Vixen’s elderly World History teacher was Professor Ivan G. Wainmoor who had a Ph.D. from a Midwestern college that no longer existed and was the long-time head of the history department as well as a respected member of the faculty council. He had been at Seaside for more than twenty years and could do almost all of his lectures from memory. He gave the same exams year after year, and any student who did not acquire a copy early on wasn’t really paying attention to campus life.
Sometimes fraternity boys and team members came to the exams with their blue books already filled out. Among the student body, he was a kind of bald-headed joke, but to a small coterie of friends he was a very useful source of extremely stimulating pornography at reasonable prices.
Because of his position in the faculty hierarchy, Professor Wainmoor usually had two or three undergraduate students grading papers and doing research and scut-work for him and often supervised graduate-student interns on fellowships. He had two of them this year.
With the help of his diligent researchers, the rotund professor churned out a book on Roman or Ancient Greek history every five or six years, his most recent and thoroughly redundant work was on the building and uses of Hadrian’s Wall. He had made a trip there with two girls from Wellesley the previous summer. Photos he secretly made of their lesbian lovemaking were among his most profitable Usenet favorites.
Vixen barely tolerated his monotone lectures but managed to stay awake and did take enough notes to breeze through his mid-term test and was well prepared for the final for which Dave had provided a copy from the previous year.
She was surprised when she was summoned to his office near the end of the first semester. After her Thursday art class and a quick tumble with Jim Victor on her unmade bed, a lesson in doggy-style pleasure, she reported and sat where he indicated, her body still glowing from sexual release, and her pussy still seething.
“Vixen, most interesting name. Don’t believe we’ve ever had another,” he said, picking up a manila folder and adjusting his half-moon glasses. “My old friend in the speech department told me about you.”
Vixen’s belly tensed, and her heart rate increased.
He looked up and licked his liverish lips. “My, my, but you have been busy, you and that little Texan, the swimmer. Twenty-three different overnight male visitors in ten weeks. That must be some kind of record. The RA tells me that you are seldom sleeping alone these days and often enjoying a mid-day romp, as you just did, so I’m told. Hope that was fun.” He paused, smiled and looked up, smacking his lips and raising his eyebrows. “That so?”
Vixen took a deep breath. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Quite.” He turned to another sheet of paper. “Ah yes,” he said. “Here it is. You are 17 not 19, eh. You never actually finished high school, did you?” He did not wait for an answer. “You made many, many hard-core, pornographic films, no, videos, while you were sixteen, dozens of them – all illegal you know. You do know that, don’t you?”
Vixen swallowed and nodded.
“Made them for your father, most of them, and one or two others, evidently on loan. I have the titles, but I have not counted them all. I’ve seen several.”
He paused and cleared his throat, squinting at her. “You are a clever performer, a realistic screamer with a sturdy body and unbelievable jugs. Silicone are they? I’d say those involved in production could get ten years for each film. And the fines, oh my, hundreds of thousands. It is a crime, you know? Very serious. They jail people who just look at it.” He chuckled. “And you have a forged driver’s license, don’t you? That’s also a crime I believe.”
Vixen felt suddenly cold. She gnawed her lip and blinked. Her new life was melting, heading for the sewer. Her stomach churned.
The smiling professor put down his folder and said, “Take off your sweater, you little bitch. I want to see those tits I’ve been admiring since September.” He looked very serious.
Vixen stood and turned toward the door.
“Do you really want your father to go to jail for the rest of his life? Do you want to forfeit that fat bank account and your nice, red car?”
She sat back down and stripped off her sweater and dropped it on the floor. Her nipples were hard and pointed upward, quivering. She was both angry and frightened. She tossed back her curly hair and waited, gritting her teeth while the professor looked up her and down and smiled. Except for the sports bra she wore during the PE classes, Vixen seldom donned a bra and enjoyed the feel of her bare nipples joggling against the cloth of her shirt or sweater. So did most of the boys in campus.
“Better,” he said and pushed a button on his desk. “You have some admirable freckles there, and I do like your big nipples. I am going to give you a choice, a real choice, understand. I do not want to force you to do anything; you must agree. I am going to sign you up as one of my student assistants next semester, Vixen, minimum wage, two or three hours a day, at least two days a week. OK?”
“You will take World History 2, of course, and you will get another A, but your main job will be here, with me and my grad students. Understand? And you will be cooperative won’t you?”
Vixen nodded and a tall young man and a slight female entered and stood behind the professor’s chair.
“Well well, that’s settled,” said Wainmoor, “we will write some scripts, and you can make some more videos with us, can’t you? Alan here had a nine incher I believe.” He smiled and the tall young man behind him studied the bare-chested girl avidly, smiling, his hand at his crotch.
Wainmoor went on, “Just as you did for your father, same kind of thing. Come girl, let’s have a sample of your talents, eh?” He chuckled. “Something to seal the deal.”
“What’s the alternative?” she asked, thoroughly frightened and very angry.
“I give this information to the provost, and you are thrown out of school, expelled. You might even find it hard to get into another school.”
“That isn’t fair,” she said.
He smiled. “No one said it was. But you do have a choice.”
Vixen, took a deep breath, got to her knees, fished out his wrinkled penis, ignored the buckled device fixed about its base and gobbled down his fat glans without hesitation, looking up at him as she serviced his throbbing prick and massaged his wrinkled scrotum. She brought him off faster than any girl had ever done and left him limp and sated after raking his stiff rod with her teeth and sucking his balls one by one after they were emptied.
Vixen resumed her chair and picked up her sweater, wiping her mouth on her forearm. She kept her breathing and anger under control.
