‘Oh, shit!’ was her first thought.

I knew the name from my own schedule. I was taking an Anthro class to round out my required electives…I was scheduled to take her class! Oh shit, oh dear…

I opened my mouth before engaging my brain, still mulling over my realization – that’s my only excuse.

“So this arrangement is just so you can publish a paper on whoring and become respected among your peers?”

Okay, it was a cruel thing to say but you have to consider how my mind was playing out the first day of class when our eyes would meet. See? Told ya.

“No. Actually, I...my paper is on the social stratification of sex workers and their potential for upward mobility into upper levels of our society.”

That mouthful prompted a few thoughts of my own. The term ‘sex worker’ was sterile and acceptable in her social set, a PC term that smacked of condescension and disapproval but sounded better than whore or prostitute.

“You couldn’t get the data you needed for your research from,” and here I struggled not to blurt out something bitter, “interviews with various ‘sex workers’ struggling to get by, pay bills, use what they had to make money?”

I stopped and thought about the ‘interview’ we’d started in the club and finished in the backseat of her truck. What parts would she incorporate into her paper?

She sighed and glanced at me and then said, “I have all the research for my paper that I require. This arrangement between us is personal. Can we not have this conversation now? I don’t drive well in the city and I’m very uncomfortable splitting my attention between you and the traffic in this rain.”

“Bree,” I said. She glanced over at me with a question in her eyes. “Bree with two ‘E’s, not like the cheese. My name is Bree Sutherland. I just thought you might like to know the name of your research subject. Nothing more.”

Her mouth turned up at the corners and she said, “I like it. It suits you for some reason I’ve yet to determine. I was named after... “

I interrupted her. “You were named after a vain queen from Greek mythology. In the constellation you have a daughter who sits on your right hand, Andromeda. I think she was eaten by a monster or something.”

“Correct. I’m surprised..."

Again I interrupted her. “I attend the University on a part-time basis. I’ll be a senior after I finish the summer term. I can only afford to take one or two classes at a time and some are evening classes.”

“What’s your major?”

I knew she was thinking of something lightweight like Art History or Women’s Studies so my answer was rewarded with a double-take and then a curious kind of smile.

“Physics and Cybernetic Science.” Yeah, little Bree was a fucking genius with the grades to prove it.

“Not what I expected at all. I’m impressed.” She glanced over at me and that damned almost-smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Ah, we’re here.”

‘Here’ was a three-story turn-of-the-century brownstone on a corner in one of the ‘gentrified’ areas of the city. I hadn’t really been paying attention to the scenery so if you’d asked me exactly where we were I’d be hard pressed to tell you.

She parked on the street and we hurried inside out of the pouring rain. She pointed to a coat rack and gestured at my wet rain slicker.

“Let me show you to your room and you can shower and get some sleep. I’m sure you’re tired after such a long day. I’ll be downstairs in my office. I have to wade through interview questionnaires and figure out some way to represent the data. We can go over your plans and thoughts in the morning over breakfast.”

I knew a dismissal when I heard one so I followed her up the stairs to the third floor. It was one gigantic room sectioned off by bookcases, tables and furniture into a bedroom, sitting room and kitchen. There was a full bath off the landing.

It was impressive and I smiled at her and said, “Nice.”

“I’ll be in my office should you need anything. We’ll stock your fridge with whatever you want tomorrow.”

We were standing very close to one another and I could sense the tenseness in Cassiopeia, like she didn’t know what to do or say next. I took the initiative, placed her face between my palms and kissed her softly, almost chastely, on the lips.

Still holding her face I said, “I know there’s more to this arrangement than you’ve outlined. We’ll talk tomorrow at length. Don’t work too late. You need to be fresh and sharp for ‘Bree’s Periods of Instruction.’ Thank you,” I said, gesturing about the room. “This will do fine.”

I took a quick shower, washed and dried my hair and crawled into bed. I let my mind wander, doing what it does best...problem solving. Cassiopeia Franklin was the subject of my thoughts.

Why did she want to learn how to be a whore? A sex worker? What secrets were hidden behind those gray eyes? I made a mental shopping list of supplies I’d need for my periods of instruction and then closed my eyes and slept.

