Bruce Walters had long pictured himself as living on the edge. Poets were expected to be a little wild, and he fulfilled that expectation -- maybe exceeded it. He'd never have hooked up with Janet if he hadn't been living on the edge.

With Janet, however, he felt that he had gone over the edge. The University, which forgave him some excesses which his fellow instructors in English would never dare, wouldn't forgive his living with a freshman who was simultaneously the daughter of one of the University's trustees and enrolled in one of Bruce's classes.

Then, too, the particulars of their life together weren't going to win him any sympathy; they weren't precisely Abelard and Heloise. Janet would taunt him, scream insults at him, mess up the papers or tests he was trying to grade, until he lost patience. Then he would give her a spanking. Janet was quite vocal during the spanking and the following fuck. The neighbors had to know what was going on -- one complaint to the police about the noise would bring the whole house of cards tumbling down

He experimented a bit. "Come here," he said one evening before she could throw her usual tantrum. He grabbed her, sat on a straight chair, and turned her over his lap. Even though she still had her jeans on, the spanking must have been painful; she kicked and squealed enough. He unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans while she was still on his lap. Then he had her get up long enough to change her location and pull down her jeans. Across his lap the other way, he spanked her bare ass with his left hand.

"What did I do?" she wailed.

"Breathed. Now let me alone while I grade my papers." But she wouldn't. She grabbed the stack of graded ones to see what her friends and competitors had written, and what grades they had received. "Look," he said, "you know they'd show those papers to you if you asked; while they're in my hands, though, they're confidential. Leave them alone."

"Jesus, 'Moby Dick was a symbol of America's pursuit of domination over all nature.' What a load of crap!"

"She spelled 'symbol,' 'pursuit,' and 'domination' correctly. She used the possessive correctly, which many of your classmates do not. If I graded down for putting loads of crap on those tests, nobody would pass. Hell! There are guys with tenured positions spouting worse crap and getting it published. Now give those papers back."

"What did you give me?"

"I haven't graded it yet. I'm going to take off for reading your classmates' papers. Now give them back!"

"Can't make me."

"You complain about 'domination over all nature.' You know I can make you, and you know that it will hurt if I do."

Logic and experience never had much influence on Janet, and they had absolutely none just then. He grabbed her and opened and pushed down her jeans. The papers flew everywhere, but -- at least -- he didn't have to worry about her tearing them.

He pushed her over the back of his easy chair with her head against the seat and her legs dangling down the back. He held her hair down on the seat with his left hand, and used his right to spank her ass. She had a belt in the jeans he had pulled down; he worked that out of the loops and used it to beat her when his hand grew tired. The belt was doubled over and made a loud sound on every blow. This scared him, but didn't seem to have much effect on her. When her screams and kicking finally subsided, he grabbed a rubber from the bedroom. Back in the living room, he pulled her back and fucked her while her face was still pressed against the back of the chair.

She came before he did. When he had erupted in her, he pulled out and snapped her jeans closed around her knees. Then he picked up the papers from the floor and put them in one of the desk drawers which locked.

He graded the rest of the papers in his office at the university, including Janet's. He had an inspiration. He took a Xerox of her corrected paper with circles around her errors and clumsy expressions. That night, not waiting for her misbehavior, he forced her face-down on the bed, tied her wrists and ankles to the bed frame, and gagged her. Then he pulled her jeans down. He quoted from the paper, spanking her at every error. He switched hands, spanking her with one and holding the paper in the other. When both his hands were tired, he untied her ankles, and pulled her up to kneel on the bed.

Then he pulled on a rubber and fucked her doggy-style. Only when Janet had collapsed did he take off the gag and untie her.

Nothing he did seemed to faze her. She screamed or sobbed while he was hurting her, but she sneered at him until he did. A few days after the incident over the papers, he was fucking her hard and fast, but they were face-to-face and actually in bed. When they both had come, he noticed blood on his phallus. Had he damaged her?

