Incest/Taboo Adriana and the Buttapboo

I extend an apology to all admirers of Cyrus the Great and the Persian Empire.

The buttapboo is solely a creature of my imagination.

I want to thank everyone who voted for Ricardo and Juliana, my submission to the 2018 National Nude Day contest, and congratulate the winners, DragonCobolt, SolarRay, and xelliebabex.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activity are eighteen years of age or older.
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* * * * *​

As the discussion turned to the raids by the Slavic nomads on his vast empire Cyrus the Great looked to his Queen. She'd once ruled the small mountain kingdom bordering the Slavs, her knowledge of them far exceeded his own. Cyrus was pleased to see his advisors' rapt attention as they recorded her thoughts and prepared to follow her instructions, pleased they no longer looked to him to nod his approval, that they accepted her words as they did his, as royal commands. Finished, the monarchs dismissed their retinue and stepped onto the palace's garden.

Her kingdom had caused him no offense and its conquest, as he knew it would, had been difficult, costly, and long. It had strategic value, its fortresses provided protection against the nomads, but she'd ruled her land ably; she hadn't needed his help to drive off the invaders. He knew of the whispers that he'd targeted her country not for its strategic value, but because of the portraits he'd seen of her, for she was a legendary beauty, and her poetry, the odes she wrote of her native land, that through them he'd fallen in love with her.

When he led the final assault on the final fortress he had seen her in armor leading her soldiers in fierce defiance. Later, when they brought her to him, he ordered her chains removed, but it made no difference. In her eyes burned hatred and when she spoke she spat out the words with the same indomitable ferocity that she'd defended her homeland, her loathing for him, for Persia, for the fall of her beautiful country marking every syllable.

In the garden she signaled a servant, who brought her lute, and with adoration in her eyes said, "My master, my love, my king. I have written a new song, about us. Would you like to hear it?"

"Yes my darling."

She sang it to him in her clear soprano voice and he thought it her most beautiful yet. He knew long after his empire had fallen that her love songs and love poems would memorialize his name. In this he was right, for her songs are sung and poetry read to this day.

When she was done they adjourned to their bed and made love deep into the night.

And the next morning, as they breakfasted in the garden, he looked at her, saw the love and devotion burning in her eyes, and knew the high priest had been right, the plants were magic.
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* * * * *​

My status as the most promising freshman in Humboldt State University's Biological Sciences Department was confirmed at the end of the year when I was offered the internship in Dr. Hainkel's lab. To an outsider it looked like grunt work. Heck, it was grunt work, monitoring others' experiments, compiling data, janitorial duties when needed, but it was grunt work with the best minds and best equipment in the world.

Then one day Dr. Hainkel called me into his office, offered me a chair and a bottle of water -- something was up -- and said, "I have an unusual assignment for you. Dr. Boatner has a PhD student working on her dissertation. She needs help identifying a plant."

I can't say the prospect enthused me, but when Dr. Boatner, the formidable Dean of the Woman's Studies Department and President of the Faculty Senate, asked a favor, it wasn't a favor. You did it.

"What's the dissertation about?"

He read me the title. It contained the words "reconstructing," "problematizing pedagogies," "commodification," and "privileging," some more than once.

I said, "What does that mean?"

"I have no idea, you'll need to ask her. Her name is Naomi, she'll meet you in the student lounge at the Union in twenty minutes, she said she'd recognize you."
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* * * * *​

She waved me over, said something to the two women sitting with her, introduced me to them, kissed one on the mouth -- more than a casual acquaintance -- and as they left asked me to sit down .

She was pretty in an understated way, rail thin, pale skin and round face, no make-up, hair short, black, and spiky.

I introduced myself, said I was there to help, asked what her dissertation was about.

She talked for about fifteen minutes. I heard the words "androcentric," benevolent sexism," "kyriarchy," "privilege," "complementarianism," "objectification," "hegemony," "internalized misogyny," "intersectionality," "patriarchy," and "toxic masculinity," again some more than once.

I was lost and when she was done I said, "I'm sorry, I'm trying to be a botanist, I've been preoccupied learning our jargon. Can you throw me a bone here."

