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We are a group of grad students (male and female) working on a group
project. We are working on a series of stories about a common character
and different adventures she has. This is the introductory piece. We
would appreciate posting. More to come. Please note that this will be
group effort, exploring points of view. You may change the last name of
the main character if you are at all worried about references to any
real people. We can assure you that's not the case, but you may still
want to do that. Otherwise, please just change punctuation, spelling,
format.  Thanks.

Northampton Erotica Project

This is a fictional story. Only adults should read it. It will
offend adults who are offended by sexually explicit written
material. It may be re-posted with appropriate warnings and with
attribution to the Northampton Erotica Project.




THE ADVENTURES OF PROFESSOR WILKERSON
PART I


                         Susanna Calls the Tune  


          Moving the curtain aside, I watch as the van pulls into
my driveway. I see he didn't have any trouble finding the house.
Everyone in town seems to know this street. It is lined with the
stately homes that used to be the residences of professors at the
university here. That was back when they paid professors well. 
Now these are the homes of doctors, lawyers, and young
executives. He parks next to the big elm at the entrance to my
driveway.  The logo for "Primavera Electronics and TV Repair"
stands out in black letters on the side of the burgundy-colored
van. I see him in the front seat. He's writing on a clipboard.
Thank God they sent the man I asked for.

          I pass before the vestibule mirror. My dark wool suit
looks freshly pressed. My jacket, the knee-length skirt and my
pantyhose are a uniform charcoal color. This is my favorite suit.
I bought it last year when I gave my lecture on deconstructionism
at Barnard. That was such a wonderful trip. It was just after my
thirty-second birthday. After my lecture, the women's studies
faculty gave me a dinner at a wonderful hotel near the Plaza. We
talked and laughed until early morning.  Glass after glass of red
wine passed before me under the glow of crystal chandeliers.

          Back to today. Later this afternoon I am chairing a
meeting of the hiring committee of my university's women's
studies department.  We plan to interview candidates for a new
professorship.  I suppose the darkness of this suit will make me
look a little too severe. But the flowing curls of my red hair
are a good counterbalance. I push the strands away from each side
of my face. Piles of curls nestle on to each shoulder. I
straighten my glasses. "Ding!"  He's rung the doorbell.

          I greet him, "I'm so glad you're here.  My husband
wants the VCR working by the time he gets back on Friday. He has
to watch his opera videos every weekend."

          "I'll see what I can do, Um, Mrs. Wilkerson?"

          "Yes, I'm Susanna Wilkerson. Please come in." 
          
          He seems polite, neat, and clean. Just as I remembered.
Today he is wearing light khaki pants and a windbreaker. I show
him into our living room.

          "As I recall, your name is Bob?"

          "Yes. Bob, Bob Sanders." 

          "Well, Bob, we're not sure what the problem is. When we
put a video into the VCR, it runs well for five or ten minutes.
Then it stops.  We don't know if it's the VCR or the television.
It's such a large television. We couldn't bring it into the shop. 
I was so glad when they said you could come right over."

          He smiles, "That's what we're here for."

          "Bob, please put your tool box down right here.  You
can get right to work. Here is a video cassette. I see it's a
tape of `The Marriage of Figaro.'  That's my husband's favorite
opera. Why don't you put this in?  Let in run for a few minutes.
You'll see what happens. I'm going to be in the kitchen putting
some things away. Let me know if you need anything."

          From the kitchen I can see him set out some tools on
the floor. He is a young man, barely twenty. He's of average
height. Not heavy at all. His hair is mid-length, jet black. A
few weeks ago, while I was visiting Marcellina Nestor, a friend
of mine, he came to work on her stereo system.  While he worked,
she and I sat in her kitchen and drank coffee. We joked that he
had a cute butt. I reproached her severely for being so silly.
Then we laughed. Later we invited him to join us for a cup of
coffee. I remember how nervous he was as he sat at the small
table with two women. His hand trembled slightly whenever he held
his cup.

          Yesterday I called his shop and demanded that they send
him, and no one else, to my house. 

          He is slipping the cassette into the VCR. The static on
the television screen resolves into a clear image. It is not the
"Marriage of Figaro."  A naked woman appears. She is straddling a
man. She grabs his erection and inserts it into her vagina. In a
flash she is bouncing up and down on the man. She moans and
shouts in rapture.

          Bob is standing directly in front of the screen. He
does not move. I lightly bang some pots to appear occupied with
my work. He continues to watch.