She went into the bathroom, though, and returned with a string dangling between her legs. It was merely her period. He noticed that she behaved less wildly for that week -- although still more wildly than any other woman he had known. He underlined the number for that day on his office calendar. This had enough cryptic notes that nobody was going to notice one more.

In the bookstore buying some supplies, his eyes lit on the cheap plastic rulers. He bought one and took it home. That night, he spanked her with the ruler instead of his hand. The ruler had ridges and raised markings. These left marks on her ass, but she didn't particularly complain.

He took to doing his grading in his office in the university. When his office hours were over, he locked the door rather than coming home. He did his grading, if not all class preparation. When he winged his lectures, his students didn't seem to notice. Why should they? -- they didn't seem to notice the lectures in the first place.

This was a frustrating time for his poetry, though. The second thing -- after his libido -- which benefited from life with Janet was poetic inspiration. Before her, he'd got into the rut of writing about his drinking; now he had lots of experiences which called out for verse. Inspiration she provided; what she didn't provide -- didn't even allow -- was the undivided attention verse needed. He jotted notes, fragments, ideas, images, on scraps of paper to slip into one locked drawer at home or another one in his office.

She no longer bought him scotch, and he never learned where she'd got it at her age. He bought vodka for both of them and drank most of it. He had only one screwdriver for breakfast -- usually with four aspirin for the hangover. If he took too long on his work at the end of the day, however, he started envisioning the inevitable collapse of this lifestyle. Then he'd come home with those demons haunting him. He'd have a screwdriver then to take the edge off those visions.

She usually came in later than he did and joined him on his fourth or fifth drink. They'd eat at home -- at a local diner if they were feeling especially daring -- before her nightly tantrum, spanking, and fuck.

One night, she tripped over an extension cord, which pulled a lamp over. While he was putting the lamp back, she kicked at the extension cord repeatedly until it was entirely out of the socket. "Stupid cord," she said.

"Stupid girl," he replied. When he tried to plug the cord back in the socket, he found she had pent one prong so it no longer fit. When he tried to bend it back, it broke off in his hand.

"Junk," she said.

"Well, it is now." Then he had a thought. "Or maybe not." He caught her up and pushed her over the back of the easy chair again. He whipped the seat of her jeans with the doubled-up cord. When she kept kicking and screaming, he stopped to pull down the jeans and snap and belt them below her knees. He pulled off her panties and rolled them down until they constricted her above the knees.

Then he went back to whipping her with the doubled-up cord again. He could see the welts forming, even a little blood oozing out of some welts. Still, he didn't stop until his arm was tired. "Now stay there," he said.

"I'm going to be sick."

"You are sick."

"I'm getting nauseous."

"Have been for months. Vomit on the chair and you'll be breathing that smell for any number of future beatings."

She did stay there until he went into the bathroom. When he got back, he made himself another pitcher of orange juice without making any comment on her location. He sat there drinking stronger and stronger screwdrivers until the pitcher was empty. He didn't offer her any.

"I'm making my own," she said. She got an unopened bottle of vodka out of the cupboard.

"Leave that alone."

"You can't make me." He rose to his feet. She was right; he couldn't make her. He could barely steer himself into the bathroom for another piss. He went from there to the bedroom, stripped with difficulty, and crawled into bed. Later, she held his phallus; but he was too drunk to perform.

He needed three screwdrivers and a handful of aspirin to get him going the next morning. Janet wasn't in class, but she didn't miss much. He managed not to make an ass of himself in front of any of his classes, but his lectures were hardly impressive.

He had four more aspirin later in the morning, and two when those wore off in the afternoon. He locked the door of his office and dozed when his hours were over.

When he got home that night, he left the booze alone. He had a pile of Nation magazines with the crossword puzzles undone. He took one off the bottom of the pile, but couldn't get anywhere with it. When Janet wasn't home by dinner time, he cooked one of the frozen pizzas. Suddenly, the odor of the cooking sickened him. He turned the stove off and rushed into the bathroom. He got to the toilet just in time. After vomiting, he brushed his teeth and went to lie down.

