Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Marianne the naked professor: A baseball bet

   Chapter 1

   My wife Marianne is a Yankee fan, born and raised in the shadow of the
Big Apple, and steeped in the winning ways of her home team.  From the
childhood she's watched Yankee seasons unfold, from her Dad's box seats
just behind third base.  There isn't anything she loves more than an
October playoff series with the Bronx Bombers in the fray.

   Me?  I'm every bit the fan that she is.  But fate and geography have
played out altogether differently for me.  I grew up less than a mile from
Fenway Park, a dedicated, long-suffering Red Sox fan.  There's plenty more
in Boston just like me: forever hopeful - and always disappointed by our
cursed team.

   I met Marianne in my freshman year at Stanford University.  We married
after graduation, and then spent another six years at Stanford earning
doctorates: hers in political science and mine in chemistry.  We were
fortunate enough to get the academic teaching jobs we wanted, at two
well-known colleges in Boston.  We started work last September, just weeks
before the Yanks and Sox met in the 2003 American League pennant series. 
Our move to Boston had only deepened our baseball fan rivalry, played out
in taunts and needling, empty bravado and friendly banter.  We both
vigorously for our own team to win, and even more vigorously for the
other's team to lose.
That AL East series, which began more than a year ago, is really what
led to the scene from yesterday morning that keeps replaying in my head:
I'm on the couch, watching the post-pennant celebrations in Boston, live on
TV.  It is raining, but the fans feel only elation.  I too am deliriously
happy, and not just because the curse of the Bambino has been exorcised
forever.  Better still: on her hands and knees in front of me is Marianne,
naked except for a Red Sox cap, facing the TV.  My feet are resting
comfortably upon the lovely ottoman of her bare ass.  A commercial comes on

and I pull my feet down.

   "A beer please, chop chop." I direct.

   She turns her head to look at me, incredulous.  I wink at her, smiling,
and she rolls her eyes in exaggerated annoyance before closing them and
standing up to do just what I requested.

   But I'm getting ahead of the story...

   Marianne was confident that the Yankees would make short work of the Red
Sox in this best-of-seven series.  I was worried that she was right, but
tried not to let her know it.

   "It's going to be a sweep, short and sweet," she shouted from the
kitchen, just before the first game.  She came into the den with two beers
and plopped down next to me on the couch handing me one.

   "Here's luck.  You're going to need it," she said, clinking her bottle
against mine.

   "Don't get too cocky, Yank.  I've got a good feeling, and your guys are
soft.  Overpaid and soft," I said.

   She looked at me in mock horror.  "Soft?  The Yankees!?  Puh leeez,
Jake. These guys are rocks.  Invincible.  You keep hold of that good
feeling for as long as you can, honey, but you're still going down."

   "Standard bet?" I asked.  Whenever we were in a position to make a
friendly wager, we almost always made the same bet: winner got sex from the
loser.  Of course, that meant that we both won, but we made a tradition of
the loser acting reluctant when the winner called for his or her due.  It
was a fun way to collect, and we both liked the game.

   "Oh yes," she replied.  "Absolutely.  And how about we make a running
side bet for the games.  Whoever's team is behind has to make dinner, fetch
drinks, and clean up on the night of the game." We normally shared these
chores, but I have to admit that lately I had been doing less than my half.
The pressures of work during the day were more than I had anticipated in
the new job, and I was cutting some corners in the evening.  Of course, we
were both feeling the same pressures of the academic tenure race, so my new
bad habits were not only lazy but selfish.  Marianne, always with a plan,
was apparently going to try to teach me a friendly lesson - or at least
capitalize on her team's strength to win a little relaxation of her own.  I
was sure she would take full advantage of any domestic service that I was
compelled to do.

   But I wanted to appear resolute.  I thought for a moment.

   "Hmm...  I like it.  A side bet " I said.  "How about we make it so that
the person who has to cook and clean and get drinks also has to do it
naked. From dinner through the end of the game?" I was really pleased with
this idea.  We are both affected with mild exhibitionism, and watching the
series in the buff would not bother either of us.  Neither of us likes to
be at the whim of the other, though, and I knew that she would be unsettled
by the prospect of an evening of being naked while I was fully dressed.  (I
came to this discovery through a game of strip trivial pursuit that she had
lost on our third date, but that is a story for another time).  Surprised,
but unwilling to show it, she agreed to this twist.

   "Oh yes, I'd like that," she cooed.  She really didn't think she had too
much to worry about.  Frankly, neither did I.

   Well, if you remember that series, you'll recall that the Red Sox won
the first game in Yankee stadium with a score of 5-2.  It sure was
memorable for me.  As happy as I was for the team, all I could think about
in the last two innings was that I was going to have the pleasure of being
served dinner and drinks by my naked spouse the very next night.  From that
day forward, I have always thought fondly of Tim Wakefield and his fearsome
knuckleball.  When the game ended, I did my best to remain gracious and low
key, but I did want to rub it in just a little.

