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Maid at Arms By The sheep of the China Shepherdess Hortence De La Tour awoke before the dawn. She fought off the last bit of sleep in order to prepare herself for the day. This done, she removed the sleeping corset and nightgown. Like the clothes in her closet all her days were the same. The black underwear with a hint of frill. The corset that fell into place that she was able to lace ever so tight. Her body could not bear to be un-corseted more than a few minutes. She had the ability to lace herself in through endless days of practice. Her underwear on, she next pulled over her head the black dress and short skirts of a french maid. Her shoes were perky three-inch pumps. These shoes she placed over the ivory white stockings of the finest silk. She then walked, undulating on those perkey heels to her dressing table. She placed the lace cap onto her thick black hair, which tinted blue in the full sun. Her ample breasts escaping over the corseted ribcage above her tiny waist. The breasts lifting in a ballet of white flesh every time she raised her arms over her head. This happened when she inserted each hairpin between the hair and her maid's cap. The flesh of the breasts undulating like a french desert made from gelatin. The rhythmic lift of her arm jiggled the breasts from the root of the curve over her ribs above her corset to the cleavage at the base of her neck. Looking into the mirror, she saw reflected, black-brown french eyes. As she did her pretty face, she questioned who she was with each stroke of the mascara. Each swipe of the brush that lengthened her lashes. Lush lashes that made both men and women want to kiss her and more. The shadow and highlights that made her face into a thing of beauty. The red lipstick she placed upon her pouty lips. The delicate and sexy tongue she wiped across her pearl like teeth to clear any excess lipstick. To complete her costume, she tied on lacy white apron. A large sexy bow in the back. Up before dawn to prepare the professor's breakfast. The rest of the day spent in the drudgery of cleaning, cooking and the other duties of a maid. She was the perfection of the ideal french maid. She lived in french fashion, thought in french and did everything in french that french do. Even to the point where she tolerated the professor, Even if he was English, she knew enough of that vile language to understand him. His powerful lust, and his sweet desires that existed for her pleasure. She existed for his pleasure. This day was the same as the one before it. Hortence could not remember any life other than as a maid. No childhood memories. Only the memory of whom she was and what she had to do remained. Hardly ever did she leave the flat in which the professor resided. There never was any time to do more than she could complete. Up at dawn, bed after dusk. She was aware that the building they lived in looked French provincial. The walls joined into a high gothic ceiling carved of the finest wood. Firm stone balustrades and orgasmic trefoil tracery was the decoration under a mansard roof. She was aware that they lived on the campus of a university. Never did she leave the grounds of the institution. It was her whole world. A Courier brought in everything she needed. If she went out it was to serve the professor and others. Usually when there was a fete or holiday festival at hand. Her existence was to amuse and titillate the guests. Other times it was to slave in the kitchen with others of her class. Not to mention the needed drudge of everyday living when crowds, large and small, congregate together. After the professor left for work, She did the laundry. Then it was several hours of vacuuming, dusting and cleaning. Then there came the ironing and the preparations for the professor's return. She prepared his meals. Only on the nights a week he dined out did she have a moment to herself. Hortence looked forward to these days. She still had the dishwashing to do. When he was in the professor demanded satisfaction from his maid. He was still a young man. Only recently did he become a full professor. There was a hint of premature gray steaks in his hair. Clearly an academic, he wore a tweed suit with leather protectors on the elbow. As a traditionalist he sometimes even wore his cap and gown when the occasion demanded it. Whispers said that he would be dean or don in all due respect. His lectures well attended. His papers never read. As a lover he was kind but passionate. He liked to start by fondling her breasts and kiss her shoulder. Those white corseted perky breasts the right size to fit into his hands. Kissing her softly he work his way around to her neck. Then down between into the cleavage of her breasts would he bury his nose into the soft flesh. If he was feeling particularly horny, he would give his french maid, a proper french kiss. The works. Passion and lust were his. Stroking forth it would then be time for the old in out. Thrusting with academic passion. The professor would issue all the pent up desires of the dusty accounts recorded of the Latin perversions of the Greek in roman poetry. Exhausting himself the Professor would then cast Hortence aside, like a discarded toy. She would then be left to finish her drudgery. Then when she could do no more she returned to her quarters then returned to bed. Every day the same with just enough variation to make each day bearable. Bearable