She laughed. We were going to get along just fine.

It turns out alchemists weren't just trying to manufacture gold. A few tried to identify and work with a plant mentioned in ancient Egyptian, Persian, and Greek texts whose aroma was said to be a love potion. While leaving their skills and personalities intact, it caused women to fall madly in love with whomever they were with when exposed to the plant. It was, according to the texts, used primarily by priests to initiate the ecstatic female acolytes who, serving in the temples of the pagan gods, produced some of the most impressive art, religious and secular, of their time.

She said, "I need your help identifying the plant. I need to know if it, if not it's purported effect, was a myth," then handed me a flash drive. "This contains a summary of what I know about it, plus the back-up material for which translations are available. Interested?"

I said, and meant, "Yeah, sounds fascinating."
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* * * * *​

She was smart, hard-working, and meticulous, her summary clear and thorough, the material well-organized. I regretted making fun of her and her jargon. Well, some.

The sources made it clear the Persians and Greeks imported the plant from Egypt, but where did the Egyptians get it? Did they grow it? Did they import it? I spent several frustrating days mining and re-mining the data, looking for a clue, but the Egyptian sources were completely mum on both questions, which led me to suspect it wasn't native to Egypt. If you grew it you would, as part of your marketing, brag about your skill, but the Egyptians never did. However, if you imported it you'd keep its origin a secret. You wouldn't want someone contacting your supplier and cutting out the middle-man.

Having made little progress I turned to the care and feeding of the plant, and quickly realized I should have started there. I was struck by the continuous trading in the plant. It was a plant, you should only need a few, after which you grow your own, which meant that the climates to which it was exported weren't conducive to its propagation. The material Naomi provided showed that the plant did best when grown in a specific dense rich soil, baskets of which were exported with it, in the shade, and with lots of water and sustained humidity, all of which pointed to it being tropical in origin. Thus, the likelihood was that it came from the headwaters of the Nile. If that was right I'd reduced the potential numbers of species from 375,000 to a few thousand.

I had found several crude drawings of the plant's leaf. Not much to go on unless you have access to a computer loaded with comprehensive data base of plant information and the world's most advanced leaf matching software, which I did.

When I was done I was 95% sure I had it. The buttapboo, which consisted of six sub-species, all of which were endangered due to habitat destruction, grew only on Lake Victoria's western shore. Then I found a detailed description of an insect that ate the plant's leaves, the chronicler having not previously seen anything like it. I cross-referenced the information with my candidate and bingo, I found a match, an insect, also endangered, that lived on the shores of Lake Victoria and ate only the buttapboo. It must have hitched a ride in the baskets of soil.
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* * * * *​

Naomi and I met in the student union -- every second women who walked by knew her -- where, computer open, I gave her a zip drive and reviewed my results. She paid close attention, asked probing questions, and when I was done, with genuine pleasure in her voice, said, "You've done an amazing job, thank you."

"You're welcome. The way you laid out your material made it a lot easier. I tried to organize mine the same way. I included a step-by-step description of how I went about my research, including the steps that got me nowhere. Dr. Hainkel said methodology is important, you might need it in defending your thesis. If you have any questions call or text."

"Thanks, I will."

"Now if you don't mind, I have a few questions."

"Fire away."

"Well, and I put this on the zip drive, I couldn't find any evidence that buttapboo has psychoactive properties and the peoples native to the region make no use of it. If a plant has any medicinal benefit, or any use at all, pre-industrial locals almost always figure it out. It also has practically no smell. It seems like the last thing anyone would think had a magical aroma."

She said, "That's interesting, and actually supports my thesis. Think about it, a bunch of patriarchal alchemists, based on a bunch of ancient texts, believed, or at least wanted to believe, that if you mix this plant with a batch of ingredients you could reduce a powerful intelligent women to a love struck girl. So the alchemists spent years trying to recreate the formula and mixing it with the plant. They ground it into perfume, used it as snuff, burned it as incense, fermented it, packed it in amulets, got nowhere, and still kept trying. If you're interested I'm happy to share my research on the subject, but the point isn't whether it worked, of course it didn't, the point is the effort men made to find it."

