Early-morning light slanted in through a window, illuminating a large oak desk. Once upon a time it had been a partner's desk for two policemen. Now it was a partner's desk for one academician and a staggering amount of paperwork.
There is an unstated rule that professors must cover their desk in at least one inch of books, papers, and sundries for each year they have been at an institution. This makes the professors look very busy and, incidentally, acts as a rudimentary booby trap for the unwary.
Dr. Philip James, newly-appointed Dean of Jacobs Hall, was an overachiever. He had bought this desk and had it shipped to his new office yesterday; today he had trouble seeing over it when he sat in his chair.
He had a long history of being an overachiever. At 35, he was the youngest dean that Jacobs Hall had ever had. In fact, he was a little surprised that there hadn't been more competition for the deanship.
Oh, sure, he'd heard some of the rumors which surrounded Bulwer Elevester University, rumors which had served to drive away many of his competitors. There had been any number of goings-on which the university had apparently taken great pains to hush up. And some of what he'd heard about the science department didn't bear repeating.
Still, there were always rumors around a university. Universities as a rule generated an excess of two things: rumors and pale lanky men who wore berets and wrote bad poetry. And Jacobs Hall was still noted for its scholarly work in the fields of literature and creative writing. Bulwer should have had little trouble finding a dean more experienced than Philip.
He walked out of his office and into his secretary's. Philip hadn't met her yet -- she came with the office, much like the ficus which sat in a nearby corner. He looked at her desk, searching for clues as to what she was like. No pictures, but there was a cheery brass nameplate on the desk which read "Margaret Lilywhite."
Something about the tag caught his eye. He took a closer look at it. The dot above the "i" in "Lilywhite" wasn't a dot. It was a heart.
Ah, he thought, straightening up. One of those.
He turned from the desk and looked through the office window into the hall beyond. His office was windowless. If he'd had his druthers, it would have been doorless, too, with only a secret trapdoor letting him in and keeping everyone else out. Deans weren't known for having a lot of time to themselves.
It was a little before eight. Students were wandering the halls in a daze of first-of-semester fear. One poor girl, bless her heart, was peering at a class assignment sheet and looking lost. Philip could have told her that the assignment sheets were printed by a computer with a rather sadistic streak and were somewhat on the misleading side of useless.
The girl evidently came to the same realization. She wadded it up and threw it in a nearby trash can. She adjusted her backpack -- worn with only one strap, as fashion required -- over her tank top and slipped into the restroom. Philip watched her pert butt until the closing restroom door hid it, then turned away. Careful there, he thought. You can teach Nabokov, just don't live it.
The students continued to wander the halls, their Brownian motion eventually carrying them to a class. Any class would do, really, since they would most likely drop half of their classes once they discovered the on-campus bar and billiards room and late-night bull sessions in which they would ponder why the Universe was here and whether Domino's still delivered at 4:17 A.M. Philip let his eyes roam over the crowd like...like...well, like roaming eyes, waiting for Margaret to show up. He hummed "Afternoon Delight" to himself, though had anyone been there to hear him, they would have sworn Philip was gargling pudding.
He stopped humming suddenly. The little lost girl had re-emerged from the restroom, and she wasn't so little any more. No, wait, that wasn't right, she was still the same size except for her --
Philip was going to call them breasts, but that word did as poor a job of covering what the girl now had as her stressed tank top. They were entirely too large to be called breasts. All he could think of were various terms from what are euphemistically called "Men's Magazines," terms which tended to have "oo" or "gg" in them. Tits, he decided to call them. That's not too derogatory, surely. Tits.
She sashayed down the hall. Philip swore her tits were wrestling each other for the privilege of being the first to pop out of the top of her shirt. She finally vanished into a classroom, those amazing tits nearly caroming off either side of the doorframe. Dr. James sat down at Margaret's desk to hide his erection.
He jumped up again when he heard the locked back door to his office open. "Dr. James?" a voice called, followed by what sounded like a thousand sweeps plying their brooms to a brick floor. Oh, lord, she'd touched the papers on his desk.
He ran into his office and discovered that his booby trap of a desk had indeed caught a pair of boobies: all that was visible under the snowstorm of papers were two large mounds. A few seconds of digging revealed a petite woman in her mid-thirties whose chest, though not as huge as that of the girl he had just seen, was still spectacularly large. "Oh, my, I'm sorry," she said as Philip helped her up. "Here I've been a secretary for ten years and I go and touch a professor's desk. I should of known better." She dusted herself off gently, sending waves through her boobs. "I'm Margaret. You must be Dr. James."
Philip shook her hand. So some of the rumors about Bulwer U. were true after all. A smile spread across his face, the kind of smile which is often accompanied by eyes with vertical irises and a tendency to glow in the dark.
He was going to like it here.
Jacobs Hall can be visited at http://www.bearchive.com/~jacobs.