   "Well, I'm sure looking forward to tomorrow's game," I teased.  She
buried her face in her hands and shook her head.  "Should we invite some
friends over?" I asked.  She dropped her hands and scowled.

   "Alright, alright, just the two of us," I said, smiling.

   The next day, I had to work a little later than usual, and by the time I
got home, the pre-game show was already underway.  I put away my coat and
briefcase in the front hall closet and walked into the kitchen to find
Marianne standing by the counter putting the finishing touches on two
salami sandwiches.  The sight took my breath away.  Naked, except for white
socks and sneakers, she cut a beautiful figure.  She's 5'5", trim and fit.
Her wavy blonde-brown hair hangs just above her delicate, graceful
shoulders.  Her blue eyes sparkle, set in a proud, bony, model's face. 
Small shapely breasts accentuate her slender frame, and her flat belly
leads to curvy hips.  Her legs, strong from years of bicycling and running,
build from muscular calves to smooth, rounded thighs that frame a bushy
thicket of defiantly untrimmed pubic hair.  Just above that patch, she had
today applied a quarter-sized temporary tattoo: the Yankees logo.

   "Now that's a sight!" I exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear.  "And a
nice tattoo....  It's going to be a bit hard for me to concentrate on the
game."

   Without a word, she strutted up to me, kissed me on the cheek and handed
me my plate, then turned away to head toward the den.  As she walked, she
swung her shapely ass - a round, firm beautiful ass - back and forth with
an exaggerated swagger.  One thing was clear.  She was going to try to make
the best of this lost bet.  I closed my eyes to snap a mental picture, then
followed her in.

   After we finished dinner, she kept the back half of her wager and
cleaned up, rejoining me in the top of the second inning.  Throughout the
game I exploited my power to have her get up to get me a drink in the buff.
She was a good sport.  She also enjoyed the outcome of the game, which the
Yankees won 6-2.  When the series returned to Boston that weekend, we'd
both be dressed for the game.

   Sadly for me, game three was another Yankee victory.  Now I was going to
have to be the naked cook.

   When I got home the next evening, She met me just after I came in the
door.  She planted a kiss full on my lips, and then backed up a step or
two, eying me head to toe.  "Payback's a bitch, Jake.  Now strip down and
let's get this party started!" She danced a little jig, pumping her hands
in the air and then pointing at me.  "Let's go, pal.  Drop `em!" She leaned
over the island in the kitchen, planting her elbows and fixing her face in
her palms, and staring at my crotch.  "Ready when you are!"

   I obliged, kicking off my shoes and socks, untying my tie, taking off my
white cotton shirt, and then pausing, just a moment, before unbuckling my
belt, unzipping my fly and stepping out of my pants.  She laughed to see
the Red Sox Logo emblazoned on my underwear.  I'd picked these up at a
memorabilia shop downtown in anticipation of this humiliating scene.

   She applauded.  "Very nice.  Now lose the jockeys and get cooking."

   I slipped off my underwear, revealing a throbbing erection.

   "Oh my.  You are happy to see me" she chided.

   "That's a fact," I replied.

   I made my way past her, opening the refrigerator to get some cold cuts.
The cold blast of air would probably have brought down my state of arousal,
except that just then Marianne embraced me from behind, her hands planted
on my chest while she kissed my back.  "I'll be in the den." She said,
sliding her hands down across my belly and finally grasping my cock with
her right hand.  "Maybe we should invite some friends over after all," she
declared, wiggling my aching cock like a joystick.

   When I entered the den with sandwiches balanced on a tray in my left
hand and two glasses in my right hand, there was little way for me to hide
my boner, and she looked at nothing else.  "Oooh la la," she cried, "bring
me that tasty meal!" I walked over to her chair, laughing, and thrust my
hips forward, spearing the air in front of her face.  She planted a kiss on
the head of my cock.  "Not that tasty meal, you wanker.  The other one."

   We settled in to watch the game, and she called on me to refill her
glass every few minutes.  In the end, though, her extra drinking paid off
for me.  By the time the game was over, she was feeling no pain, and in a
randy mood to boot.  She was naked by the time we reached the bedroom, and
we enjoyed a spirited and athletic evening, so to speak.  After a while,
she fell fast asleep, sprawled face down, her cute exposed ass an
irresistible sight.  "This series is going to kill me," I whispered to
myself.

   Game four evened the series again, and game five put NY on top 3-2.  So,
in the sixth game, for the second time, I served and cleaned and bartended
in the buff.  Thankfully, the series evened up, and we could both
concentrate on baseball for the series finale.

   I was excited that Pedro was going to pitch in the all-important seventh
game.  And he pitched well too, at least for the first seven innings, in
what was one of the greatest games in baseball history.  The Red Sox blew a
three run lead in the eighth to deadlock the score, 5-5.  The game went
into extra innings, and in the bottom of the 11th, Aaron Boone belted a
home run, clinching the Yankees' 39th pennant.  Both the Red Sox and their
fans were in despair.  And me?  Well, I had to pay up.  We had crazy sex
that night, sweating and rolling and kissing and fucking until we were both
exhausted.