I was curious. The next day at the union she gave me a zip drive.
​

* * * * *​

I made a pot of coffee and opened the zip drive. By the time the sun rose -- I stayed up all night -- it was clear why the alchemists hadn't gotten it, although they should be forgiven for their oversight. The ancient texts contained varying lists of materials to be added to the buttapboo, but unless you understood the underlying chemistry of the differing ingredients, and you wouldn't have in the middle ages, you'd never have gotten it. You didn't mix this stuff with the mature plant, you used it to grow and then sustain the mature plant. It was fricking fertilizer.
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* * * * *​

Two days later Dr. Hainkel called me into his office.

"Eric, Dr. Boatner called, she was prolix in her praise, said Naomi was very happy, that you went beyond the call of duty. I've got to agree with her, even I had to look up the buttapboo, I'd never hear of it. She even said you treated Naomi with respect, didn't make her usual comment about piggy males. She thanked you, and so do I. We've earned some serious brownie points."

"Glad I could help sir. The work turned out to be fascinating. There is something else I'd like to talk to you about. We've discussed me taking on a specific project. I'm thinking about a laboratory study of the buttapboo. There is almost no literature on it, it's endangered, and there are only six subspecies. It would be relatively easy to do a thorough investigation.

I didn't need to say, for Dr. Hainkel would already be there, that working on an endangered species would be a coup for the department and the cost of acquiring representative samples of the buttapboo, which grew in the wild near several research stations, would be close to zero.

"Eric, why don't you do a proposal."

Sliding my open computer across his desk I said, "I already have sir."
​

* * * * *​

I was a senior, it was my final semester at Humboldt State, and wearing the uniform of a local nursery I'd borrowed from a friend I rolled a dolly with a large potted plant into the university's business school and asked for Adriana Guttierez's office. I was not concerned about being recognized. I'd pulled my cap tight over my face and, as you can imagine, the botany and business schools didn't mix. The secretary, trying to work amidst the omnipresent chaos on this day, half-paying attention, pressed a few buttons on her computer, determined where this visiting faculty member was to be housed, and provided the room number.

If someone had interviewed her that day she might have been able to provide a vague description of the delivery boy. If someone had interviewed her the following day, at best she could have recalled his height, race, and color of his uniform. By the following week she'd not remember the delivery.

Not that I was overly worried about Adriana Guttierez questioning the plant's appearance. In a feature article in a recent San Francisco architectural magazine she'd talked about the health benefits of plants and the accompanying photographs of her law firm's office showed it was liberally decorated with greenery. She'd treat the buttapboo as a stroke of good fortune, not something to be investigated. Leaving the buttapboo under the window, I placed a note on her desk purportedly from the office's prior occupant, indicating he'd taken a position in Tokyo (which he had), that he hoped the office's next tenant liked plants, and providing cursory instructions for the buttapboo's care.

As a tropical plant the buttapboo matured quickly and over the last three years I'd raised thousands of them, some in the lab, most in the greenhouse I erected on the property I rented twenty miles from town. Their fecundity allowed me to study their properties in both their normal and enhanced conditions. The former had led to a series of published papers that, although my name was affixed last to the string of authors, had made me a department star. As to the enhanced buttapboo, a mature plant grown with a steady diet of the fertilizer would give off an odor for about fifteen minutes after additional fertilizer was added. A person exposed to low concentrations couldn't help but like whoever was around them when it happened, which explained why I was the first intern Serena Wilson, the battleaxe who'd been the department's administrator for decades, treated well. Higher concentrations? I'd slept with my fair share of my fellow students, but not so many as to draw attention, and far more than my fair share of the faculty, but they were diligent about keeping the secret.

