“And universities too,” I reassured her. “It’s okay, Bette. I’m not thinking any less highly of you.”
She looked relieved. “Stephen, you can help me in this. It will cost you not a cent and only a few minutes of your time–and I guarantee you will consider it time very well spent. Could you do this for me?”
I had taken plenty of risks already this afternoon. What’s one more? “Of course,” I said.
Bette continued her explanation. “Thank you. Now, as I understand it, to some extent the tasks are pretty standard, and to some extent the tasks are tailored to each particular woman. I’m at the beginning of the first level. The first level is Boldness. The jewel color is red. Now brace yourself. My first task of Boldness is to display my body, close up, to someone who has never seen it. Someone to whom such display would be thought inappropriate. If the woman is heterosexual, as I am, the other person has to be a man. There’s some debate about who to display yourself to if you’re bi or a lesbian.
“I’m assuming that, as a married man, you don’t get offended and grossed out at the sight of a woman with her pants off. Somehow I even get the impression you rather like women’s bodies.”
“Perhaps I do,” I deadpanned, “now that you mention it.” Bette smiled.
She walked to my office door, glanced about the hallway, closed and locked the door. She returned and stood before me.
“Obviously, I’m uncomfortable with the assigned task; and obviously, that’s the whole point of having me do it. Becoming able to do many more things, boldly, even if they make me uncomfortable. So, obviously, boyfriends aren’t allowed as partners here. Guys you are trying to turn into a boyfriend aren’t allowed. But even if you’ve fantasized about them from time to time, male professors are just fine for the task. Assuming they haven’t already seen you with your clothes off.
“You’ve already said yes, Stephen, and I’m holding you to your promise. Is now a good time? The hallway is empty, by the way, and all the office doors are closed, I think we’re the only people on this hall.”
“Wait, Bette,” I said, my mind racing. “I presume Lodestone will want documentation of some sort, attesting that this task was successfully completed? Am I supposed to certify in writing that on Friday, February 5, Ms Bette Schneider removed her pants in my office, and I much enjoyed the sight of her lovely private parts? And then you give the signed document to a third party? Does the metaphor of ‘time bomb’ make as much sense to you as it does to me?”
“Of course, Stephen. No one would ask you to do that in this day and age. Here’s all you need to do. I will pose for you. You take a photo of me with my phone. Or if you prefer, I’ll take a selfie. The photo will have a time-and-date stamp–say, today at 4:47 PM. Then you just pick up a piece of letterhead and write something like, ‘From 4 to 5 PM on February 5, Ms Bette Schneider and I met in conference to discuss Jonathan Swift’s poetry.’ I show a certain person from Lodestone the timestamped photo, and I show her your note. She smiles, makes a mark in a record book, says ‘Good girl!’ and hands me an envelope with my second task. Then she glues a red so-called jewel in the top socket of my pin. I retain possession of the note and the photo. Nobody else sees either of them again unless some question of my integrity arises.
“Don’t worry. Think about it. Even taken together, the note and the photo don’t prove anything at all. None of this would stand up in court–or even a Human Resources hearing–for five minutes. How hard is it to temporarily change your phone’s time and date setting? You’re not anywhere in the photo. There’s no evidence you were even in the building. Professors are always leaving their office doors open and/or unlocked. The ‘evidence’ is laughable.
“How could anyone get hold of the note and the photo in the first place? Do you think I’m going to post them on Instagram? If you’re afraid of me blackmailing you, I’ll gladly give you a signed statement that this is all my idea. And think of how much you could hurt me, and how much I’m trusting that you won’t.
“Lodestone just wants a little evidence pro forma of this exploit, and they’re basically trusting me not to cheat. The risk you’re taking is not zero, but it’s pretty low, I think. So are you okay with everything?”
“This is nuts,” I said. “But all right: let’s do it.”
“I’ll owe you a big favor afterwards,” she said, smiling. “Would you like just my bottoms off or full buck naked? Either is allowed.”
“Can we try it both ways?” I asked, reasonably enough. “Start with the bottoms?”
“You do know that displaying one’s self half-naked–especially the bottom half–is about twice as difficult for a girl, and twice as wanton-feeling, as just taking all her clothes off would be?”
“I do. And it’s twice as charming to her audience, too. But I’ll allow you to take the rest off shortly afterwards, so you can feel modest again. Then you’ll owe me two favors.” Swift himself would have enjoyed the crackpot logic here, I decided.
Bette gave me a long-suffering smile, stepped out of her loafers, and pulled off her Peds. Unbuckling her belt, she said, “I’m no prude, Professor Lancome, but believe me, undressing for a man I’m not about to fuck is quite a new experience for me.”
“I can think of an obvious solution to that one,” I quipped. “Then afterwards you’ll owe me three favors. And afterwards you’ll feel you know me well enough to call me Stephen again.”
She stepped out of her navy-blue chinos. She came over to me, bent over, and kissed me briefly on the lips. “Don’t imagine that the thought never occurred to me,” she said.
Bette moved back a couple of feet, allowing me to take in more of her body at a glance. She was wearing her oatmeal-colored pullover sweater and navy low-rise panties. She rolled the bottom of her sweater up to her navel. “I am now going to pull down my panties for you, Professor Lancome.”
Slowly, she did, looking me in the eye all the while. She didn’t look like she was especially enjoying this part of her task. On the other hand, she didn’t look like she was hating it, either. She stepped out of her panties, moved her legs apart a little, clasped her hands behind her neck, and stood still, offering herself to my gaze. She was blushing again.
I turned my gaze downwards once more. A full blonde bush was too much to hope for these days, but Bette did keep at least some of her golden pubic hair, narrowly ringing her genitals and covering the lower part of her pubic mound. Her labia were hairless. Even with that severe trim, she looked beautiful and wonderfully sexy.
“Bette, you are lovely,” I said.
“Thank you, Stephen,” she replied. “Now that it’s too late to retain a scrap of modesty, I’m starting to find this all fairly pleasant. Yes, I can do this, can’t I. Who knew? May I have your desk chair?”
I rose and took the other chair. Bette sat, swiveled the seat to face me. She moved her bottom forwards on the woven seat, swung her left leg over the left armrest, swung her right leg over the right. Her face displayed a sweet smile as she leaned back. Her pretty, puckered anus, her perineum, and her pussy now were all boldly displayed. The pussy, with its ring of golden fur, gaped open a bit. It was much like my wife Ann’s: gracefully curved outer labia; delicate, not-very-prominent inner labia; a touch of moisture here and there. Her clitoris wasn’t quite visible, but I had a pretty good idea of where to look if I ever needed to find it.