Rebecca Butler

Freshman nymph

BEE-1112

CHAPTER ONE

Dave couldn't keep his eyes off the blonde in the tennis dress. She sat in the second row and she was lovely in a fresh, almost fragile way. Her face was delicately carved and framed by aristocratically waving golden hair. It was hard as hell to keep plugging at a lecture on the culture of ancient Egypt when his eyes kept focusing on that face-and even more difficult when he let his eyes drift casually across the body so charmingly revealed in her skimpy summery outfit.

The top buttoned modestly, all the way to the neck, but the fabric was white and thin and made no effort at all to conceal the beautiful curves of the girl's small, high-set tits, leaving it abundantly clear to the observer that the nipples crowning those tits were pink and perky, and that the support of a bra was something totally unnecessary to show her at her best. And the hem of the skirt fought a losing battle with a pair of pink bikini panties, scandalously skimpy and really deserving of the display they were getting. Every time she moved so languidly as she took her notes, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the bottom of her short skirt rose, and Dave was becoming very well acquainted with those tiny little panties.

He wished he knew their wearer as well, but alas-such was not the case. This was freshman history, World Civilization 110, and it numbered at least eighty students. To make matters worse, Dave had three more classes just like this one. He was in his first year of teaching at State University-indeed, this was his first semester-and all the faces before him tended to blur together into one heterogeneous mass. He could recall individuals who had done well or poorly in the first exam, just completed, but he couldn't tie one of those names to a specific face.

Not least among the problems Dave had to face was his total inexperience with the technique of delivering a professional, competent lecture while trying to look up the dress of a pretty student. Some day when he had nothing better to do he would ask one of the older professors for pointers on that. Some day. Not now.

The bell rang, punctuating his lecture In mid-sentence. He finished his point, shouting above the clamor of students gathering up their possessions and ready to desert him, then turned and, first one out the door, started down the hail at a brisk clip. He had office hours now, in case anyone wanted to talk to him.

Dave closed the door of his office behind him, sat down at his desk, shuffled aside the litter of books that covered it, and lit a cigarette. Into the space he had cleared he placed the new American Historical Review, opening it to skim over the book reviews. There was a knock at his door, and he said "Come in," without turning.

"Professor Shearing," said a voice behind him.

"It's Mister Shearing," Dave corrected, beginning to turn. "I'm not a professor yet." And his eyes lit upon a pair of slim shapely feet in open sandals, drifted up subtly tanned thighs and calves to the high-rising hem of a short white tennis dress, and sped upward to make contact with the eyes of the lovely blonde from the class just dismissed.