was when the professor would share Hortence with students. Sometimes she was required to perform with female students. Three somethings were not all that uncommon. Especially if the professor wanted to experiment with something he read in a dusty Latin book on ancient Rome. Hortence did not like the professor's study. She could not read, and it felt forbidden. It was as if there was something lurking in the shadow. A hint of an idea that would not awaken. The frustration of an illiterate girl lost in the darkness of ignorance. In the study most of the orgy's happened. She also knew that she had to clean it every day. In it alone, she found her sense of mystery enhanced. The dark oak panels and the leather furniture made it feel like a man's place. The wall of books, the rack of pipes, and the brass lamp on the desk. The mirror above the fireplace, the clock upon the mantel. Hortence felt when she cleaned these items, that there were buried memories deep within. Memories that only needed the smell of pipe tobacco, or the drip of India ink, to awaken. Always present the steady tick, tick, tick of a clock filled the void. The room was hard to clean. Nothing ever seemed to work in the study. Her dust pads tore on the bookcases. The feather duster shed feathers or even seemed to expel more dust. She tended to run out of supplies. The books were loose in the case; they fell out. When this happened she would have to start again. Today was no different. The vacuum would not cooperate. It usually greeted her with a friendly beep, and some happy lights. Hortence loved her vacuum. Especially in this room. It seemed to come alive. The presence of this tool gave her courage and diffused the darkness of the room. The vacuum was a sleek pole. A bit over a meter in height. There was a comfortable handle on the top bent to make for an easy grip. About two- thirds the way down was a handle that jutted out like a phallus. At the bottom of the pole was the pick up unit. The dust bag was mounted behind the pole gave the impression of a set of lungs. Protruding from the motor and looped between the pole and the bag was the hose. A modern design, Hortence thought perhaps the professor had invented it himself. It was her friend. And she was its mate. On days like this it had a mind of its own. And Hortence knew exactly what to expect. The main hose kept breaking loose, as it would in these instances. Then it would find its way into Hortence's ample cleavage. It even tried to kiss her on the lips. The more she struggled with it the more the vacuum embraced her. Working it's hose under her skirt it attempted to suck and probe like a horny vibrator. Then the hose folded itself about into loops like arms. Using the folded hose like arms the vacuum held the maid in an embrace. It thrust its lower handle into her like a phallus. Hortence felt it enter her more alive that anything the professor had offered her. The vacuum's handle forcing its way into her lips. The rubber covering seemed to fold about as caught the side of her lips and cheeks like a passionate kiss. She loved her vacuum. It had been with her as long as she could remember. Then like most men. The vacuum slowed down then stopped. A contented beep and a flash of its headlamp it rolled over signaling it was done. This was not the first time she did it with the vacuum. She even did it once with the broom. Always in the study; never in the other rooms. They felt more alive in the study. Like they wanted to tell her something. Even the feather duster wanted to force her hand. The room was a mess. Dust everywhere. Locating the feather duster from the closet in the hall next to the professor's study Hortence set herself to cleaning up the bookcase. Once again Hortence returned to the drudgery of cleaning. As she dusted off the books how she wished she could read. Her tryst with the vacuum awakened within a sense of curiosity. The feather duster continued to pull her and guide her hand. It seemed there was something odd with the books. Normally books came off the shelf. These books seemed to be attached to the shelf. Touching the back of one of the books, it was as if she was remembering someone else. A childhood, Friends, relations. Strangers she had never meet. None of the titles on the books made any sense to her. She set about her work. Making an extra effort to clean as much as she could behind the case she found something unusual. A man's wallet. It was full of papers and cash. Perhaps the professor had dropped it. Again the feeling of lost friends seeped across her soul. Silently she stood there, on those perky three-inch heels. Only the persistent tick of the clock could be heard. The clock on the mantel; It was striking. An indication that Hortence had spent too much time in the study and had not prepared the professor's dinner. Worse was that he was expected any minute! Would she be dismissed? Fear like no other jabbed into her heart. The pulse of adrenaline awakened her in an instant. Her cap askew from the tryst with the vacuum, there was no time to leave the room. She preened herself before the mirror. The clock continued striking wildly like it had something to say. She could hear the professor's steps on the hall floor. Would he punish her for the misdeeds? Her heart pounded in anticipation. She wanted to wet herself in pleasure. He seemed kindly other than always demanding her services. Never had he raised a voice to her. Now it was