. Everybody wants to know about the sex life of
"Yes, but I don't have any right to ask that," he moaned. "It might not even be legal for me to ask that."
She giggled. "I'm not going to make a sexual discrimination complaint, or whatever it is they call that. You haven't hit on me, yet. You're a perfect gentleman."
Of her whole phrase, one word she'd said electrified his brain: "yet." He was a man of words. Words mattered. Words were important. And the way she'd used that word could mean that she had expected something to happen that hadn't happened ... yet. It boggled his mind that she might expect him to actually express the kind of interest that had churned inside his fevered fantasies for ... well ... for a long time, now. He felt like he must be reading something into an otherwise casual, if technically incorrect use of that word.
"Does that happen a lot?" asked his subconscious mind, while his conscious mind was going through all that.
"You mean men hitting on me?" That grin was wide now. "Constantly. Most men think cheerleaders want nothing more than to be pinned to the bed and fertilized constantly."
He had been standing during this particular exchange of information, moving a handful of papers to a box. He sat now as his knees weakened, threatening not to support him any longer. He realized his mouth was hanging open. He was surprised he wasn't drooling. His eyes watched her eyes, above that smiling mouth, as they seemed to peer directly into his most secret thoughts. He closed it and swallowed.
"Did I shock you?" she asked in what, before this, he would have characterized as an innocent voice.
He didn't know what to do. He interacted with young women her age on a daily basis, but they never had these kinds of discussions.
"You're a man," she observed, her eyes still watching him. "Am I wrong?"
Now she was actually asking for him to admit something. This was dangerous territory. As laughingly as she had said she wouldn't make a complaint, if he actually admitted he lusted after her, things could get ugly. He went on the defensive.
"Well," he said, his academic mind churning to life, "if you think about the fact that cheerleading, as far as I can see, is inherently designed to excite the crowd,
and that a lot of the moves in your routines are, shall we say, titillating by design, and I might even argue by intent, then it isn't surprising that the men in that crowd might revert to that cave man part of their subconscious that drives them to make a conquest involving something other than the sporting competition going on."
"My goodness that was a mouthful," she said, with a droll voice. "So you're saying we tease men."
"Well don't you?" It seemed obvious to him.
"Some do," she said, quite seriously, seeming to avoid answering his question directly. "For others, though, cheer is very serious business, and sexual titillation isn't
the primary objective."
A dozen scenes of her wiggling her hips, or thrusting out her chest as she danced, jumped and cheered flowed through his mind. She was one of the sexiest cheerleaders on the squad. Something made him ask about that.
"So ... and I apologize if this is too personal a question ... which way do you feel about that?"
"It depends," she said, with a wide grin. "Sometimes I want to turn a guy on. I freely admit that. I confess that I've got a little streak of exhibitionist in me. I think
you have to, to last on the squad, even if that isn't your primary motivator."
"You said it depends," he insisted. "What does it depend on?"
"Well, if you see a guy you think you'd like, then maybe you give a little extra wiggle his way, or smile at him a lot, or something like that," she said. "But it has more to
do with fantasy than actually trying to get the guy to hit on you. Like I said, plenty of guys hit on cheerleaders anyway. You don't really have to encourage them. And if you accepted every advance, you'd end up being that cheerleader all the guys think you are in the first place. I know a few girls who enjoy being sluts, but they're nowhere near being in the majority."
He thought about that. Her answer, on some levels, was still evasive. She hadn't really let herself be tied down.
"Who was the last man you saw in the crowd that you wanted to tease?" he asked, for no reason other than to see if he could figure out what kind of man she liked. "And what did
you do about it?"
"Why, professor McFeeley ... that would be you. If you'll recall, I believe I winked at you."
Then, giggling, she turned back to her work.
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