And, analyzing the data, I was confident I knew how to take the next step, absolute devotion. It would take weekly exposure over several months and there was no doubt as to the identity of the ideal test subject. Adriana Guttierez had been teaching a seminar at the school since my sophomore year. Her looks, and smarts, were favored topics of male students over a Friday night beer. In theory getting into her class would be difficult, hundreds of students applied for the ten spots, but Dr. Boatner had made a phone call.
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* * * * *​

Adriana Guttierez flew low over the coastal properties she was negotiating to buy, admiring, as she always did, their pristine beauty, then turned her airplane north towards Humboldt State. The parcels of contiguous property had separate owners and she'd employed several brokers, each saying it represented a different potential buyer. The owners were now bidding against each other, the price steadily drifting down, and while the figures had become acceptable, she knew she could get them lower. Inwardly smiling at herself, she could afford it, she was rich after all, but still, she'd grown up fatherless and dirt poor, it was best to be careful.

Knowing the academic credential would impress the Silicone Valley egg-heads for whose business she was constantly competing with larger older law firms, she led a seminar on Intellectual Property Law at Humboldt State each spring semester. Several local universities had offered her the same opportunity, but she loved the land north of San Francisco and loved to fly; now she had a tax deductible reason to do both. It did cut into her billable hours, but there were only thirteen classes a year and her four associates, like her beautiful, smart, articulate, and tireless, were working late.

She made it a point to hire women like herself, wanting to spare them what she'd been through. Her first job had been at a prestigious old-line firm, which it turned out was far more interested in the fact she'd been the first Hispanic named Miss California than that she was the first Hispanic to graduate first in her class at Stanford Law School. She quickly decided she'd learn what she could, then leave and set up her own shop, but it happened faster than imagined. During her third year one of her firm's major clients had watched his lawyer -- gray hair, booming voice, $3,000.00 suit -- so badly flub the cross-examination of the plaintiff that the judge, who had been watching the jury, called the lawyers into his office and suggested the defendant might want to settle. Adriana, however, calmed everyone done, suggested they not be hasty, then eviscerated the plaintiff's expert, a man who, until then, could brag he'd never lost a case.

Two days later, over dinner, the client suggested Adriana open her own firm, promising and delivering more than enough work to keep her busy.

A year later, when she took a patent infringement case on a contingency basis, she hired her first associate. The $235 million dollar verdict put her name in the papers, generated enough work to keep her and several associates busy, and made her wealthy. She purchased a 68th floor half-floor penthouse condominium overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, bought this plane, loved her Jaguar, and would soon have the perfect place to get away from it all.

And if opposing lawyers and their clients complained she didn't play fair, that during vital parts of their presentation jurors were distracted when Adriana crossed her long legs, or let her dress ride up above her knees, or brown eyes flashing, chewed on the earpiece of her glasses, or played with her long impossibly luxuriant light brown hair, what could be more tiresome than Silicon Valley billionaires and their $850.00 an hour attorneys whining about how unfair life was to them.

She guided her plane to a perfect landing and taxied to the hanger so the ground crew could prepare it for the return trip. The car the department sent to pick her up was waiting -- there was no shortage of male students volunteering for that duty -- and flashing her engaging smile gracefully slid her five foot ten inch, 33-24-35, 127 pounds into the SUV's front seat and, after an exchange of pleasantries with the driver, opened her computer and entered the password providing her access to the business school's computer.

After noting, with pleasure, that a record number of students had applied for the seminar, she reviewed the ten students chosen by the school. They were, until the final name, Eric Workholder, Department of Biological Sciences, Minor in Botany, the usual: pre-law or business students at the top of their class. Thinking Mr. Workholder was in over his head, she accessed the university's data base. No questioning the kid's brain power: straight A's, probable class valedictorian, several published papers, and his laboratory internship appeared to be a big deal.

It would be interesting, she thought, to have a student with a different background.
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* * * * *​

The semester's second class ended much like the first, male students hung in the classroom inventing reasons to talk to Ms. Guttierez, but one student had exhibited the most persistence. Good looking, talking mostly about himself, rich, destined for his father's law firm, he was used to getting what he wanted, especially from the ladies, and ignored her polite attempts to end the conversation. Finally she looked at her watch and said, "Thank you Robert, but I've got to leave for the airport in a few minutes and Eric has been waiting patiently."

As he left she said, "How can I help you Eric?"