different. Never had she refused him. Holding the wallet in her hand she wanted to defy him. Punish him herself; for some misdeed un-remembered. For the first time, she could remember, she was scared. Would the professor think she pinched the wallet? Too late, as she was to place it onto the desk, she looked up to see the professor's eyes. In startled expression, he blurted, "Hortence?" Looking down at his feet. The wing tipped shoes, she kept buffed and polished, all she could mumble, was an answer in a high-pitched voice thick with a french accent. English was hard for her to understand it was ever harder for her to speak it. "I did not mean to professor. It was wedged next to the case of books." Her glance averted to the bookcase. Her accent thick, almost unintelligible. The professor looked confused. The maid held out the wallet to the pedagogue who took it reluctantly. He unfolded it and took out one of the papers. "Jeremy Jones," He read. Looking at the maid he continued, "You do not remember any of it do you?" "Remember what?" was her meek reply. "You think I did this too you? Are you remembering? Can you remember anything?" The maid felt her heart pounding from with in her chest. She was alive, she was always alive. The white breasts puffing up and down above her corseted chest. The look on the professor's face frightened her. He was speaking something. In her fright she could not make it out. "... don't blame you. They called it an identity death. The death of personality. Yet, the personality is what remains. The movement. You move the way Jeremy did. When I look into your eyes I can still see a hint, there, in the depths the hint that somewhere within still linger that which was my friend..." Hortence the maid looked startled as the professor looked as though he was crying. She wanted to look away from his face. To not see the tears that swelled into his eyes as he said, "Jeremy." He closed his eyes, breaking the link to the servant. Hortence managed to look away, at the carpet she spent the afternoon cleaning. "I know not, Jeremy," she said continuing to look at the carpet. She thought the professor was focused, leering, his look penetrating into her petite form rounded at the hips, the heart shaped ass, that which made her the perfection and the definition of female. The large breasts that bounced when she breathed. The perfection of her ankles as they disappeared in smooth silk into her perky pumps. Still looking away, as if it would make the professor's leer diminished she spoke. "Why Jeremy? This is not the first you called out that name. Other times, when I could not refuse you. At the moment of passion. You called out that name. The cry 'Jeremy Jones, where are you? What have I done? Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy!'" Still turned away from him she turned her head sneak a look at the professor. Her large eyes wet with tears. A living doll, yes, and alive as no sex toy had ever been alive. The professor continued, "Forgive me? Please. I could not stop it. You. It was not my fault. It was already here. I have done what I can to understand it. It is a curse. I am cursed too, why will you not understand?" "Understand what?" "The perception arch." "The what?" "There was a notebook. I found it later, half burned in the fireplace. That is what it was called. I wish you could remember. That night, when it all took place. When I invited you, and the others, over to celebrate my promotion and when I acquired these digs. The orgy, the poetry. The warning. And the curse. Remember. Please remember." "What should I remember?" The maid was feeling particularly vulnerable. She wanted him to come at her. Like he always did. To kiss her on the shoulder. Turning her sexy body to him all she could think and say was, "kiss me. Make love to me." She rolled her tongue over her lips. The look upon her face was wide with anticipation. The hint of a quiver in the tendons of her legs down to the ankles as she balanced on her perky pumps. A slight jiggle of her heart shaped ass. The professor managed to gain some hidden strength. Startled and caught off guard, he steadied himself by placing his hand onto the leather- backed chair by the desk. With a hint of a schoolboy sparkle in his eye, The preparation for why his lectures were so well attended and his papers unread. He said, "Enough talking, let me show you." The professor crossed over to the bookcase. There was a bounce in his stride. The lecture to begin. He reached up to touch one of the books. Pushing on it issued forward. The wall began to slide apart. Dilating like the shutter of a camera. As the wall spiraled open the Professor continued, "The irony is that the activating book is _Perault's Bluebeard_, now where were we...." The fully opened arch, revealed the back of the broom closet. Translucent yet still there, The back of the closed door visible through the mist. The structure of the wall visible as something lost in the fog. The mops brooms and cleaning agents on the shelf visible. Thinking he meant the maid to step through Hortence started to step into the archway. Was he about to transform her? Restore her. Open her mind to something new? "No!" he said, reaching out to the maid and grabbing her by the wrist. "Remember what happened to Trevor! Stay here. Wait for me. " Leaving the stunned and gaping Hortence. The professor exited the room from the main door. Opening the broom closet on the other side