   That series ended up being lots of fun for us, and we continued to
discuss the games (and occasionally our wager) through the off-season. 
Marianne took every opportunity to remind me of her victory, and I had to
eat a lot of crow.

   Chapter 2

   And so when October rolled around again this year, I was hoping for yet
another chance to get even, and the Red Sox obliged, winning the wildcard
race and meeting the Yankees for a rematch in the 2004 AL pennant race.

   When the subject of a new wager came up, we found ourselves again on the
couch, watching TV.  Marianne made it clear that she did not want to repeat
the "naked server" bet.  Perhaps she was reluctant to see Boston take
another early lead, or she had just tired of the novelty of having me
scamper back and forth with a free willy, fetching her too much alcohol. 
She didn't elaborate.

   "Just the standard bet then?" I asked.

   "What else did you have in mind?" She replied, sensing that I had an
alternate plan.  I didn't have a plan yet, but I did want to duplicate the
erotic charge of the last series, so this the opening was too much for me
to pass by.

   "Loser is a 'slave-for-a-weekend' to the winner." I regretted this
impulsive wager before I had even completed uttering it.  Though I had
fantasized about such "slave" game play in the past, my fantasy generally
did not involve me being her slave.  But considering our teams' history,
that was by far the most likely outcome of this bet.

   She looked at me with puzzlement, and then, slowly, a smile crept across
her face.  "Interesting...  and a bit kinky." She paused, before adding: "I
like it.  Slave-for-a-weekend.  But you'll do laundry, I warn you."

   "Any side bets?" I asked, unprepared to go any further with my own
ideas.

   "Yes," she replied, decisively.  "Every grand slam by the Yankees gets
you an over-the-knee spanking!" My jaw dropped.  She was taking it up a
notch, indulging an S&M theme.  We had actually made this bet twice before,
in 2000 and 2001 in regular season games between our two favorite teams. 
Marianne had latched on to the idea that the Yanks were clutch grand slam
hitters, reinforced by the 1999 Game 4 American League Conference Series
when a grand Slam by Ricky Ledee ended the game for the Sox.  Annoyed with
her taunting, I had proposed this kinky side bet, and she had agreed.  Both
times the spanking wager had been proposed, however, it came to naught.

   "Stakes are the same as last time: Eight swats." She was pulling out the
stops.

   "Oh my!  Spanking?!  And likewise for you, when Ortiz or Ramirez belts a
grand slam?" I asked, trying (and failing) to reign in my excitement.  This
was another frequent, favorite fantasy, one that I longed to realize. 
Again it was a gift I'd prefer to give than receive, but I knew that grand
slams were no less plentiful of my team than hers.

   "Don't get your hopes up," she replied, a gleam in her eye.

   As the series neared, I was as confident about the Sox's chances as I
had ever been.  Which is to say, not very.  Before the first game began, I
settled onto the couch and held my glass up to toast with Marianne. 
"Bottoms up."

   She laughed, and shot back "Not until the grand slam!" Such a kidder.

   We turned to watch the game.

   Well, you know the 2004 series started badly for the Red Sox, who
quickly lost three in a row, the last of which was a rout 19-8.  By the end
of that horrid game, Marianne had little doubt about the outcome.  She
turned off the TV and turned toward me.  I was slouched in my chair in
disbelief of what had been an endless slaughter.

   "Listen, sweetie," she said, "don't take it so hard.  It's only a game,
right?  And look on the bright side.  No grand slams!  You want to throw in
the towel now?  No team has ever come from three games down to win the
pennant.  Ever.  I'll tell you what.  You concede defeat right now, and
come over here and kiss my feet, and I'll go easy on you this weekend." I
didn't even acknowledge her, staring instead at the dreary post-game
interviews.

   "If you make me have to wait until the next game...  well then I might
have to punish you," she said, pronouncing the last part in a sing-song
threat.  She was teasing, but there was just enough seriousness in her
voice that I began to worry.  She was going to enjoy playing with
dominance, and I had the distinct feeling that I was not.

   "No way, Jose," I replied.  "It isn't over yet." I thumbed my nose at
her.

   "OK be that way" she said feigning harshness.  "But that's going to cost
you, Jake.  I won't need a Yankee grand slam to get you over my knee when
the Sox go down" She let that thought settle for a moment, and then added:
"Or, you could reconsider and kiss my feet." With that, she raised up her
right foot and wiggled it near my face.

   I pushed her foot away.  "It isn't over yet," I repeated weakly.

   Well, you know where this is going.  Games four, five and six went to
the Red Sox, with Curt Schillng leading a new spirit of heroism for the
team.  Like Yankee and Red Sox fans everywhere, we were glued to the TV for
these games.