Soon, though, he was hungry. He finished cooking the pizza and had a slice. By the time Janet got back, he had eaten more than half.

"I had gym class today," Janet said when she sashayed in at 9:45.

"You had English 102, as well."

"In the shower, a girl asked where I got those marks."

"What marks?" he asked.

"The ones from your stupid electric cord."

"You got them on your ass. I'd think a girl in the shower could see that."

"I told her that my lover was into causing pain," she said.

"Really? You didn't give her my name as well?"

"You know I'd never do that." Bruce didn't know anything which she would never do. Act her age, maybe; but he believed she'd do anything stupid. "I didn't really tell her about your whipping me, either. I told her I fell down."

Probably, by no means certainly, she'd told the girl either that she'd fallen down or that she had a lover who was into giving pain. If she'd been asked, if she'd attended gym class, if her schedule even had a gym class that day. Well, she wanted a spanking; and he wanted an early night. "Are they still visible? I don't believe it. Let me look."

He went over to the best chair for a spanking, and she came over and dropped her jeans and panties. "They're not that visible," he said. Then he grabbed her and turned her over his knee.

"Ow! What was that for?"

"For lying. For telling me you'd told a girl I was into causing pain." Was she really going to pretend she hadn't expected a spanking when he moved to this chair and told her to bare her ass?

"But that was the truth. Ouch!" The welts were barely visible, but they seemed to increase her sensitivity.

"All right. I won't spank you for saying that. I'll spank you for telling me that you said you'd fallen down instead."

"Ow! That isn't fair."

"What isn't? You told two stories. At least one of them is a lie. I'm spanking you for telling a lie. I don't need to know which one was a lie."

When he spanked her ass, he covered both cheeks. Lower on her leg, he only spanked one thigh. She winced and cried more loudly when his fingers hit welts on the inside of that thigh. Getting an idea, he started spanking the near ass cheek. His fingers, curling around that cheek, struck her labia a stinging blow.

She screamed. A few more blows like that left her sobbing.

He stood her up, got up himself, and lowered her onto the chair. He went to bed. He woke in the night with her hand on his phallus. He could see her wince in the dim light as she lowered herself around him. She continued, nevertheless, until she had an explosive orgasm. His echoed hers.

He almost threw out the screwdriver he made as his wake-up ritual the next morning. He drank it, though, and used it to wash down two aspirin. He spent another full day at school, getting his grading almost caught up. He stopped at the bookstore on his way home for several more rulers. At home, he put one of these in his drawer on the nightstand. He hid the electric cord under the cushion of the easy chair. He fixed and ate one TV dinner. He managed to finish most of the crossword puzzle before Janet got back. "You ate without me," was her greeting.

"Yes."

"You could have waited."

"Yes," he said again.

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you've got our relationship all wrong. This is my apartment; my name is on the lease. You're my student. You are underage. Eighteen is generally considered an age for deciding for oneself like an adult, but your emotional maturity is about six. I'm in charge here. Now repeat after me, 'Bruce, I'm sorry I didn't tell you when I'd get back; I apologize, and I won't do it again.' Then we'll start from there."

"You are crazy, absolutely crazy," she said.

"That isn't what you're supposed to say. Say it!"

"No!"

He grabbed her and pushed her against the wall behind the easy chair. She kicked at his ankles while he unbuckled her belt and opened her jeans. She was wearing tennis shoes, though, and they did only minimal damage. He soon got the jeans far enough down to confine her legs. He pushed her over the back of the chair again. Holding her against the back with his right hand, he managed to extract the electric cord with his left. "You can't," she screamed. But he could and did.

When she was sobbing helplessly, he asked, "remember your speech?" She shook her head, maybe this was just part of the general writhing. "'Bruce, I'm sorry.'" He brought the cord down on her ass in a vicious blow.

"I'm sorry."