Cassiopeia was still asleep when I stumbled into the kitchen in search of coffee.

The expensive coffee maker was on and the pot was full. I figured she’d made preparations sometime before going to bed and the machine’s program had functioned properly. I added sugar and sat down at her small kitchen table and reviewed my plans for the day.

It was still raining hard and probably had been all night. My usual routine of pulling on my sweats and runners and going for a run was canceled. I decided to snoop around and see what more I could learn about Cassiopeia Franklin.

The large living room was actually her office, complete with floor-to-ceiling overflowing bookcases and stacks of folders on every flat surface. A large desk, fax machine and computer completed things.

There were framed photos of what I assumed were her family and one of Cassiopeia and another woman, probably closer to my age, on a beach someplace. Cassiopeia was wearing a very skimpy bikini with her arm around the girl.

Two things were obvious. Cassiopeia Franklin had a ‘beach bunny’ body with just the hint of abs under flawless skin, ample breasts and an ass that you could bounce a quarter off and the girl with her...didn’t want to be. The younger girl had on a large straw beach hat, sunglasses and enough zinc oxide on her nose to protect a rhino. Her mouth was set in a frown that made her look ugly even though she obviously wasn’t. She looked vaguely familiar but I wasn’t sure, given all her attempts to keep the sun from touching her.

I set the photo back in its place and hit the spacebar on her computer keyboard and sat down, surprised.

The desktop contained folders for her research and I clicked on the folder labeled ‘Questionnaires’ and started reading and shaking my head. Whoever designed the questionnaire had no idea what street girls thought.

The questions were all worded to provide a narrow band of possible responses that the designer wanted to hear, not what the subjects actually thought.

“Snooping?” her soft voice startled me. She was holding a cup of coffee to her lips and looking at me expectantly over the brim.

She was barefooted, a robe wrapped around her, her hair in a messy bun. Whatever makeup she’d been wearing was gone. She looked sleepy and sexy in that just-awakened state of mind.

I thought about apologizing for invading her privacy but I was pissed at how the questionnaire had been constructed. I glanced over at her and the back to the display.

“This questionnaire. You asked questions that could only support your foregone conclusions. It’s narrow-minded and holier-than-thou. It’s obvious that you are biased and some of these questions...I’d have told you to go fuck yourself if you asked me.”

Her reaction was not what I expected.

She started to giggle and then chortle, frantically searching for a place to put her full coffee mug down. Finally she laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

I got pissed off and stood up and brushed past her. I knew ‘academic derision’ when I saw it. I’d had to put up with it on some level all through my studies at the University.

Cassiopeia turned around and followed me into the kitchen. I dumped my coffee into the sink and rinsed out the mug and put it into the dishwasher. Bree Sutherland did not think it was one bit funny.

I felt her standing closely behind me. I don’t know how, but I did.

“What questions would you ask, Bree?” Her voice was soft, gentle, and I swear she was almost whispering in my ear.

I turned and she took a step back, obviously uncertain of my intentions given the look on my face. “For starters, I would have asked open-ended questions that would get the subjects talking. How long have you been doing this? What brought you to this point? Do you have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Is it difficult separating your work from your real life? Is jealousy an issue?”

“Stop, please, I’ll never remember all of them so just stop while I can grab a legal pad and a pen. You’re right, of course, about the questionnaire. Will you help me put together a new one? And perhaps help in conducting the interviews? Maybe they’d feel more at ease talking with...“

“One of their own? Yeah, they would but I’m not here for that, am I? I mean, our arrangement...“

“I’ll pay you another thousand dollars if you’ll help me redo my questionnaire and conduct the interviews. Please, Bree…you have no idea how important this publication is to me. I’m up for tenure and if I don’t publish I can kiss that goodbye.”

I caved. I couldn’t resist those puppy dog eyes, or the money.

“Okay, but it’ll mean at least another week working on this. I have classes and I don’t think my boss is going to fall for ‘my grandma died’ as an excuse to miss that much work. It’s not like I’m the best or only stripper he’s got.”

“Exotic dancer,” her voice was rather firm and I smiled at that. Yeah, exotic dancer was clearly a step up from stripper.

Next: A bit more steamy as Bree and the Professor prepare for in-depth ‘training’.