   The seventh game was played on a Wednesday, with Lowe on the mound for
the Red Sox.  Marianne and I could hardly eat.  Though I had been
contemplating the weekend as Marianne's slave for days now, this was the
first time that Marianne had had to consider that it might be she who would
be a slave to me.  I sensed that this was on her mind, and wanted to get
some payback for the exchange we'd had after game three.  I lifted my foot,
and said to Marianne: "Honey, would you like to kiss my foot?" She sneered,
then put her hands to her neck, making choking sounds.

   "Red Sox lose tonight," she said.  Then after a pause, "...again." I had
to admit, to myself at least, that that seemed likely.

   In the top of the second inning with the Red Sox at bat, Marianne took a
bathroom break.  When she came back five minutes later, she was surprised
to see the TV muted with a frozen-frame on the set.  She looked at the TV
and then at me.  I had an exaggerated grin that must have made me look
ridiculous.

   "Bases loaded, one out, and Damon at the plate," I said, still grinning
impishly.  Marianne looked at me with confusion.

   "And?" she said impatiently.  Then, suddenly, she understood.  "No!  A
grand slam?" She yelled.

   "A real dinger.  Here, take a look." I pushed the TiVo button that
replayed the hit, and Marianne watched, still standing in the doorway. 
"You might say he spanked that ball," I added, raising my eyebrows
conspicuously.

   "Arghhh!  I can't believe it," she said through clenched teeth.  "A
grand slam?  It's impossible." Then, changing her tone to on a bit less
angry and more resigned, she said "Fuck.  Fuck.  I don't suppose I can talk
you out of this, eh Jake?"

   "Oh my goodness no, sweetheart.  You get an over-the-knee, bare-ass
spanking right now." I said.  "And if you want me to go easier on you, you
had better go get me a beer."

   She did want me to go easier on her, and so she quickly took the
opportunity.  "Please go easy, Jake." She turned and left the room.

   "You can leave your pants in the kitchen," I yelled after her, savoring
the moment.  While she was gone I raced to finish what I had started the
minute Damon sent the ball out of the park, a task that had been
interrupted by Marianne's return.  I set up the digital video camcorder on
the entertainment center shelf beside the TV.  It was quiet and small, and
Marianne would not notice it.  The scene about to unfold was something I
wanted to save for posterity (and countless bouts of self gratification).

   Chapter 3

   Marianne returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, having dutifully
stripped from the waist down.  Her cropped white tee shirt offered adorably
little modesty, and even at that her nipples were straining to poke through
the thin material.  I scooted to the edge of the couch, carefully centered
in the field of view of the hidden camera.

   "OK babe," I said, "right here." I patted my lap.  "Bottoms up!"

   She rolled her eyes and then gently shook her head before laying across
my lap, muttering "fucking Johnny Damon.  Let's get this over with." She
pushed herself forward, reached her arms down and planted them on the
carpet.  Her toes touched the carpet behind, and her proud, round ass was
now positioned neatly across my thighs.  I let my left arm drape across the
small of her back, and took in the view.  I glanced at the camera, winking
once to the guy who would soon be re-living this moment.  With my right
hand, I began to rub my palm across her backside in circles.

   "You seem to be enjoying this," she said, craning her neck to look at
me.

   "Immeasurably," I replied.  "I believe this was your idea.  Are you
ready?"

   She turned her head back around and took a deep breath.  "No."

   "Now here's the way this is going to work.  For each swat, if you say
'Go Red Sox', then the next one will be no harder.  OK?" I asked

   "That's twisted," she replied, "If you...."

   But before she could finish the sentence I gave her a firm slap on the
right cheek *SMACK*

   "Ow!" she clenched her ass and bent her knees, causing her to
temporarily slip down from my lap.  I held on with my left arm, and
recentered her.  "Damn," she added.

   Without waiting, I gave her another, harder slap on the same cheek
*SMACK*

   "Ow!  Ow!  Ow!  I was going to say it.  Go Red Sox!  Ow!" she yelled.

   "Ooh look, a handprint." I rubbed her ass in gentle circles.  Then
*SMACK* on the left cheek, not so hard this time.

   " Go Red Sox!"

   *SMACK*

   " Go Red Sox!"

   Now both cheeks were reddening.  "Four more to go," I said, mostly to
myself.

   *SMACK SMACK* I gave her two in quick succession.

   " Go Red Sox!  Do I say it twice?"

   *SMACK* Harder.

   "OK!  OK!, Ow!  Go Red Sox!  Go Red Sox!"

   *SMACK*

   " Go Red Sox!"

   "Thank you Marianne, and thank you Johnny," I said.  "You're done."

   Marianne jumped up and immediately began to rub her flushed backside,
She arched around to get a better look - directly in front of the video
camera that secretly recorded her frowning face and reddened rump in a
priceless pose.

   "Back to the game, then?" I asked, as if we had had only a minor
interruption.

   "You'd better hope the Yankees don't win," she pouted, still holding her
ass as she left the room to get her pants.  She muttered "I haven't been
spanked like that since I was a little girl.  I didn't like it much then
either."

   "Well, as a matter of fact I do hope the Yankees don't win," I replied,
"and if they don't, you might be back over my knee again."