          After he has watched the video intently for a few
minutes, I quietly walk into the living room. Bob does not
notice. I stand a few feet behind him. Stepping quickly to the
side, I snap a photograph of him. I make certain that I capture
both him and the television screen in my picture.

          "Hey, what the hell are you doing." He looks at me,
dumbfounded. 

          "What the hell am I doing?  Isn't the question really
what the hell are you doing?  I come in here and what do I see? 
An electrical repair man with an erection watching a pornographic
movie right here in my living room."

          He is about to look down to his crotch, but thinks
better of it and stops. The erection is pushing out from the
crotch of his pants. The bulge is clearly visible, just to the
side of his fly. He is afraid to look. "I don't have an erect . .
. ." 

          "Don't lie to me. Why do you think I took a picture?  I
have all the evidence I need."

          He stammers, "Lady. . . . "

          "My name is Professor Wilkerson."

          "Professor Wilkerson, I.  .  . .  "

          "Look, young man, you're wearing pants made of a very
light material. Anyone can see you have an erection. It looks
like you have a tent pole standing up in your pants." 

          I glance over at the television screen. His eyes follow
mine. In the video the camera shifts to a close-up of the face of
a young blond woman. Inches before her nose is the head of an
engorged penis. Her hand pumps furiously up and down its shaft.
She watches attentively as white streams of semen flow down the
sides of the head, then drip down the shaft. With eager flicks of
her tongue she attacks each stream and draws the drops of creamy
liquid into her mouth. She grins directly into the camera after
each new lick.

          Bob's eyes follow every movement of the actress. "You
can't control yourself, Bob. I know you can't."  I make sure he
hears the scorn in my voice, "I'm very familiar with the studies
of the male reaction to pornography. You're programmed to react
like that. Look at that woman in the movie. She needs money. It's
a job for her. The work disgusts her. It degrades her. She has to
pretend to like it, or she won't get paid. This excites you,
doesn't it?  That woman degrades herself before your eyes, and
what do you do?  You get hard."

          Look, I'm sorry about this Ma'am.  .  . . "

          "I told you to address me as Professor Wilkerson."

          "I'm sorry Professor Wilkerson. It's true. I can't help
it. I don't know how that movie got in there.  I didn't do it on
purpose."

          "It must have been my husband. I have forbidden
pornography in this house since we married. He must have put a
fake label on a pornography tape. I'll deal with him when he gets
back. I have to deal with you first."

          "Please, Professor Wilkerson, don't show that picture
you took to anyone."

          "Why not?  Don't you think your boss would be
interested in seeing what his employees do when they're out on
the job?"  

          "No, Please. I beg you, Professor. Please don't do
that. They'll fire me.  You know that."

          "I'm sure your fiancee wouldn't like it either, would
she?"

          "No, of course not. Please don't."

          "You're in a real fix,  aren't you?" 

          From our brief conversation at Marcellina's house, I
know he is planning to marry a dentist's daughter in the spring.
My leverage in this situation is overpowering.

          The insolent bulge in his pants does not disappear. I
approach to within a few inches of his face. My hands are set
firmly on my hips. "Make it go away."  

          His eyes attempt to avoid a downward glance. "Professor
Wilkerson. I can't. I can't make it go away just like that."  

          "Do you masturbate with pornography?"

          "No."

          "I told you not to lie to me."

          "Well. Yes. I have sometimes."

          "Of course you have.  All men do."

          "Look, Professor Wilkerson. I'll do anything you want.
Please. I beg you. Don't get me in trouble."

          "You're begging. I like that much better. Although I
prefer it when men beg on their knees."  

          He steps back from me.

          I stare directly into his eyes, "You know you're in
trouble.  You know I have you in a corner. I hear you offering to
do anything I say if I let you out. Is that correct?"

          He attempts to return my stare. He can't. He drops his
eyes. Slowly he nods in agreement.  

          "Bobby. You don't mind if I call you Bobby, do you?  Of
course you don't. You said you would do anything. I think you
will.  Now, first you're going to have to get rid of that
terrible erection. It isn't disappearing. You're not going to
make it go away just standing there. I think you should take off
your pants."

          He pretends he doesn't hear me. 

          "You heard me. If you want me to help you, you're going
to have to do exactly what I say. You said you would, remember? 
The pants. Drop them."