"Ms. Guttierez, I've reviewed your syllabus and the assigned reading. I want to dig deeper into intellectual property in life forms. We've long hybridized plants, but CRISPR offers a tool that may allow us to engineer plants from the ground up. It's something we're starting to do in the lab and I'd like to know more about the legal end. I was wondering if you could suggest some source material. I've got no experience in the area and I'm having trouble separating the chaff from the wheat. I figured if you pointed out the wheat I could avoid some blind alleys."

Pleased to have a male student more interested in her course than her physique, she smiled and said, "I'd be happy to. I'll get some material together. Why don't you come by my office next week, my office hour is the hour before class."
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* * * * *​

I got there early, which meant that while she was getting settled I could scan her office and say, "Where did you get that plant?'

"It was in the office when I got here, left behind by the prior occupant with instructions for its care. I've followed them, but it seems to be suffering."

"May I take a look at it."

"Go ahead."

Examining it I said, "It's tropical, but other than that I'm not sure what it is. Do you mind if I take some pictures, they'll help me identify it," then pressed my fingers to the soil and said, "It needs water. I have some in my bag, do you mind?"

"No go ahead, it's good to have an expert on call."

I did, adding water with a slight concentration of the fertilizer, and photographed the plant, then spent thirty minutes reviewing the material on intellectual property Ms. Guttierez had pulled together, our conversation becoming increasingly friendly and informal as the plant did its thing.
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* * * * *​

Using the e-mail account the university provided faculty members, I scheduled office visits with Ms. Guttierez each of the following two weeks. During the first I showed her my research identifying the mystery plant; during the second, with her permission, I took a cutting from the plant so I could grow my own. Each time I brought water, in which the fertilizer was dissolved, for the plant.

Then we'd sit and chat, she revealing details of her life normally too personal for the workplace until, with a frown, she'd indicate another student had scheduled a meeting.
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* * * * *​

The buttapboo had its intended effect. Already hardwired to associate my presence with the plant's pleasant psychoactive effect, Adriana was disappointed when, as she was being driven to school the following week, she re-checked her Humboldt University e-mail account and saw that while several students had, I had not made appointment to see her. She couldn't recall a student she liked so much.

After her first appointment, a business student who, if he didn't learn to ogle more subtly would find himself a defendant in a lawsuit some day, Adriana opened her computer and sent me a message. A flower had opened on the buttapboo. Would I like to see it after class?
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* * * * *​

Reading a text book, I waited in the back of the classroom. Ms. Guttierez occasionally glanced at me, her eyes asking me to stay, but despite her several polite attempts to end the conversation the guys chatting her up wouldn't leave. When the driver arrived to take her to the airport she asked him to wait a moment, approached me, and said, "I'm sorry Eric, I was looking forward to talking to you, but I've got to get in the air. Send me an e-mail, let me know what time is good for you next week, I'm dying to show you that flower."

On the way to the airport she checked her computer. Mid-terms were next week; the grade-grubbers had filled all her slots. Deciding she could fly up a little early, she sent me a message asking if I was available.

Over the next week, deprived of the charge provided by the activated buttapboo, her brain further melded my presence with that delightful sensation. On Sunday, wanting to make sure I hadn't forgotten, she sent me an e-mail reminding me of our meeting, impulsively attaching a smiling face.

When I opened her e-mail I knew it was time.
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* * * * *​

Experience had taught me that last week's flower would have already wilted, so when Ms. Guttierez opened her door and, in a disappointed tone said, "It's gone, I was so looking forward to showing it to you," I was ready. I knelt, examined the plant, and said, "It's okay, it's just hard to grow a tropical plant in an office, but I have something that might help. I've been experimenting with different fertilizers for the buttapboo, I think I've come up with something that works. I brought some. Do you mind if I try it?"

"No, please go ahead."

After I watered the plant with the more concentrated mix we sat and talked. I could smell the buttapboo's light aroma and as it infiltrated the room, and her brain, her breathing slowed and deepened. her eyes softened, and the conversation grew more personal. She mentioned the property she was negotiating to buy, her condominium, and then thinking she was talking to much about herself, holding a strand of hair with her fingers, leaned forward and said, "Eric, I've been wondering, how are the plants you're growing from the cuttings doing?"

