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My professor summoned me to his home, a grand estate on the marshland of the sound. He invited grad students for dinner occasionally, but not since his accident last year, a motorcycle mishap that left him with a severe and worsening limp.
“Charlie!” He greeted me at the door, only holding himself upright with the help of a silver-tipped cane. He led me, fast as his cane could carry him, through the house. We walked tile by tile down a cavernous hallway, step by tortuous step up a grand central staircase, until, twenty minutes later, we reached his study, the walls lined with awards and honorary diplomas, all citing his work in biochemical innovation or applied neuromechanics. Out of breath, Professor Henry opened the lid of a globe bar and pulled, from the ice, a plastic water bottle.
In the corner, near the professor’s desk, there stood a life-size marble statue which, strangely, wore a high-slit, backless gown.
“Venus?” I asked.
“My darling wife Clara, may she rest,” he said, hobbling toward it. “Her face, her exact proportions. Her nose, her shoulders, her breasts.” He cupped a hand against the statue’s ass, a far off look in his eyes. A basket full of women’s clothes sat on the floor nearby.
“I need your help,” the professor said at last. “With a new project.”
The work was for credit, though it also included room and board, he said. A good opportunity. He assured me it would mark a landmark advancement in biochemical engineering, a way to make a name for myself.
“This leg, I can’t get as much done as I used to,” he said. “But not for much longer if we’re successful.”
“Some sort of surgical procedure?” I asked, wary about the prospects of such a self-serving venture.
He shook his head.
“We’ll never have eternal life, nor should we,” he said. “But why not eternal youth for the living?”
The professor said we’d need one other grad student. He recommended Madison, but he left the decision up to me since I was to take the lead.
Then, too tired for the return trek to the front door, he let me see myself out even though I never officially accepted the job.
I helped Madison load her suitcase into my backseat. “We will not be sharing a room, correct?” she asked, pulling playfully at the string of my sweatpants.
“If you’re sharing a room with anyone, I’d wager it’s the professor,” I said. “If he’s dressing up statues…”
“I guess if you loved your wife that much…” she said. “It’s definitely weird, But kind of sweet? I don’t know, I hope I have a husband that obsessed with my body.”
She pulled off her hoodie over her head before she got into the car, leaving a light blue tank top and black gym shorts.
“He’ll definitely have you sharing a bed with him,” I said.
She rolled her eyes, but once we were on the highway she asked if I really wondered she was too dressed down. I told her no, I’m sure it was fine, but reconsidering, she undid her seatbelt and slid into the backseat.
“Eyes on the road,” she said. She fished a pair of jeans from her suitcase, then slid the gym shorts down her legs. I tried not to look, but glancing in the rear view mirror I caught the briefest glance of her panties, some frilly white thing with cherries on the front.
But when we arrived, the professor didn’t even greet us. There was a note taped to the door, begging our apologies, which asked us to see ourselves in. The back of the card included a detailed map that showed the way to our respective rooms on the second floor, and there, taped to each of our doors, were additional cards, inviting us to dinner that evening in the professor’s study.
“Probably still a good thing you changed, then,” I said.
I heard a knock on my door shortly before dinner. I finished buttoning my shirt and opened the door to discover Madison standing in the hallway in a black backless gown and a dangerously high-reaching front slit.
“Madison,” I said, shaking my head.
“What?” she said.
“You can’t wear that. He’ll know I told you about the statue.”
“Oh I packed this before you told me about that,” she said.
“This is how you want to kick off a career-making project? Impersonating your professor’s dead wife?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you coming?”
Thankfully the statue was bare this time, the basket of clothes gone. The dining setup wasn’t quite what we expected, either. Instead of an opulent wooden table befitting the estate, we sat on folding chairs around a flimsy card table. Dinner, served on paper plates, consisted of turkey sandwiches and unsalted pita chips.
“My apologies if the meal doesn’t quite meet expectations,” the professor said. “Cooking has proven difficult with my limited mobility.”
We both insisted that sandwiches were perfectly fine with us and thanked him.
“Forgive me for asking,” I ventured, “but you don’t have any help? A chef or butler or…”
“Not yet,” was all he said.
We made brief small talk, then went into a broad discussion of our research goals, what our assignments would entail. Throughout, I would occasionally catch the professor sneaking a glance at Madison’s dress. He never leered, never stared long enough for her to notice or become uncomfortable, but as someone keenly aware of Madison’s dress myself, I certainly recognized his interest.
After dinner I insisted on cleaning up, taking the paper plates to a trash can in the corner. As I did Madison and the professor talked about her undergrad English minor, her love of DH Lawrence, and he offered her full use of his library, which he rarely entered these days.
“Well, lots to do in the morning,” he said. “Make yourselves at home, and the next time we sit down for a formal dinner I’ll try to make sure it rises to the same stately standards as the company. Especially you, Miss Lounds.” He motioned toward her gown. “I feel positively underdressed.”
I saw her blush a bit. We both thanked him again and he began making his way to a bedroom adjoining the study.

NSFW: yes

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