He'd accept that. "'That I didn't ask how late I could come home.'" He brought the cord down again.

"That's not what you said."

"'That I didn't ask you how late I could come home.'" He whipped her as hard as he could, repeating the blow immediately after.

"'That I didn't ask how late I could come home.'"

"'I apologize.'" This time the blow was lighter. It still hurt -- he could see her flinch -- but it was lighter.

"I apologize."

"'And I won't do it again.'" He didn't strike her this time, but he brought his arm back for what would be a mighty blow if she didn't say her line.

"And I won't do it again."

"Okay. Apology accepted. But, since you were a bad girl, you're going to go to bed without your supper. I'll let you up in a minute. When I do, go into the bathroom, take care of contraception and other things, and come to bed."

"You can't."

"I think we went through that discussion. But, since you're here so conveniently arranged, we can have it again."

"No. Please don't"

"Okay. Will you do what you were told?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll let you up now. Next time, though, you might find 'Yes sir' more effective. It's certainly more appropriate." And he did let her up.

She stood behind the chair for a minute, eying him and rubbing her ass. After that, however, she pulled up her jeans and went into the bathroom. He hid the cord in his briefcase and locked that. Then he stripped in the bedroom. After Janet came out in her baby doll nightgown, he took his own bathroom time and joined her in bed. "You really hurt me," she said.

"You really misbehaved."

She lay on her back, winced, and turned over onto her stomach. Instead of accepting that invitation, he lay on his own back. Her hand slowly tickled up between his thighs. When his erection was firm, she straddled him and lowered herself around him. He pulled the ruler out of the drawer. When she raised herself, he struck her ass with the ruler. He struck her with the back which had fewer markings than the front, used less than his full strength, and was in a bad position for developing any strength at all; but it still must have hurt. She came down rapidly around his phallus and cried out. He repeated his actions, and she repeated hers. Her forceful motions were bringing him to his climax more rapidly than usual, but -- even so -- she came before he did.

He tossed the ruler over on the nightstand. Partly, he was too tired to put it away; partly, he was curious whether she would try to take it out of his reach. It was still there when he came back the next evening. She came home soon after he did, and brought a half gallon of ice cream with her. She cooked them both a full meal with canned stew, vegetables, and salad. They had some of the ice cream for dessert. She asked whether she might have a drink after dinner, and he mixed them one screwdriver each. When he hauled her over to the easy chair, her "What have I done?" was more pleading than defiant. He grabbed a wastebasket and placed it within easy reach.

"Done? Done wrong? Absolutely nothing, my dear." He pulled down her jeans and panties, however, and pushed her over the back of the chair with her feet just off the ground. Clued in by the calendar and her change in behavior, he was prepared for the string hanging out of her cunt. He removed the tampon and dropped it in the wastebasket.

When he'd entered her fully, he reached her tit with his left hand and her clit with his right. He stroked these sensitive points, only moving in and out enough to stay firm, until she began to convulse. Then he drove vigorously back and forth in her spasming depths until he erupted.

He held her like that for a moment. When he began to ooze out, he withdrew completely and helped her up. They went into the bathroom together, this time. He washed off his cock at the washbowl before leaving her to insert a new tampon.

She took the top, and he used the rulers for the rest of the week. He didn't need the extension cord, though. He didn't need the morning screwdrivers, either. They shared one drink after dinner. He even woke up without a headache.

He wasn't surprised when that pattern broke, though. She came home late without warning him. He made her strip completely and turn herself over his lap. She was totally naked when he spanked her, and followed him like that into the bedroom. When he had stripped, he lay down on his back in bed. She got on top willingly enough, even though he'd already got out the ruler.

Janet's misbehavior got worse, but Bruce needed neither the easy chair nor the extension cord before the end of the term. "I'm going home for the break," she told him.

"I thought you lived in town." He didn't pretend that this was her home.

"I do, but I live in the dorm while class is in session. I need that experience."

"All right." Her father was, after all, a trustee of the university. "I'll miss you."