   This threat, combined with a game score now at 8-1 Sox (in the fourth
inning), put her in a nervous mood.  This was not a good time to argue. 
She sat quietly through most of the rest of the game, which, as you already
know, ended in a historic Red Sox victory.  Marianne was to be my slave the
following weekend!

   That was Wednesday.  Today is Saturday.  Last night, before the start of
the weekend, Marianne and I agreed to a few terms.  She would be naked
unless she had specific permission from me not to be, though she could wear
socks (red only!) to keep her feet warm.  She argued that spanking should
be prohibited, mostly because she found she doesn't much care for it.  I
reminded her about her tough talk after game three, and told her that she
should get spanked whenever I wanted, for any or no reason.  But fearing
she might back out of the bet, I promised that I would not take her back
over my knee unless she failed to obey a command quickly or fully.  At the
conclusion of these delicate negotiations, we went to bed.  I, for one,
slept soundly.

   This morning I woke and stretched, relishing my good fortune.  Marianne
was, uncharacteristically, still asleep.  I figured she must have had a
tough time getting to sleep last night.  I quietly stripped off my PJs, and
pushed down the covers, with my stiff penis poking proudly in the air. 
"Marianne," I sang in her ear melodically, "Oh slave girl.  Wake up.  It's
the weekend."

   She woke, groggy, and processed my words, slowly opening her eyes and
catching my gaze.  "What?" She yawned.

   "Remember our bet?"

   "How could I forget?," she said, rolling over and eyeing my obvious
arousal.

   "I've always said that Yankee fans really suck" I said glancing in the
direction of my bobbing flagpole.  "Don't you think so?" Marianne gives an
awesome blowjob, but the frequency with which I am blessed by these oral
delights has diminished in recent years, and I hoped to make up some ground
this weekend.

   She smiled sleepily and said nothing, scooting down toward the foot of
the bed and delivering the first of what was to be a series of impromptu
bouts of fellatio distributed over those two days.

   "Ahhhh.  So far, so good," I said, when the shudder of orgasm had
receded and I could think again.  "I trust you won't mind not getting
dressed.  Just scamper downstairs and fix us up some breakfast."

   After a cup of coffee and an English muffin, I began to gently exercise
my new power.  "Marianne, would you get me a red Sharpie pen?" I asked.

   "What for?" she replied, suspiciously.

   You don't want to test the no-spanking-only-if-you-obey-quickly rule
already, do you?" I asked, tauntingly.  We both knew that nothing would
suit me more.

   "No I do not," she replied emphatically, as she reached to get a pen
from the kitchen drawer.  She handed it to me.  I was still sitting at the
breakfast table.  "Come on around over here," I said, waving her around to
my side of the table.  When she did, I spun my finger in the air.  "turn
around," I commanded.  Now, directly in front of my face was the cute round
ass that always made my heart pound.  "We're going to give you a Red Sox
Logo" I said.  Right on this curvy billboard."

   "With a Sharpie?!" She exclaimed.  "That's not going to come off for
weeks."

   "I hope not." I replied.  "But hush now, or else." I took my time,
outlining the nested the twin red socks in a pattern that roughly filled
her left cheek.

   Chapter 4

   Later that morning came the scene I described earlier: Watching the TV
with a naked human ottoman, still before lunch.

   The rest of that day that night, and today have been nothing short of
amazing.  I have indulged a number of my favorite naked-wife fantasies.

   Just before lunch, I let Marianne know we would be indulging in digital
photo sessions.  The theme would be CMNF: clothed male naked female.  It
began with me dressing up in my work clothes: a jacket and tie, khaki
pants, and loafers.  We took shots of a typical morning: the two of us at
the breakfast table discussing the paper, casual as usual but with Marianne
sitting naked at her chair across from me, her reading glasses propped on
the tip of her nose.  Next we staged a kiss goodbye at the front door, and
the resulting image was marvelous: A side view of our deep hugging kiss,
with Marianne bent slightly backwards and arching her back, our lips locked
together our pelvises fused, my arm supporting the small of her back.

   Then I had an idea.  Marianne, this is a great photo series we're
making, but I don't generally leave you at the door.  It's unrealistic. 
You're not a stay at home housewife, you're a professor!  We go to work
together.  Next shot is us in the car."

   "Outside?  Jake, I'm naked." Marianne stated the obvious.

   "Yeah, and we're headed to work, babe." I smiled devilishly.

   "This is a little more exhibitionism than I care for, Jake," Marianne
negotiated.

   "I understand, and I will happily give you the spanking you deserve for
disobeying, dear.  But for now, how about a compromise?  You can wear your
raincoat for the drive over.  But we are going to the office, and that's
that.  No one will be there, hon.  I want a photo series of us going about
our daily lives, but with you nude.  This is a great idea!" I said,
conclusively.

   Marianne was still reluctant, but thought that the raincoat was probably
as good a deal as she could get (they both knew that if I had lost this
bet, such concessions would be few and far between, as Marianne was
invariably the better at dominant role play).

