Professor Sanderson
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The Professor And The CheerleaderChapter 8 free porn video
What was going on in Brady's mind turned out to be a fantasy. That's because Bob and Kendra did not go back to the hotel to engage in torrid sex. They might have, except that they went shopping first, and while they were out doing that, Kendra said, "Uh oh."
"What's wrong?" asked Bob.
"Hold that thought," she said. "I need to find a ladies room."
They went into a store and Kendra was directed to the powder room. Bob walked around, looking at things. When he saw her coming back, her face looked different somehow.
"Now we need to find a drug store," she said.
"What's going on?"
"I just started my period," she said, simply.
"You what?" Bob's eyes were wide.
"Do I really need to say it again?"
"Uh ... no. Of course not."
"I didn't come prepared," she said. "I mean with all the sperm you pumped into me, and considering that we started that while I was ovulating, I was pretty sure your dream was going to come true."
"What do we do?" He was at a loss.
"We go find a drug store," she said. "Or supermarket. Someplace that has tampons."
"Oh."
She took his hand as they left the store.
"It's okay," she said. "It's not the end of the world."
"Of course not," he said.
They walked on for a while, looking for someplace where Kendra could get what she needed. Bob thought about what he'd been looking forward to that night. He felt a little depressed. He wondered how he was going to do without sex, and then felt silly. He'd been doing without it for years. Immediately, though, he realized that everything had changed.
"Are you sad?" she asked.
"Not sad," he said. "I've just gotten spoiled lately."
"I plan to keep spoiling you," she said.
"Not tonight," he sighed.
"Mmmmm," was her response.
He thought that response was just her, making sympathetic noises, and he squeezed her hand. They found a Walgreens, and went in. She bought a box of tampons and then asked to use the restroom. The cashier, a woman, was immediately sympathetic and ten minutes later they were back out on the street.
He didn't say anything for long enough that she inquired about it.
"Why so quiet?" she asked.
"Actually, I don't know what to say," he said.
"It's just a menstrual period," she said. "They happen all the time."
"Not to me," he said.
She snorted. "I wish they did happen to men."
"It's just something I've never dealt with before," he said.
"It's no big deal, Bob. I'm still me."
"I know that," he said.
"Let's grab a bite," she said. "Then it will be time to go back and see Brady."
"Okay," he said.
They got pizza at a street stand and ate it as they strolled back to the museum.
"You've got the real deal here, Bob," said Brady, as soon as they walked into his lab.
"You're sure?"
"The chromatography showed gallic acid, ferrous sulfate and acetic acid," he said.
"Iron gall ink, made with vinegar," sighed Bob.
"Applied with a quill pen that didn't scratch the surface of the paper," said Brady.
"You're sure." Now Bob wasn't asking a question. He was urging Brady to agree.
"The color of the ink where the stroke started is consistently darker than where the quill started to unload," said Brady. "The only thing that can cause that kind of fading is time. It's old. It's sixteenth century. I'll bet money on it."
"Shit!" said Bob, excitedly.
"It will be worth it to have somebody in the business confirm it," said Brady. "And they can do the stroke analysis too."
"What's that?" asked Kendra.
"It's where they examine and compare known writings to the questioned document," said Bob. "That's what will confirm that Marlowe was who actually wrote this."
"Oh," said Kendra. "So we're happy?"
"We're very happy," said Bob, grinning.
"Well, if you're happy, then I'm happy," she said.
"What every man wants to hear a woman say," said Brady.
They were on their way back home. That was primarily Bob's decision and he made it, like many men would have, based on a completely erroneous conclusion. That conclusion was that Kendra was "in distress" or "incapacitated" by the fact that she had started her period.
Men, having never endured that particular phenomenon, don't understand it. Most don't even try to understand it. There is blood involved, and that's where most men stop thinking bout it. Bleeding is a bad thing. It's just that simple.
The process of menstrual bleeding is, in fact, simple. But it's not bad. It is only a natural part of the cycle of a woman's fertility. Her body prepares itself for the possibility that one of her eggs is fertilized. It does this by thickening the lining of her uterus, which naturally requires an increase in oxygen-providing blood. And if it turns out it isn't needed (the usual situation), then that lining is shed so the cycle can start all over again. That process normally produces four to twelve teaspoons of unused body fluids, including the blood.
For men, "bleeding" is a sign that there is something wrong, but the fact is that menstrual bleeding is a sign that things are working perfectly. There are medical conditions that can cause menstrual bleeding to be heavier than normal, or last longer than normal, but most women don't have those problems.
Still, because this perfectly normal phenomenon is uncomfortable to discuss openly in mixed gender settings, men don't learn a lot about it unless they get married. Even then they may not really understand what's going on with their wife. As a result, many men believe things about periods, and the bleeding that goes on during them, that simply aren't true.