"Very well. There in a greenhouse where I can mimic tropical conditions."

"I'd love to see them."

"I've been taking pictures, monitoring their progress, I have some on my computer."

Saying, "Please show me," she stood, walked around her desk and, her body grazing mine, looked at my computer and said, "They're amazing. You really know what you're doing."

"If you'd like I'd be happy to come by each week and look after this guy."

Adriana paused, for by now the buttapboo's scent filled the room and her mind was flooded with powerful unexpected thoughts and desires. She was turned on, very turned on, and wondering how she'd missed what an attractive sexy young man he was. Trying to regain her composure she walked back around her desk, then impulsively pulled her chair away from it, sat, crossing her long legs, knowing they were among her best features. And while most would have heard my offer as innocent, at the moment her thoughts weren't and conflating the two she feared that someone might misinterpret regular meetings between her and such a good-looking student. Licking her lips, blushing slightly, she said, "I'm not sure if I should accept favors from a student, but we do want to keep the plant alive. Still, let's keep it to ourselves. I'll fly up a little early each week so it won't interfere with the office hour."
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* * * * *​

It was Friday night and Adriana, sipping from her glass of wine, smiled amiably at the man sitting across from her, the most recent installment of her various girlfriends ongoing "I know this guy you've got to meet" saga. He was talking about himself, something brilliant he had done, finishing with just the right self-deprecatory joke. Laughing on cue Adriana wondered, could men be divided into two categories, men who talked obsessively about themselves and were smart and men who talked obsessively about themselves and were dumb? That seemed right. He was cute. Perhaps each category could have subcategories: good-looking and not good-looking.

Seeing how fascinated she was by him, and why not, he was great, he was mystified when at her door she said she'd had a wonderful time, but had to get up early, there was a big project waiting, and kissed his cheek.

She crawled into bed, wondered what Eric was doing. Was he on a date; did he have a girl over? She thought about sending him an e-mail, just asking how he was doing, but no, that wouldn't be appropriate. Neither were the other thoughts bouncing around inside her head. What the fuck, she'd resisted the urge all week, it wasn't going away. She moved a finger between her legs.

The next morning, cup of coffee in hand, she called up the mid-terms on her computer. She read Eric's first, returning to it after reading the others, just to make sure it was as good as she remembered, found it was better. Next time she'd read his last, it would be fairer to the other students, she wouldn't constantly be comparing their work to his. She wondered how her pre-law and business students would react if they knew the botanist had outperformed them all.

She opened the university's e-mail account, sent him a short message commending his work, was pleased by his prompt, "Thank you, looking forward to class tomorrow," response.
​

* * * * *​

On the flight up Adriana Guttierez repeated to herself, he was not her type. She liked them taller, bulkier, with dark hair and eyes. Eric was the All-American kid: green eyes, strawberry red her, a couple of inches shorter than her, and slender, albeit nicely muscled. He was nice, sweet, not full of himself, and very smart, but still, she had to get a hold of herself, he was a kid and this a passing crush.
​

* * * * *​

I watered the buttapboo, checked the stem and leaves as Ms. Guttierez took several deep breaths and nostrils flaring, her eyes assessed me in ways she knew they shouldn't. Arching her back and neck she said, "Eric, how are you're plants doing? I hope you brought pictures?"

"I did. Do you want to see them?"

Saying, "Very much," she stood and motioned me to her side of the desk, where we leaned over my computer, one of her hands pointing to the screen as she asked a question, the other resting on my lower back. When we were done she turned to face me, standing in my personal space, and said, "Eric, they're amazing. As tall as mine and far more robust. The flowers are beautiful. You must have a magic touch."

"The greenhouse has a lot to do with it."

She said, "You're being modest," then checked her clock and said, "Unfortunately it's time for my next appointment, let's see if he's here yet," and walking me to the door, glanced down the hall. Her appointment had not arrived and closing her door far enough to block the view -- school policy forbade closed door meetings with students -- her eyes locked on mine, drifted down to my mouth, and she said, "Eric one more thing if you don't mind, but I'm looking for a man's point of view. I'm considering cutting my hair, what do you think?"