   "OK, but can I wear shoes too?" Marianne inquired.

   "Sure, but only pumps.  The red ones.  And put on that pearl necklace
that you sometimes wear.  I think that will complete the look we're going
for," I replied.

   Marianne put on the necklace, pumps and raincoat: a dark blue trenchcoat
that went down to just above her knees and nicely veiled her nudity
underneath She pulled her hair back into the neat ponytail that she
preferred at the workplace.  She put on a light layer of lipstick - the
only makeup she normally wore.  Except for the subtle clue of the absence
of hosiery on her legs, anyone seeing her would be hard pressed to know her
true circumstances.  She took a parting look at herself in the full length
mirror in the bedroom before shouting down to her husband, "This is crazy,
Jake."

   I set up the tripod and snapped several more pictures of us leaving the
house and getting into the car.  Remarkably, these less revealing shots
would prove no less titillating to me in the photo series, perhaps because
from that day forward seeing her in the blue trenchcoat makes me think of
her being nude underneath, even when she isn't.

   Once in the car, I started the engine and turned to Marianne as it
warmed up.  "OK Marianne, now I have a choice for you.  You can decide
whether to wear the trenchcoat in the car, or from the car to our building
when we get to school.  Either one but not both." The driving trip was
about 15 minutes, mostly on a highway, while the dash from their reserved
parking space to his chemistry research building was only 20 seconds.  The
political science building was across the quad from Chemistry.  Marianne
didn't know which building they were headed to.  In either case, she much
preferred to suffer exposure on the anonymity of the road than in the
parking lot of her workplace.

   "Definitely I want the trenchcoat from the car to the building, Jake. 
Does that mean you expect me to ride all the way to school naked?" Marianne
asked.

   "Oh yes.  You can throw the coat into the back seat.  And buckle up!" I
demanded.

   After she did so, I snapped a couple of pictures of her shapely profile.
The car was still cold with the morning air, and these snapshots captured
both her erect nipples and the goose bumps on her arms.  Her embarrassed
smile was of the Mona Lisa variety: difficult to read.  Was it a
combination of nervousness and reflexive posing for the camera, or was she
really enjoying this moment?

   Surprisingly, the trip was uneventful.  The roads were nearly empty on
this Saturday morning, and I, not wanting to push my incredible luck, did
not go out of my way to drive alongside cars or trucks in adjacent lanes.
We did end up stopped at one traffic light after exiting the highway, and
faced one car in the opposite lane across the intersection.  Marianne
scooted down in her seat, and I laughed.  "I think that's the dean," I
muttered.

   Marianne's eyes widened.  "Are you kidding me?!" She scrunched herself
down even further to a level beneath the dashboard.

   "Yes, I am," I laughed again.

   "Thank God," she sighed

   Within a few minutes they were in the parking lot, which was, as
expected, empty except for one other car at the far end of the building. 
After parking, I reached into the back seat and grabbed the trenchcoat,
handing it to Marianne.  "OK, babe," I said, "let's go."

   We walked to the door, and I swiped his card to unlock the door.  I held
the door for Marianne, who entered quickly, stumbling over the threshold. I
grabbed her arm to prevent her from falling.  "Not quite used to those
pumps, eh," I chuckled.

   "Well they're not what I would normally wear to work, you know."

   "Yes I do.  But they look great.  C'mon, lets get upstairs.  I pressed
the elevator button in the lobby of the building.  His office was on the
sixth floor.  Once inside the elevator, I held out my hand.  "The
trenchcoat, please."

   "Jake, we have no idea who is in the building," Marianne complained.

   "I know, but then again, this is Chemistry.  Not many people know you
here.  Would you rather go to Political Science building?" I asked,
rhetorically.

   "God no," Marianne agreed, reluctantly peeling off the coat and handing
it to me.  The thought of being caught naked in by one of her faculty peers
sent a shiver down her spine.  "But would you do me a favor and check the
hallway when we get to your floor?"

   "Sure thing, hon," I replied, taking her coat while raising the camera
for a quick shot of her silhouette in the elevator.

   When we reached the sixth floor, I popped my head out of the elevator.
"All clear," I announced, holding open the elevator door and motioning her
to come out.

   Marianne giggled nervously, and stepped out of the elevator.  "This is
my last bet ever.  I swear." She looked up and down the hall, but all was
quiet.  My office was halfway down the hall, but instead of going that way
I motioned Marianne to follow me into the classroom directly across from
the elevator.  She was grateful to get out of the hallway.  The lecture
room was a small one for chemistry, with about 50 seats arranged in stadium
style: semicircular rows of chair-desks with each successive row higher
than the one in front of it.  At the front of the classroom was a small
lectern and a large black chalkboard.  I found a seat about midway back in
the room, and took out the camera.
"I'd like some shots of you teaching, Marianne.  My wife, the naked
professor.  Grab some chalk and get to it." I started snapping pictures as

she laughed at the notion, but headed to the chalkboard to comply.