          He makes a brief display of opposition. He will
surrender. His hands move as if they are the mechanical limbs of
a robot. He unbuckles his belt. His fingers draw the zipper down. 
The trousers drop to the floor. 

          "Take off your shoes and socks. Your shirt, too."
     
          It pleases me to watch him do as he is told. Now he
stands before me clad only in cotton jockey briefs. The firm
outline of his cock stands out clearly beneath the white fabric.

          "The shorts, too."

          Again, he makes a weak show of defiance. He hesitates.

          "Bobby, you're blushing. Are you afraid to let me see
what you have there?  I promise I won't bite."

          He takes a deep breath. It is a sigh of resignation.
Then he peels off the briefs. His erection springs up as if it
has a newly discovered life of its own.  There is nothing special
about this young man's cock. It is of average length. Normal
thickness. It's only unusual feature is its head. It has one of
those rims formed of very thick skin. This makes the rim curl
sharply outward from the shaft.  Perhaps the doctor who performed
his circumcision gulped a few drinks before performing the
operation. The head looks like an overripe strawberry perched of
top of a short metal pole. 

          "Bobby, I mentioned kneeling. Do you remember?  Now,
get down on your knees."

          He kneels before me.

          Good. Now lie down. Get on your back."

          He obeys. When he is flat on his back, his penis rises
in an arc over his belly, like a thick arrow directed at his
puckered belly button.

          I circle his prone body. He cannot see me as I pass
outside his field of vision. I sense his fear as he tries to
guess my next move. When the camera clicks again, he tries to
move so he can see me. Exasperation distorts his face. 
          
          He pleads, "Don't take any more pictures. I beg you. 
I'll do whatever you say."

          "I know you will, Bobby."  Moving over him,  I place
one foot on either side of his chest. I look below me to see his
confused, frightened face.  Gradually I move down his body. He
waits in fear for my next move.

          "Spread your legs," I tell him.
     
          He complies, and I place my feet between his legs,
close to his crotch. I am not wearing shoes. The black material
of my pantyhose covers my feet. The toes have a thick reinforced
lining. I place the front of my right foot over his vulnerable
little scrotum. His entire body tenses. I think he is trembling.
His eyes flash with terror. I probe with my toes into his pouch.
The sac is soft and spongy.  It gives way to my pressure. I press
until I feel the rounded solid forms of each of his balls beneath
my toes. He gasps in fright.

          "Bobby, I could hurt you very much right now.  You know
that, don't you?" 

           The frightened boy whispers, "Yes. Please don't. I beg
you, stop this.  Leave me alone. Please stop."

          His erection has dwindled. No more manly arc. He
shrivels before my eyes.

          Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, I begin to move
my foot against his balls. I rotate my foot gently, massaging his
rounded sac. I feel the thick base of his cock between his balls.
The length of my foot slowly rolls up and down the space between
his legs. This goes on for several minutes. Then, gradually, just
as I anticipated, it happens. His penis is growing again. The
trembling of his body has stopped. Soon, he is opening his legs
wide for me. His knees rise. I feel his thrusts gently pressing 
against my foot. The feeble pushes from his pelvis respond to
each movement of my foot. Now I know that I have conquered him.
He is completely in my control. A wave of intense pleasure rushes 
through my veins.

          "Bobby, you like this, don't you?"

          "Yes," He murmurs.

          His cock has grown to full length again. The overripe
strawberry sways rhythmically to his movements and mine.  I place
a foot over the entire shaft now. My heel fits just above his
balls. My toes touch the head. I press down firmly. Slowly, I
move my foot up and down the length of his cock. The material of
my stocking glides over the skin of his shaft. I pull and stretch
the soft skin. He's getting very excited now. He bucks up against
the sole of my foot, desperate for any pressure that might grant
him a release. I press harder. He thrusts back. His breathing
grows heavy. I hear a soft moan. 

     "Bobby, do you want to come?"

     "Yes. I'm going to come."

     His mouth is wide open. The intense arousal distorts and
twists the features of his face. His head rocks from side to
side. I see the head of his cock swell as if ready to burst.
Wetness appears at the tip.

     "No, Bobby, you're not going to come. Not now. I can see
that you're not only a very dirty little boy.  You're also a very
selfish little boy."

     I abruptly remove my foot, leaving his cock stranded. He
pumps furiously into the air. I stand directly over his face. He
can look up and see my crotch. I want him to glimpse the pink
silk of the panties underneath my pantyhose. The frustration on
his face delights me. He will do anything for me now. I know.

