Right away, Paul had big problems. He had to satisfy two highly demanding women and not let on to either one what he was doing with the other. The more he fucked one of them, the less he was able to fuck the other, and the more the other wanted. The vicious circle caught up to him eventually and now he was in the position of being barely able to satisfy either of them. He could tell that he was losing Joselyn, that she thought he was losing interest in her sexually because his ardor was flagging, and he knew that Dr. Blensch's suspicions about how he spent his mornings were growing daily. He was on the verge of blowing everything.

"Here, Paul!" she snapped. The professor was no longer pointing at the desk. Her finger was jabbed imperiously towards the floor at her feet. Her command was no longer the gentle, coaxing coo of one lover to another; it was the guttural shout from a mistress to her pet dog.

The curly headed young man moved jerkily forward, coming to a halt directly in front of the woman.

"Down!" she bellowed, her finger jabbing in that direction.

Paul groaned softly and sank down to his knees. It was as if he'd been sudden deflated. He felt much, much smaller.

"Look up," she told him.

He obeyed, raising his eyes from the floor to her long, slender legs. She wasn't wearing nylons; she had nothing to hide. Her skin was utterly flawless; almost too smooth, too silky. She scissored her legs, and in so doing, caused the hem of her lab coat to ride up further, so that she was showing him her thighs as well. He stared into the open, tube-like end of her skirt, into the warm shadows between her legs.

"What do you think, Paul?" she asked, rubbing her thighs together with obvious pleasure. "What do you think of my legs?"

It was not the first time Paul had been asked that question; indeed, it wasn't even the fiftieth. The professor was very vain about her legs.