   "Actually, this would be one way to get their attention," she joked. 
She picked up a piece of chalk, and then turned to face me.  "What do you
want me to write?"

   "Political Science 101, Professor Marianne Walters Axiom 1: Never bet on
the Yankees."

   She dutifully wrote as instructed, while I shot priceless pictures of
her.  I noticed that her ass still bore a little pink blush from the
previous day's entertainment, and vowed to make one of these shots my
screensaver.

   When she finished, I waved her toward the door.  "Let's go to my office
for a final few shots, then we can head back home."

   "I'm for that," Marianne agreed.

   I checked that the hall was clear, then motioned for Marianne to follow.
We walked together down the hall, side by side, and both felt a tingle of
excitement.

   The doors to the offices had translucent windows, and it was plain to
see that the lights were out in all of the offices, except for the one at
the far end of the hall, which belonged to our mutual friend John Hammond.
John and his wife Audrey had joined the University at the same time as
Marianne and I, and the four had become close friends.  John, like me, was
a professor of chemistry.  Audrey was a professor of law.

   "Uh oh, it looks like John might be here," I noted.  "Shall we check?"

   "No!  Lets get into your office," Marianne pleaded.

   "OK, as you wish." I opened the door to my cozy office and flipped on
the lights.  The office was just large enough for a desk, set just in front
of the window opposite the door, and a small conference table in front of
it with three chairs.  Lining the walls on both sides of the room were
floor to ceiling bookshelves.  The décor was spare, as I prefer.

   "Now sit in the desk chair and let me snap a few shots," I ordered. 
Marianne sat in the leather chair, and posed for me.  I know she must have
been thinking about how I would indeed have what I wanted: a portfolio of
pictures detailing a day in the life of a naked professor!  She was
cooperative, but still determined to get this embarrassing weekend behind
her.

   Chapter 5

   I declared, "I'm going to be right back, Marianne.  Just hitting the
men's room.  Don't go anywhere."

   She laughed.  "Not too likely.  Leave my trenchcoat?"

   "No way, babe," I said, "This is my guarantee you'll be here when I get
back!"

   "Well hurry then," she implored.

   "OK be right back, I said, pulling the door closed behind me as I left.

   I raced to John's office, and told him the story of the lost bet,
culminating in the news that Marianne was naked in the office.  I then
filled John in on a plan to exacerbate Marianne's predicament.

   The four of us had a lot in common, and one of the things that bonded us
together was and shared sense of mischief, usually expressed in the form of
pranks and practical jokes.  Earlier in the semester, John had ordered a
blow up "anatomically correct" doll in my name, and had it sent to my
mailbox at school, which had caused some commotion at the Department
office. In retaliation, I solicited Audrey's help to get a photo of a
younger, more carefree John surfing in the buff at a Bahaman resort, which
I briefly posted in the Department lounge.  The women, too, had
participated in pranks with each other and with the men.  Most recently, it
was Marianne who had gotten the better of Audrey, leaving a conspicuous
vibrator embossed with the label "hot rod" on the passenger seat of her
car. That harmless prank had taken a turn for the worse when Audrey made
the mistake of inviting her Chairman to lunch, and elected to drive.  He
had pretended not to notice as she tossed the unexpected gift into the back
seat, but Audrey knew he had seen it, and was mortified.  When later she
found out it had been Marianne, she vowed revenge, even though she knew
Marianne had not intended the prank to go that far.

   I returned to the office, and Marianne scowled as I entered.  "Long time
no see.  You know, a gal could catch cold in this kind of outfit." Marianne
wrapped her arms around her chest as if to indicate a chill.  In fact, the
office was quite warm.

   "Sorry, I just ran into John in the hall.  I had to say hello, you know.
Audrey's here too, and meeting him for lunch.  He invited me, but I told
him I couldn't join them.  Unless you wanted to?" I asked, playfully.

   "I'll pass!" Marianne replied.

   I took out the camera and put it on the tripod.  "OK just one last shot
of us together in my chair.  I set the self-timer and ran behind the desk,
sitting in the chair with Marianne in my lap her arms around my neck. 
"Perfect," I declared after the flash went off.

   Just then, a knock sounded at the office door.  Marianne's eyes widened,
and she looked at me, whispering: "Shit!"

   "Quick, get under the desk," I instructed in a hushed voice.  "I'll get
rid of whoever it is.  Probably John."

   "Just a minute," I said loudly.  Marianne ducked behind the desk, It had
an alcove for the chair.  The space was fully shielded by the front of the
desk, and she tucked herself in, pulling the chair toward her.

   I opened the door, and outside were John and Audrey.

   "Hi Audrey, good to see you," I said.

   "Hi Jake, we're off to lunch.  Sure you won't join us?" Audrey asked.

   "Sorry, I've got some papers to grade." I winked.  I made my way back to
the desk, glimpsing Marianne crouched underneath.  I pulled out the chair
and sat down, scooting in and planting my feet on either side of her.  She
was facing me, her knees up to her chest and her head slightly bent to
avoid hitting the table top.  Nevertheless she cocked her head a bit to
make eye contact with me I smiled and tapped her reassuringly with my foot.