     "Bobby, I have a job for you. After you do it, you may get
what you want. Lie still for a moment. Don't move a muscle."

     I cross the room to a large upholstered armchair. When I am
behind the chair and sure that he cannot see me, I peel of my
pantyhose. The pink silk panties follow. The rest of my clothing
remains as before.
  
     When I am seated in the armchair, I call to Bobby, "I want
you to come over here, now."

     He staggers to his feet.

     "Kneel down in front of my chair," I order.
 
     A momentary look of rebellion flashes in his eyes. Has he
had too much?  I don't think so.

     As he stares in disbelief I spread my legs wide open. I
raise myself slightly in my chair and pull my skirt up to my
waist. I place one leg over each of the thickly padded arms of
the chair. Because I run regularly, my legs are firm and
muscular. I do not shave my pubic hairs. A luxuriant growth of
thick black curls fills the space between by legs. The swirls
overflow like a garden grown wild.  Bobby's gaze is transfixed.
His eyes open wide. He kneels before me now.

     "Come closer," I tell him. "Don't be afraid. I want your
face right here."  With my hand I motion to a spot about one foot
before my crotch.

     I have his attention. "Now look carefully, and listen." 
With two fingers of my right hand I separate the fur-lined lips.
I use the index finger of my left hand to point him directly to
my clit. The tip of my finger is one half-inch from the tiny
button.

     "Do you see this?"

     He nods.

     "Listen to what I want you to do. I want you to make your
tongue into a sharp little point. Then, very softly, as lightly
as you can, you are to lick the skin around my clit. Lick very
gently above it, beneath it, and around the sides. But don't
touch my clit. Pretend that your tongue is a feather. If you
follow my directions, things will turn out all right for you
today. Go ahead."

     I push my head back against the soft cushioned headrest. My
eyes are closed. I abandon myself to the sensations. He follows
my directions well. His tongue makes a light feathery dance
around my clit. When this is done correctly, I invariably think
of Mozart piano concertos. His touches are tentative, searching.
They seek a rhythm as they slowly gather force.  A beautiful
melody appears imperceptibly from what seemed like random notes.
This reminds me of the Larghetto of the twenty-sixth concerto. I
envision drops of water falling upon a darkened pool. Each drop
explodes in sparkling bursts of color as it strikes the surface.
A myriad of notes falls all about me now. His tongue moves more
swiftly.  My excitement erupts and overpowers all barriers. Now I
see sheets of water pouring down; thousands of drops bursting
into flashes of color.  Each tap, each gentle breath from his
tongue is exquisite. I am reaching new heights of pleasure with
each movement he makes. Now we are in the Allegro of the twenty-
second concerto.  Minutes pass in sheer ecstasy.

     Soon I demand even more. I must force myself to speak
without a tremble in my voice. "Bobby, Now listen. Let's change
the tempo.  I want you to use your whole tongue now. Make it hard
and flat. Like a cock. Press it against my clit and hold it
there."

     He knows what to do. I wrap my legs around his head. My
lower legs hang over his back. His head is squeezed between my
thighs. With my hands I push his head into my crotch. My pussy
grinds into his mouth. He holds his ground. The tongue, hard and
wet, presses down on my slit. I rub my pelvis up and down so that
his hard tongue glides from my clit to my vagina and back, again
and again. Soon I am bucking frantically. I am no longer in the
land of piano concertos. My head twists spasmodically from side
to side. I bury the sides of my face in tangled strands of my
hair. My eyes close, and I see an eagle soar above cloud-shrouded
pinnacles. The glorious finale of the Jupiter Symphony surrounds
me. From peaks high above, vast cascades of warm rippling water
pour down upon me. They flow over me in wave after wave. Soft
torrents envelop me. The warmest, strongest currents flow
directly between my legs and rush inside to thrill me. I am
pulled helplessly downward. For a moment I do not know where I
am. I don't care to know. If only this pleasure never ends!

     I cry out in a final spasm as my orgasm overtakes me. 

     I am left panting, exhausted. My composure returns slowly.
The tension has been wrung from every cell of my body. I feel
clean and rejuvenated, as if I have basked for hours under the
warmest of tropical suns.

     "That wasn't bad, Bobby."  I don't believe in excess praise
at times like this.

     Bobby is still kneeling before me. He looks like a dog who
has performed his trick well. He wants his pat on the head, and
perhaps a bone.