Running her silken hair between my fingers I said, "Ms. Guttierez, it would look lovely either way. But if you're asking me, I prefer it long."

She touched my shoulder, thought about kissing my cheek, decided she couldn't go that far, and said, "Thank you Eric, I appreciate that. Next week why don't I fly up a bit earlier so we have more time to talk, I enjoy getting together with you," then watched me hungrily as I walked down the hall and turned into the stairwell.

Her next appointment, who'd been five minutes late, was sitting before her, jabbering. She was thinking about her associate, the one who complained that the ones who float your boat were never nice, and the nice ones never boat floaters. Maybe she could set her up with Eric, but no, school policy probably prohibited getting involved in a student's personal life.

Still, did he have a girlfriend? He never mentioned one. That night she checked his Facebook page, didn't see one
​

* * * * *​

The following week, after watering the plant, we chatted, about my post-graduate plans, her plans for the property she'd just contracted to purchase, as her skin flushed, eyes dilated, and I picked up the rich smell of her arousal mixing with the buttapboo's lighter scent. As the time for her first appointment approached she moistened her lips, walked me to the door, again closing it enough so no one could see inside, and her hand on my shoulder said, "Eric, are those new jeans? I was noticing how good you look them; they fit you perfectly."

"They are, thank you."

Then knowing she shouldn't, she said, "There's something else. I know this is none of my business, but are you seeing anyone?"

"Not at the moment. Why do you ask?"

She'd devised a cover story. "I was thinking about a young lady I know, pretty and smart, whose having trouble with her boyfriend. I think they're about to break up, I thought you two might get along."
​

* * * * *​

Guiding her airplane south, Adriana Guttierez chided herself. What the hell was she doing? What the hell was she thinking? She had a decade on him, he was a student, she needed to stop flirting with him. She jerked the hand that had crept between her legs back to the steering wheel where it belonged.

Later that night she'd dab perfume behind an ear, put on some soft music, light a candle, turn off her lights, turn on her favorite vibrator, and on percale cotton sheets let the fantasy of him wash over her.
​

* * * * *​

She was having trouble focusing. As Eric watered her plant, as they sat and talked, she found herself undressing him in her mind. Even after he left, throughout the rest of her office hour, her mind would drift back to him. She even had trouble getting into the groove in the classroom; it's hard to concentrate when you're sex is doing a rhumba. Finally she'd positioned herself so two students blocked her view of him, for the sight of him ramped up the music playing between her legs.

"Next week, instead of a classroom session, I will meet with each of you for an hour to discuss your seminar papers -- your drafts are due by 5:00 P.M. tomorrow. We'll start at 8:00 A.M. I set the order of visits alphabetically. The schedule is tight and while I'll consider altering it for good reason, sleeping in is not good reason."

In the past she'd let the students set the schedule, but Eric Workholder was the last name on her list. In light of her recent reaction to him she'd decided it best to see him at the end of the day.
​

* * * * *​

Adriana ended the penultimate interview ten minutes early, then visited the faculty bathroom to fix her make-up, refresh her perfume, and thinking, "Should I or shouldn't I," compromised. She let her pinned-up hair down -- he said he liked it long -- but didn't undo an additional button of her blouse. Stepping back, she looked in the mirror. Her jacket, skirt, and heels were professional, but a little tighter, a little higher, a little nicer than usual. But why not? She'd spent the day sitting behind a desk, her students hadn't been able to see.

When she got back to her office she smiled, pleased to see Eric waiting outside, and her eyes, taking their time, unconsciously rolled down his body as she said, "Good afternoon Eric, it's nice to see you again." As he stood she started doing it again, returning her eyes to his only when he said, "Good to see you too."

She gestured to her office, the door was cracked open, and said, "Eric, you could have waited inside. It would have been more comfortable."

"Thank you Ms. Guttierez, but I knocked and no one answered. My mother taught me you don't go into someone's home, or office, without being invited."