The major myth that many men believe is that women become "less capable" during their period. Men believe that a woman has to "take time off" during her period, because she is physically reduced in some way from being at full physical (and even mental) capacity.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Women may suffer physical effects of the process, cramps being the most common, but it is no more difficult for her to proceed with life than it would be for a man who has overworked a muscle during work or exercise. Granted, some women may feel diminished during a period, due to feelings of weakness, headache, or cramps, but as with many such physical "ailments" they interfere with normal life only as much as the individual woman allows them to.
Kendra was healthy and, generally, her period lasted two or three days. Because she was a cheerleader, who had been called on to perform her routine duties whether she was on her period or not, her mental attitude about periods on the whole was positive. They were just a part of life that was regularly temporary, and she saw no reason for them to interrupt her normal activities.
Bob, on the other hand, thought he needed to baby her while she "endured" this thing he didn't really know that much about, or understand.
He also, like many men, avoided physical contact - especially intimate contact - after he was aware that she was "on the rag."
The irony of this situation was that Kendra, the callow youth of tender years, understood more clearly what was going on than Bob, the seasoned, mature professional teacher of callow youth. She had been through this before, and she did not want to be treated like an invalid.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, as they motored down the highway.
"No," said Bob, surprised that she might think so. "Why do you ask?"
"You haven't said anything to me for half an hour," she replied.
"I've just been thinking about the manuscript," he said, believing it. He had, in fact, planned out his next steps in verifying Marlowe's authorship, which he now firmly believed to be genuine, but that had taken only a few minutes. He was uncomfortable talking to Kendra, but didn't really understand why.
Kendra used that as an opening to get him talking.
"So, educate me on this Marlowe guy, and why this manuscript is so important to you."
This was something Bob could eagerly embrace.
"It's not just important to me. If this proves to be what I believe it is, it will be almost as important as if a previously unknown play by William Shakespeare had been discovered."
"I had to read Romeo and Juliet in high school," she said. "It was a pain. It was like reading something in a foreign language."
"Then you had a poor teacher," he said. "He should have helped you understand that language."
"She," said Kendra. "My English teacher was a woman."
"Okay, she," said Bob. "The point is that Shakespeare's plays have endured the test of time, even though the language is antiquated. And that's because the imagery was so powerful. You have to understand that, back in those days, there was no freedom of speech. You couldn't speak out against the crown, the government, without risking prison or death. But politicians back then were just like they are today, meaning that they did things that ticked people off. And the only way to speak out about that was by using allegory. That's what men like Shakespeare and Marlowe did. And you had to be really good at it, because it had to please both the public and the powers that be. You had to deliver something that the politicians would laugh at, while the public read between the lines and said, 'Yeah! That's what I'm talking about.' Or would have said if they were free to talk about it."
"Okay, so I get that. I've heard of Shakespeare's work. What did Marlowe do?"
"His most famous play was The Tragicall History of Doctor Faustus, which was the story of a man who sells his soul to the devil for power, experience, pleasure, and knowledge."
"I've heard of that," she said. "At least about selling your soul to the devil."
"It was based on a German legend," said Bob. "It's been used in tons of things, but Marlowe was the man who popularized it in England. It wasn't even published until 1604, eleven years after his death, though it had been performed as a play dozens of times before that."
"Okay, so he's famous for that," she said. "But this is only five pages of something, right?"
"You don't understand," he said, becoming eager to help her do that. "The original text of that play, the actual writing by Marlowe, was lost. The play was published after he died, and then, over time, people added to it, or edited it. There is huge controversy in the academic community about which version is more true to what Marlowe actually wrote. Sometimes arguments are based on the word order in lines in the play, or the language used. Since we don't have the original text, the arguments are based on other things."
"And this manuscript might be used to bolster somebody's argument," said Kendra, with sudden understanding.
"Exactly," he said. "This is the actual writing of the man himself. This manuscript may provide a window into how he thought, how he arranged his words and sentences, how he wrote his thoughts."
"So it's valuable," she said.
"Of course!" he barked.
"How much is it worth?" she asked.
"It's priceless," he said.
"Actually, literally priceless?" She leaned toward him.
"Yes!" His hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Like, millions of dollars?"
"What? I don't mean money, Kendra. The money means nothing. This is like discovering the Dead Sea Scrolls. Well, maybe not that important. I mean the segment of academia that this will be important to isn't nearly as extensive as the religious community, but it will be just as important to Elizabethan scholars." He calmed, suddenly. "If we can prove its authenticity, that is."
She leaned back against the door.
"Then I guess that's what we'll have to do."
"Yes," he said, relaxed now. He had a plan for that, and he was sure that plan would bear fruit. It might take some time, but he had time.
Her ploy had worked. She had him talking.
Now she changed the subject, and talked about more routine things. They chatted the rest of the way back home.
And for a lot of it, her hand casually rested on his thigh.
"I need a favor," she said, after they had carried their luggage back into his house.
"Name it," he said.
"I need you to make love to me," she said, her voice matter-of-fact.
He was taken aback, to put it lightly. His previous discomfort, which he hadn't really thought about, came rushing back. His attitude was predictable.
"Are you over your period?" he asked, surprised. She had only started the day before.