one could look through the door into the study. Hortence could see the professor through the translucent fog. She could see other things. Dark things. The stuff of nightmares that lurk writhing within the depths of a closet. "See you can look through it. The transformation is only one way. No logic, to what goes through. Trevor went through the first time, and that red haired maid came out the other. I wish you would remember? How his clothing vanished. Then the strange change that we saw from behind. How his body shifted as his ass expanded. There must be a way for you to remember? How his short red hair shot up from his head like a fountain. Then the banging at the door on the other side. How we came to open it to see the girl who could only speak french, yet insisted her name was Trevor. The pink maid's outfit that covered her body like magic?" Hortence looked through the open door of the cupboard where she kept her brooms and cleaning supplies. What the professor said made no sense to her. She was Hortence, had always been Hortence. Her duty was to keep the place clean and please the professor. He still had Jeremy's wallet in his hand. Holding up the Identification photograph he asked the maid if she recognized it. Hortence did not. It meant nothing to her. She wanted the professor do fondle her. Not ask her to remember something that was not there. "Say there," he commanded, "I am coming round again. Perhaps if you see these things more clearly and not through the fog of the arch. The professor returned to the study. He thrust the photograph and the wallet into her hand. Reluctantly the tiny delicate hand of the maid took it. She had to serve the professor. It was her duty. The reason she existed. She had to do what he wanted. Even if it was a nightmare. Again the feeling of someone else came over her. Clouded indistinct. A name, a memory. Mary Anne? The professor interrupted her thoughts. Once again he was kissing her shoulder. There is something more here she thought. Looking at the photograph, it showed a young man. The other identification cards seemed to indicate he had money. Lots of money. Most of the currency was American, but a 20-pound note was wedged into a hidden compartment. How did she know that was there? These thoughts were interrupted. The professor started to kiss her shoulder and make out with her in the usual manor. He also continued to converse in-between the attention he was giving his sexy maid. "Perhaps you do not want to remember what happened next. How Mary Anne, who spoke a bit of French, Told the transformed Trevor to return to the room back through the closet. That it should return him to his true form. How we could not get the transformed maid through the reverse direction? How when we persuaded the transformed Trevor to re enter the arch? The new body as it shrunk and grew thin, then turned itself inside out to become a vacuum cleaner. How you and I would push from the reverse side of the closet only to find that the wall was there in that direction?" Hortence was horrified. With the wallet in her hand she had to get rid of it. In her mind's eye she could vision the scene described. Not exactly remembering it. More like she was visualizing it. No she thought. Not that nightmare again. Unable to force the twice-transformed Trevor backwards through the arch. The nightmare was of a person. Perhaps that was Mary Anne. How this person returned to the study. How she proceeding through the arch became ... No, she did not want to remember this. Hortence wanted to feel the professor's lips. Kiss the point of her cleavage. That point below her neck, where her ample breasts came together. Looking up from the mounds of flesh, the professor continued his lecture, "How Mary Anne followed Trevor, how her feet burst out in bristles. Her body thinned to the thickness of a broom handle? No, you would not want to remember horror of the situation. I don't blame you. Not one bit. I never should have brought up the subject." The professor's hand worked his way under the skirts of his lovely maid. He began to stroke her underwear. To find the spot of intense pleasure. Hortence wanted to let go of the wallet and enjoy the orgasm. She could not. The more she attempted to let go of it, the more tightly she held onto it. Somehow she was split. Memories returned to her. Memories that were not hers. She did not want to hear what the professor had to say next. Could not, would not listen as he withdrew his hand from the stimulation of her crotch. "You then had the idea, to take the broom that was Mary Anne. To return it through the arch as Trevor had done. What ever prompted you do something so daft? Even after I warned you. You did not listen. I was too weak to stop you. I dammed you to and I to a life of servitude. I dammed myself into accepting it." He let go from the passion of the embrace. Hortence, free of his touch, flung the wallet into the archway, with the awkward throw of a girl. The feeing of bliss returned to fill her soul with his love. Her hand reaching for his manhood to fondle it. Her thoughts sang to her; I can continue as I am. I am made for pleasure. The loss of the Wallet into the arch seemed to reduce the professor's pleasure. He pulled away from his living doll. His attention on the open door of the broom closet. The wallet burst forth in flame as hit the translucent back of the closet. Where the wallet was rose petals fell to the floor on the