   Audrey pointed at the trenchcoat that lay on the conference table. 
"Hey, is that Marianne's jacket?  Is she around?"

   "No she left it here last week," I replied.

   "Oh." Audrey walked in and plopped herself down in one of the conference
table chairs.  "So are you guys going to go to the Morrison's party
tomorrow night?" Bill Morrison was the Chair of the Chemistry Department,
and hosted monthly soirees at his house for the department faculty.

   "Probably.  You?" I asked.

   "Yeah, we'll go.  Anything to help John get tenure," Audrey laughed.

   John laughed too, taking a seat next to Audrey.  "She's got that right."

   We continued small talk for a while, discussing other faculty and
upcoming events, and I doodled on a post-it note pad while carrying his end
of the conversation.  Except I wasn't really doodling.  I was writing a
note.  It read:

   `Dear Marianne.  BJ now, or else...  Love Jake.'

   I discretely peeled off the post-it and reached under the desk, pressing
it against Mariane's forehead.  She took the note, read it, and cupped her
hand to her mouth.  I wasn't sure if she was laughing or outraged.  It was
probably a mixture of both.

   When a minute passed without any further response, I noncahlantly said
to Audrey and John, "Well there might be a way for me to join you for lunch
with Marianne, come to think of it..."

   I immediately felt a hand on my groin, and fingers gently unzipping my
pants.

   "No, that's right, I think she told me she was going to blow off some
steam at the gym, I said.

   Marianne deftly extracted my cock from my pants, and as I scooted the
chair forward, I found myself living yet another pleasurable fantasy.  I
continued to chat with Audrey and John, and it is a testament to my powers
of composure and concentration that after several minutes in the capable
mouth of my wife I climaxed without John and Audrey noticing what I was up
to.  Afterward, I quietly zipped myself up, and rolled the chair back from
the desk.

   After a few minutes of more small talk, Audrey asked: "Isn't Marianne
cramped under the desk?"

   John added.  "I'm sure she is.  Come on out, girl.  We want to see your
new outfit."

   "You bastard!  They knew I was here the whole time?" Marianne shouted,
looking up at me incredulously.

   "Now now, Marianne, this is my day, remember?" I lectured.  "You lost
fair and square, and its time to pay the piper.  I met John on my way to
the men's room, and, well, I couldn't resist sharing.  Stand up and show
our friends what Yankee fans have to wear today.  Stop hiding under that
desk." I reached a hand down and she gave me hers, rolling out to the floor
behind the desk with the post-it note still in her hand.  I leaned down and
took the note from her, crumpling it and tossing it in the wastebasket and
then whispered in her ear.  "That part is our secret, they don't know."

   Audrey and John stood up and laughed, and Marianne, blushing deeply red,
stood up.  She was still in her shaky heels, but managed to execute a
curtsey.  "Nice to see you both."

   "No its nice to see you," Audrey said, eyeing Marianne up and down. 
Marianne's hands were folded demurely over her groin.  "And those pearls
are lovely.  They go well with those pumps.  "Jake, I assume there are
pictures?"

   "You bet, but not for distribution," I replied.  "However, I believe
when the four of us get together, a slide show will be fair play.  Have you
seen the tattoo?  Marianne, show them your tattoo."

   "What tattoo," John asked.

   Marianne turned and displayed her ass.  "Jake gave me a sharpie red sox
logo.  Cute huh?" She finally broke down and started to laugh, throwing up
her hands and doing a full twirl to give them the view they were looking
for.  The rest of us laughed too, and applauded.  "I really got payback
this time, didn't I?" Marianne gigged, embarrassed.

   "Wow, you guys really take of the gloves, don't you?" John said.  He
turned to his wife.  "Audrey, we need to make better wagers."

   "You got it, Johnny boy.  Can't wait to have you in this kind of
predicament," Audrey shot back.

   "Oh, wait." I had an idea.  "Let's immortalize this event for our
scrapbook.  Everyone line up at the desk while I set the self timer."

   I got the shot of the four of us, Audrey and John in street clothes,
Marianne in pearls and pumps, and me in my jacket and tie, arms across
shoulders all.

   "OK Marianne, I think its time for us to head home." I threw her the
trenchcoat.  "Say thanks to John and Audrey for helping me out."

   "Thanks John and Audrey," Marianne intoned sarcastically.

   "It was our pleasure," John replied.  "We'll see you later."

   With that, the all left the office.  Marianne and I headed back to the
car and to home.  On the ride, I thanked Marianne for being such a good
sport, and told her how difficult it had been not to let on that she had
been gratifying me under the desk.  I officially released her from her
debt, noting that she had been eager to please and far more obedient that I
had expected through the whole day.

   I wondered to myself during the quiet ride home if that eagerness was
just to avoid another paddling, or maybe she really liked the game. 
Frankly, I concluded that I didn't care which it was.  For me, this was
just one more miracle to go with the Red Sox victory.

   The End