And while we're eating, I'll grab him under the table. He won't be able to get away. And if I can't get a rise out of his cock, I'll send it back to the factory for repair, by God! Oh, yes! Maybe he'll even miss his two o'clock class? That motel on the edge of town. Do they really have closed-circuit porno movies on the TV sets? One way to find out. Oh, God, it's after eleven! I won't have time to make up! I'll look like a dishrag!" She dried her soapy hands and ran to the bedroom. Time was wasting.

It was three minutes after twelve when Joanne entered the outer reception room, the antechamber to the cubbyhole offices provided for non-tenured instructors and assistant professors. The girl who manned the reception desk was out to lunch, apparently, and Joanne marched past, peering down the corridor. The only office that was lit appeared to be her husband's. Probably copy-editing a lecture on the short stories of Ernest Hemingway. All he ever thought about was his job, his work. He spent late evening at the library researching topics he wanted to mention in class, rushing off first thing in the morning to be on tune for his students. Well, she thought, you deserve a break today, Thomas L. Hickman, and you are going to get it.

She considered the options. She could march to his office, rap on the door, and gain admittance. Or – Joanne turned, saw the intercom on the reception desk. She smiled. No, she thought. I'll let him come to me. She went to the desk, leaned her hip against the side, and she pushed the button marked 7, the number of her husband's office.

The only thing she could assume was that he'd forgotten to shut off his squawk box the last time he'd been buzzed from the reception desk. She pushed the button which flicked the box into life and she didn't even have time to lean down and purr a sultry message for her husband's ears. The box chattered into life and Joanne's heart nearly stopped beating.