“I think you will do just fine,” said the professor, his cheeks still very pink. “You will start here at the beginning of second semester. In the meantime, report every Tuesday after your art class. Understood? We have some things to teach you, some techniques. My grad students, she’s from Colby and he’s from Penn State, they already have made some suggestions after watching you. We will shoot a few scenes, and you can suck my cock, and they may want your services as well.”
Vixen nodded, disgusted and concerned.
“You may go, slut,” Dr. Wainmoor said with a wave of his hand, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
Vixen had not wept for a long time; in fact, she could not recall the last time she had cried. But now she went down some basement steps behind the classroom building, leaned against the brick wall and sobbed. When that passed, she wiped her face on her sleeve and went back to her dorm room, throat aching.
Ralph was there, chatting with Cal. Vixen got a Lone Star from the refrigerator and sat on her bed. She sniffed, chugged her beer and asked, “You know anything about Wainmoor?”
“Been here forever,” said Ralph. “Easy grader.”
Cal shook her head.
“He knows how many guys we’ve had up here.” She drank off half her beer.
“How?” Cal began, but Ralph put his finger to his lips and started looking around the room’s ceiling. He checked the light fixture and then pried the louvered cover off a heat duct beside the door and there it was, a tiny camera and an even smaller microphone. Ralph yanked them out and turned to face the shocked girls, waving the parted cables.
“The RA,” cried Cal. “That son-of-a-bitch. I’ve heard rumors.”
“That damned snooping pervert,” Vixen agreed.
Down the stairs the three of them hurried to the Resident Advisor’s first floor rooms. He was not home. Cal had to go to class and get some lunch so Vixen and Ralph sat on the front steps for an hour, ignoring their hunger as well as their desire for each other. And then the RA appeared, jaunty as usual, his white hair blowing about his ears.
Ralph held up the camera by its dangling cable. The man looked at it, blinking, threw his notebook in the air and ran. Ralph caught him in five strides and hauled him back to his front door.
Once inside they locked the man in his clothes closet and searched the place. It did not take long. Inside a gray metal cabinet they found rows and rows of VHS tapes and video CD discs, hundreds of them, all carefully labeled with dates and room numbers. Below them stood a stack of recorders, some with red lights glowing. Vixen took a tape with her room number on it, put it in a nearby machine and watched Cal romp with a boy she did not recognize. The picture was distorted around the edges by the fisheye lens but the image was clear and steady. The sound was first rate. Cal was a noisy climaxer, and the boy grunted like a pig.
They got the man out of the closet and sat him down in front of the big cabinet full of tapes and discs.
“Explain,” demanded Vixen, snorting with anger. “Why did you do this?” She waved her tape under his chin.
The man shook his head, looking from one student to the other.
“For money?” asked Ralph. “Or just for fun?” Ralph pushed the man’s thumb back until it touched his wrist.
“Wainmoor, Dr. Wainmoor, the dean, it was his idea, the freshman dorm, all these young girls.” Ralph eased his grip “Oh, I look at them sometimes. Of course I do, seeing who’s screwing around.”
“Blackmail?” asked Vixen. “That why you do it?”
He shook his head. “Well, maybe a time or two, just the gays. You know how they are.”
“Wainmoor paid for this set up?” Ralph asked. “All these machines?”
The man nodded. “I’ve only got two years to retirement. You won’t get me fired, will you?”
“Go type it up,” said Vixen. “A confession or explanation.”
“He edits `em and trades `em with his friends, the professor does. I don’t think he sells any.” The man moved to his computer and got to work.
Five minutes later the printer spit out a long paragraph. Vixen read it over and made the man sign and date it while Ralph called a friend at the campus TV studio. Vixen printed out another copy and folded the signed one into her back pocket.
“Stay here,” Ralph told the man. “A fellow with a big degausser is coming over. You can disconnect all those recorders while you’re waiting.”
The RA just blinked up at him.
The female grad student answered the door at the professor’s residence, and Ralph and Vixen brushed past her, ignored her squawking and found Wainmoor in his library, pouring himself a glass of wine.
“Sit,” said Ralph, pushing him down in an overstuffed chair and spilling his wine across the carpet.
“Read,” said Vixen handing him a copy of the RA’s confession.
The man read, looked up, read it again and then tore it into four pieces and threw them at Vixen. “Get out,” he yelled. “Brad come down here. Marsha, call the police!”
Vixen fetched the young woman, and Ralph convinced male to come and listen, his arm twisted halfway up his back. Vixen explained and suggested that they could ruin their academic careers by staying. They agreed, ignored Wainmoor’s protests and left quickly to pack up their belongings.
“We’ll be out of here in thirty minutes,” the Penn State grad promised as he closed the library door.
“Now professor, here’s how it is, how it is going to be,” Vixen told him. “Today is Thursday, right, so we will give you until Friday at noon to resign, retire, whatever, leave, quit, however you want it, but get out of here. Understand?”
He shook his head. “I can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Tell `em you’re sick. Tell `em it’s an emergency. Say you have cancer. But leave and leave for good, or we give the original of the signed confession to the dean and to the newspapers.”
Wainmoor nodded, sinking into his chair.
They made him show them where he edited tapes and took the equipment and all the copies they could find with them when the left the man’s home.
Back in her dorm room after checking on the RA who was busily peeling the labels off all the erased tapes, they told Vixen’s roommate what had happened and accepted her congratulations. Cal then went off to a swim team practice.
“I only have one regret,” said Vixen, as she and Ralph peeled out of their clothes.
“What’s that, sweetie?” he asked after kissing her breasts gently while she teased his rising member, tickling its wide underside.
“I didn’t get a chance to bed that Penn State guy. He was really well hung.”
Ralph smacked her butt loudly, and they fell into bed laughing.
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