other side. He spoke, his lust slacked, he was once again the teacher, "I stood looking into the closet you seemed to take forever to come through. With Trevor I watched him change from behind. With you it was more intense from the front. First your clothes seemed to fade away. I had always, when we were together in the gym admired your build. I watched as you began to change. How your nipples seemed to enlarge to bloom like flowers opening to the dawn sun. To swell into these luscious breasts. I continued to watch as your face softened. Your chin began to take on a more rounded form. How my attention was distracted as your hips flowed out from your waste. It was then I saw your penis was no more. How it along with the rest of your manhood disappeared into the hair of your crotch." Something in Hortence awakened. It was like the transfer of the match to the wick of a candle. That which happens in the process. When the fire alights. The moment of eternity. Fusion. Hortence could remember. All of it! She was once again in the closet. One hand on the broom that had been Mary Anne, The other on the vacuum machine that was the Twice transformed Trevor. Why did they not transform back? They were alive aware, trapped. She felt her hips expand like someone drove a spike into her testicles up into her stomach. The explosion driving back into the cheeks of her ass. Again she her hair fall into her face and down her back. The weight of her chest. The weak feeling below her ribs. She could remember exiting the broom closet. She could remember letting go of the objects that had been her friends. She could remember falling to the floor of the hall, naked to the world. She could remember no more after that. She could remember it all. "But something was different," said the professor. "When Trevor transformed, he came through dressed as a French maid. In pink. You came through with no clothing what so ever. When Mary Anne spoke to him as a maid. He could only speak french. Yet the French-speaking girl, could remember she was once called Trevor when Mary Anne spoke to her. You on the other hand could remember nothing. Spoke in your accented English, Insisted that your name was Hortence. That all you wanted was to go to your bedroom. A room I never saw when I took this flat. How you insisted to be left alone in there. Left alone against my better judgment." He looked at her. Into her eyes. "You remember now, don't you? I can see it when I look into those eyes. That Jeremy is awake at last." Hortence felt herself split in two. She was, had been Jeremy. All that Jeremy remembered so did she. "Roger? she whispered. "What have we done?" A look of anger crossed her pretty face. "What have you done? I remember everything now. The eternity of servitude. The drudgery of your work. The endless nights fucking you. You my best friend. My pal. Trevor trusted you. He called you his mate. Now he is a fuckung machine that all it can do is suck. I fucked him too. He is still in there. In that machine aware. Only able to communicate with the beeps of emotion. Look at him listen to him. Hear him cry. What did he do to deserve that? What motivation is there? Whose responsibility are we accountable too? Mary Anne!? Look at her. No! Don't turn away. There she sits. In that closet. Aware. Watching us. I fucked her too. Stuck her head into my own vagina." Hortence the maid fondled herself as she spoke the last words. Then she buried her face into her hands and wept. "Yes Roger, I am Jeremy and I have a vagina. I have been Hortence too long to be anything else. It is a one way trip through that arch." She reached for the feather duster. "Who is this, what other experiments have you done. What more is there? The lamp? The pipes on the wall? Who are they?" Tears began to streak from the doll like face of the transformed maid. The professor wiped his eye with the tweed of sleeve of his coat. They stat in silence. Long quiet silence as they looked at each other. "I asked you to forgive me," whispered the professor. "Here let me show you. I found the notes of my predecessor. The one who created this infernal device. The clock on the mantle. His maid must have put him there. I suspect she must be in the room somewhere. That must be her, the duster. Look here on this page, this is some of what he wrote and her notes in the margin..." The professor held the charred and incomplete manuscript before the angry and awakened Hortence. She whispered in her thick musical accent, "Hortence can not read, I remain illiterate, I think in french. My mind is that of a french maid who exists to give pleasure to others. The intellect that was, that part of Jeremy is lost forever. His memories the memories of friendship and emotion our conversations together. Those still remain. But not the man who was Jeremy or the way he thought and solved problems." She handed the book back to him. The expression on her face changed from the distressed anger of remorse, to "please tell me more." The professor took a breath, arched his back and began the lecture anew. "This is what I have been able to piece together. Men that cross the arch become french maids or sex toys. Women become objects. Most men try and re-cross the arch to transform back they become objects." "The wallet then," asked the maid. " That became rose petals when it crossed over?" "I am thinking," said the professor "That most go through fully clothed. You lost the wallet, you lost your