Before turning to the paper Eric watered the buttapboo and shared his recent photographs of his plants. Leaning over his computer, her hand brushing his, she marveled, his were not only more robust and vibrant than hers, they were taller and featured several large flowers.

"They're beautiful Eric, you've done an amazing job. Speaking of which I was also very impressed by your draft. I've made some notes of things I want to talk to you about.

The session started fine. His paper had been the best in the class and they initially moved through it quickly, Adriana, as always, organized and concise, Eric polite and solicitous. However, as the plant's bouquet filled the room, as her breasts and sex swelled, Adriana had increasing trouble focusing. She recognized the absurdity of her position. She finally had a male student who didn't spend his time imagining her naked, and she was picturing him in her shower, or her bed. Pushing that delicious image out of her mind she tried to concentrate us on his work, but was giving out all kinds of signals, running a finger along the side of her pen, holding the emerald of her necklace between two fingers while rubbing her thumb on its smooth surface. She told herself to stop, but soon had a strand of her long hair between her fingers, stroking it, bringing it to her mouth as she leaned forward and listened to his question.

Trying to get a hold of herself she sat up straight, but arching her back displayed her breasts to him, then wet her suddenly dry lips, answered his question, sucked her lower lip into her mouth as she tried to listen to his response.

She knew she shouldn't, but her breathing deepening, her pheromones mixing with the scent of the plant and her perfume, she stood, took her jacket off, lay it over the back of her chair, walked around the desk and placing a hand on his shoulder leaned forward, brushing him with her breast as she pointed to something on his computer screen. As she listened to his response she squeezed his shoulder then, instead of returning to her chair, and knowing how good her ass looked in this skirt, she bent forward to turn the other visitor's chair to face him, and sat. Only a couple feet of empty space now between them, she crossed her legs, softly rocking a foot in his direction.

It had become impossible to concentrate. Her swollen breasts tingled; her hard nipples sent electric bolts to her swollen sex each time she moved. Her clit, filled with blood, pulsated. In her mind Eric wasn't wearing that cute sweater that made his eyes look so good, he was naked and licking his sexy lips, no he was licking her lips.

Trying to slow it down she leaned forward -- in preparation for the day she'd gotten a manicure -- touched his hand, felt a jolt in her sex, said, "Excuse me, say that again," and heard enough of what he said to respond, "That's an excellent point," as she sat back, sliding her hand on his, dragging her nail on his skin.

Eric admired her. Only an exceptional will and powerful intelligence could have kept going in these circumstances.

"Ms. Guttierez, are you okay?"

"I'm fine Eric, just a long day."

"Well, our hour is about up and it'll be getting dark soon. I reckon you'd rather fly home in daylight."

"Of course, but we're not quite done."

"I appreciate that, but I think I have the gist. Why don't we do this. I already have your notes, why don't you give me your phone number. I'll call it and that way we'll have each others. After I review your notes I'll call with any questions."

Again knowing she shouldn't, she provided him her personal cell number, not her office number.

"One more thing ma'am. By now I've got more than enough plants growing from your cutting, I'm thinking I should return a couple to you."

"That's sweet, but there's a rule about faculty accepting gifts from students."

"It's up to you, but I'm thinking it's not a gift, I'm just returning something borrowed. I have a graduate school interview at Berkeley the day after our seminar papers are due. If you're interested let me know, I can deliver them to your office."

Trying to control her voice, keep it from becoming a soft purr, she said, "Let me check the rules and get back to you. And thank you for being so thoughtful about my flight time. I guess I lost track of the time, I enjoy talking to you so much. Would you mind waiting here until my driver appears.''

"Of course not."

She packed her things, put on her jacket, walked back around her desk, swung the door all but shut, stood before him, looked at his lips, they were so kissable, saw a small crease in his collar, took the excuse to reach up to straighten it for him, touching her body to his, her hands grazed his cheeks.

"Thank you, I didn't know it had turned up."

"You're welcome Eric."

Placing her open palm on his chest, she looked at him through hooded eyes. She was only part-time faculty and right now she didn't care about the rules. She was willing; she could call her driver, say she'd made other plans.​