     "Bobby, look at your face." I laugh.  The lower half of his
face is drenched in liquid. He looks like a thirsty man who has
been drinking from a lake. "I'll get you a towel."

     I return from the kitchen and hand him a towel.

     Now I am left with a naked man standing in my living room.
His erection is still here, like a guest who has overstayed his
welcome.

     "Bobby, look at this." I point to his swollen member. "You
promised me you would do something about that."

     He looks at me with a hopeful expression.

     "This is what you can do. I don't want you to make a mess on
my carpet. Here, you can use this."

     From the table next to my armchair I hand him my National
Public Radio contributor coffee mug.

     "You can come in this, but be careful. Don't miss." I hold
the edge of cup to the tip of his cock.

     He doesn't move. I look at him with surprise.  "What's the
matter?  I know you can do it.  You told me you do it. Make
yourself come."

     Poor, defeated Bobby offers me one final look of surrender.
His hands rest at his side. Slowly he moves his right hand to his
ever-alert and patient cock. 

     "Go ahead." I can't believe I have to encourage him at this
point. "Show me how you do it. I want to see."

     This man's sense of shame departed long ago. Like a worker
who knows when it is time to start his shift, he begins. He
grasps his cock in a fist. Feeling the scrutiny of my stare, he
hesitates, but, of course, he continues. He begins slowly,
tentatively, to pull up and down on the loose skin.  Soon he is
rhythmically stroking around the head. His movements are like
those of a machine that has been programmed to perform this
maneuver thousands of times. He begins to pant.  His fist
squeezes the thick skin around the rim of the head as he pumps
frantically. His eyes close. As I watch, his movements cause the
slit on the head of the cock to open and close like the mouth of
some exotic tropical fish. Finally, his brief moment of glory
arrives. He makes a few high-pitched grunts.  He sighs.  A glob
of white jumps from the mouth of the fish and hits the side of my
coffee mug. A few more jets spurt out, then a long white stream
slowly oozes downward and sinks to the bottom of my cup. 

     "That was very neat and clean.  I appreciate that. Well, I
think you better get your clothes together, Bobby.  I'm sure you
have other jobs to do today."

     He dresses sheepishly. With some difficulty, he remembers
how to button his shirt. I don't think he is quite sure what
happened to him here this afternoon. 

     When he has dressed, I thank him for fixing my VCR. "It
seems to be working fine.  You did a good job. Mail the bill to
my husband."

     I show him the second photograph from my instamatic. "This
is my insurance policy." 

     The photo shows Bobby lying naked on my living room carpet,
his cock scouting out the terrain around my fireplace. I address
him in my strictest tone: "If you ever come around here again, if
you ever call me, if you ever so much as speak to me on the
street, if you ever mention to anyone what happened here today,
I'll make sure every person in this town sees this picture of
you. Now, get out of my house."

     As he rushes toward the door he turns around for a last look
at me. I catch his eye and give him a wink. "And thanks again."

     He walks out of my door and out of my life.

     Well, not quite for good. I take my two photographs into the
bedroom. In my closet I keep a small safe. A few flicks of the
combination dial open it. Inside is a large manila envelope. I
take a small collection of photographs from the envelope. Bobby's
photos will join them here for safe keeping.

     Before closing up the envelope, I conduct a brief review of
my collection of photographs. Each one shows a naked man, in
various, often quite unusual, positions. All of the men are in
marked states of arousal. Some are on the floor. Others are in
chairs. One man sits naked on my couch, his legs spread wide
apart. Some are tied up. I recognize the plumber, the piano
tuner, the furniture mover, and, of course the pool cleaner. My
favorite is the gardener from two years ago. He was a Hispanic
man. His picture shows him tied by ropes to one of my dining room
chairs, his dark penis standing up rigid between his legs. I must
have fifteen or so photos in my collection.  I seem to pick up a
new one each time my husband goes away for one of his out-of town
consulting trips. 


          Later that evening I am home by myself. I sit before a
fire and sip red wine. My stereo is playing the first act of
Mozart's "Marriage of Figaro."  I smile contentedly to myself as
I listen to the lyrics of Figaro's aria:

                    Se vuol ballare,
                    Signor Contino,
                    Il chitarrino
                    Le suonero.
 
                    Se vuol venire
                    Nella mia scuola,
                    La Capriola
                    Le insegnaro.
     

                   

                  
                                  The End

     
                                             

          
          


          
 

           

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