"No," she said. "That's why I need you to make love to me. It will help with the cramps."
"I beg your pardon?!" he replied, astonished.
"Uncle Rick taught me about it," she said. "Actually, I think he was just horny and couldn't wait for my periods to get finished. But I found out that it really helps relax things if I get a good fucking."
"You're kidding," he said, weakly. Like most men, the only picture that could appear in his mind was one fueled by imagination. And imagination almost always makes things much more unpleasant than what is real.
"I am not," she said. "Since then I've learned that the endorphins created during sexual intercourse help a woman block the pain of the cramps. Plus the workout my girly parts get during a good fucking also helps the muscles relax."
"You've ... done this before?" he asked, morbidly curious.
"Lots of times," she said. "Don't worry. It isn't nearly as messy as you think."
"How can it possibly not be messy?" he asked.
"Bob, my whole period only produces a few teaspoons of blood," she said. "It's not like there will be arterial bleeding."
"But... " He shuddered.
"I understand your reluctance," she said, patiently. "Just take a shower with me. My nipples are extra sensitive during my period. And you're very good at sucking them. I can probably cum just from that. I just need an orgasm or two. It will really help. Pleeease? I promise it won't be as bad as you think. I promise it won't be bad at all."
Bob's response to this was complicated. What he thought of as the unsavory aspect of all this could not be avoided. But at the same time, even though he hadn't thought consciously about it, part of his mind had been mourning the fact that he "couldn't have sex with Kendra for a while." Since she had come into his life, he'd been in a state of more or less constant arousal. All he had to do was look at her, clothed or not, and he wanted to feel her body next to his. It seemed like he was hard more often than he wasn't. And he'd also been able, pretty much on demand, to satisfy the carnal desire she always inflamed in him.
And he always loved sliding his boner into her tight, wet, hot, welcoming sheath.
In one sense, the "routine" of their intimate life overrode his reluctance to do as she asked. The thought of sucking her nipples in the shower was very appealing, and an erection bloomed in his pants.
Perhaps it was that erection that caused his little brain to take over and veto the reluctance of his bigger one. Maybe the image of the water in the shower washing away the "ick" helped.
For whatever reason, he ended up in the shower with her and, to his eternal amazement, nothing felt different at all. She writhed against him, and her kisses made it obvious she was horny. And somehow, the fact that she was horny made it all right for him to be horny too. He did suck her distended, turgid nipples, and she did announce that she was cumming. Then, before he had time to give it conscious thought, she had raised one leg, reached for his straining prick, and sank down on it, inserting him fully.
"That's what I need," she groaned in his ear.
Surreally, this felt completely normal to Bob too. He could detect no difference at all. And, as she hopped and jerked against him, it was easy to bend his knees a little. Her arms took her weight as her legs came up to wrap themselves around his hips. His hands gripped her butt cheeks and he bounced her until his slippery grip was lost. His back warned him that her weight was more than it was used to dealing with, so he leaned her against the wall of the shower stall. That helped him get another grip on her ass.
Then he bounced her until she squealed her completion in his ear and he erupted in her depths.
It felt as normal as it was possible to feel.
But it caused in Bob a fundamental, if unconscious, change in the way he thought about Kendra.
For the first time, his unconscious mind thought of her as a woman, rather than a college girl he really wasn't supposed to be messing around with.
Bob sat in the stands, like he had done a thousand times before. At least it seemed like it could have been a thousand times. He watched the cheerleaders strut, and jump, and flirt with the crowd, and it was just like it had always been. What this meant ... what it had always meant ... was that Professor McFeeley had a boner in his pants.
The difference was that this time, Bob's eyes didn't range from one girl to the next and try to imagine what she would look like naked, in his bed. He didn't contemplate the probable differences between the girls, didn't wonder whether the color of their pubes would match the color of the hair the crowd could see, didn't try to imagine what shade of pink or tan or brown their nipples might be.
Well ... truth be told ... maybe he did still think those thoughts briefly. But it was more of a ritual than a "serious" exercise in academic reflection about the similarities and differences among the female gender, species Homo Sapiens.
Rather, Bob's reflection on what a parade of naked cheerleaders might look like was influenced by the fact that he did know what one of those lovely girls prancing around out there looked like naked. He had seen her nude body in his bathroom ... walking around inside his house ... in his bed, arms reaching for him.
And that particular cheerleader actually looked at him, singling him out in the crowd, and smiled at him, with sultry welcome on her face that he knew was a personal welcome to do all the things he had only dreamed about all those thousands of times he'd watched these young women do their thing.
At least it felt like it had been thousands of times.
She didn't make it obvious. He was quite sure nobody noticed how her gaze kept coming back to section Q, row three, seat number eight. Well, maybe the guy sitting in seat nine did, but if so, he probably thought all those looks were for him. Seat seven was filled with a girl wearing a sweat shirt with the image of the school mascot on it. Her face was painted, as were the faces of the two friends with her, who sat in seats five and six when they weren't jumping up and down screaming.
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