identity. Animals become plants, plants become animals. Objects remain objects. In your case the wallet fell out. It was leather, an animal, the leather became rose pedals. The arch perceives what one is. Then transforms according to whim. The wallet went halfway through. Without it you lost your memory. But you did retain your personality." The professor placed a strong emphasis on the word "did." "The way you move. Your smile. The look in your eyes. They are all Jeremy. They have always been Jeremy. The Jeremy that was my friend. The experiments I did I did for you, I now see were wrong. But I did them for you. Evil can not see for itself what it is." The professor held up his hand as if to ward off the emotion of the confused maid. "I asked you to forgive me. I was wrong I don't even deserve your pity." The large sexy eyes, wet with tears, looked into the face of the professor. "Jeremy remains your friend. I cannot help but to think as a french maid. His memory, the emotions are there. We had a real friendship. When he became successful. In stocks and technology. He funded your department. Tell me what became of his company?" "Bigger and better than ever. Jeremy, You were starter. I do not think you could have held on during the dot com bust. The suits that took over. They made it so I can work on the Latin translation that I wanted to." "Can it help us? Restore what you have taken from them?" She swept her hand about the room, the mussels of her shoulder lifting her breasts, a momentary distraction for the professor. Sending the wallet back through the arch had slacked his lust. Collecting his wits he replied. "Esoteric, epicurean philosophy. No there was not any answer. The perverted fantasies of deposed roman emperors. Nothing to help. They are lost. I am the murderer with the blood upon my hand. I am cursed. Cursed in my lust for you. Bound to these rooms and this school. Never can I cross the boundary again. The notes. I told you what they say. That is it. The transformation is eternal. You are eternal alive and will never age. I will age. In the end you will probably follow the others and cross back into an object." She looked through the horrible portal into the mist of the closet at the broom. That what had been Mary Anne. "Never," she said. "Close the arch. I cannot bear to look at her. At him." She pointed to the vacuum, which dimmed its eyes and beeped with the sound of an understanding sigh. "Un plug him. It will put him to sleep. Only in his room is he awake and will remember. Put him away once the arch is closed. I Feel I cannot leave this room. When I do I will forget again, become completely Hortence. He that was Trevor speaks to me. That only in this room at this time is the past life remembered." The professor did not move. The maid shouted, "Close the arch! Put him away!" The professor started to do as she implored. The book that was the key had remained suspended like a door handle. He pulled on it. The bookcase dilated back. "Return him to the closet. I will await you with all my lust." Alone in the study Hortence felt strong emotion. She could control the sexual desire of the maid through the memory of Jeremy. His curiosity held forth. None of the titles were comprehensible to her illiterate mind. Then she noticed something she had never seen before. The book that was the key. She could read the title. It was in French. A book of fairy tales. Could she. She hesitated long enough for the professor to return. She reached up and removed if from the shelf. "That is impossible." "Not for me. I keep these books dusted. I have taken them all from the shelf countless times. It must be so that I can not open the arch." She opened the book "This, this is new. I can read it. It is a book of fairy tales. I wonder that I never tried before." She handed it to the professor. "I mentioned it before, the irony of the title. It is written in French. They are all here. Cinderella, The Sleeping beauty. And the one we will live forever. Bluebeard. Politically incorrect Bluebeard. He warned her. I warned you. This is the room, his room. The room where I lost and found my friend." He looked at the book in his hand. "The book is closed." He placed it back onto the shelf. Come with me, I feel an urge and we have never done it in your bedroom. Leaving the professor study. Hortence could feel Jeremy slip from her. Not entirely she would have to deal with those memories for the rest of her eternity. Jeremy would not, could never now suffer from an additional identity death. She was he and he was she and would always be. She was alive, and the breath made her perky breasts beat with the anticipation as they heaved with each beautiful sexy breath beneath the tight laced corset of a french maid. How lucky she was that the arch chose to make her at least understand a few words of the professor's language. Enough to know who she was, even if she understood who she was in the words of the great philosopher in his native language. On her back. In her bed she could feel the professor thrust within her. She existed for his pleasure. His best friend and now his mate. In his arms she felt the pleasure of his hands upon her breasts. The warm breath upon the root where they became her neck. His nose deep within her cleavage. As the passion built she thought, in her native language. I think, therefore I am. "Je pense, donc je suis" or as the professor thought in his climax "Cogito ergo sum."