She didn't respond.

He had one more test to give after Janet was gone, and -- then -- more than a hundred test papers to grade. He whipped through that work. By Wednesday, he had no teaching responsibilities but keeping office hours for students who needed advice -- in the administration's wildest dreams -- or consent to take the only advanced course Bruce would teach in the spring quarter. He took the bottom three magazines from the stack of Nations to the office with him and worked their crosswords during his posted hours.

When those times were finished, he locked his door. He got out his notes from the drawer and tried to turn those hints into verse. He'd made some progress on six poems and discarded a score of notes too cryptic to decipher by dinner time. He took his notes home with him, stopping off at a diner for something to eat.

Once home, he picked up a Poetry magazine which had come long ago. While Janet was there, he'd not even opened it. One of the longer poems was by Pete Granneli, a guy he'd known fairly well once. It was a good one, too.

He looked up his phone number and called. "Pete, it's Bruce Walters. I'm between quarters and catching up on my reading. Saw your piece in Poetry. You done good, pal."

"I'm glad you liked it. You must really be behind."

"Well, you know how it is. How was it received?"

"People have been nice. It's not like a book, you know. Nobody reviews it. If they don't like it, they don't say anything."

"Why I decided to call, even this late. If I didn't say anything, you might think I was keeping politely quiet, instead of stupidly letting my teaching of the old stuff take precedence over reading the contemporary. Not bad at all. You guys should start a school, Italian-American poets: you, Ciardi, and Steffano."

"Me, Ciardi, and Steffano! Ciardi would really like our being put in the same sentence. As for Steffano, he wouldn't even like the category. He's about as Italian as you are."

"Well, he's more American that Italian. That's for sure."

"It's more than that. I'm a wop myself, and I never met anybody named Steffano."

"And I'm a wasp, and I never met anybody named Shakespeare. Must have been a German in disguise."

"But you've met wasps named William. And Steffano used to write about his daughter -- his daughter and her schoolmates, his daughter and her playmates, even his daughter riding some visitor's shoulders. You wrote your dissertation on Steffano, ever read his poem about his daughter and her grandparents, his daughter and her aunts, his daughter and her cousins?"

"Maybe she doesn't have any."

"Maybe. But family is central to Italian-Americans. And family is never mentioned in his poetry. You'd think that being an orphan would be important, too."

"Well, enough on Steffano. Yours is a winner. You guys are on the semester system, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you're probably in the middle of grading something. I won't keep you any longer, just saying 'Keep at it.'"

And, if Pete should keep at it -- Pete who'd recently published a major poem in Poetry -- then Bruce certainly should. He dug out his notes from the drawer and the notes he'd brought back from the office. He worked until he could barely keep his eyes open. The alarm rang much too soon. He made it to his office a little late and dug out the aspirin bottle he kept there. He okayed both students who came in that morning and dragged himself home as soon as office hours were over. Once in his house, he crashed. He awoke ravenous at 4:00 in the morning. He ate breakfast, worked more on the poetry, and ate a TV dinner at 8:30. He took the notes for several poems to the office.

The rest of the week, he led a more balanced life. He worked one crossword puzzle at the office, and another one in the evening. He dug a jackknife out of his junk drawer to deal with the extension cord. He cut off the two ends and a bit more than four feet to be doubled over as the whip. He cut two sections from the remainder which he might use as restraints.

Aside from that, he wrote. The verse wasn't finished, it needed to simmer for a while first. But the first drafts were finished on what could make half a book.

Bruce didn't miss Janet's behavior one little bit. He did miss her body; he even masturbated on several evenings. Half expecting her to return sometime Sunday night, he locked up his poems in the desk. She didn't appear. Monday evening, though, she greeted him with "What's for dinner?" when she came in the door at 8:30.

"Freezer's fairly well stocked. I had my dinner on the way home. Isn't it a little late for you to be eating?"

"I went out with some friends after registration. We gorged on ice cream." She pulled a TV dinner out of the freezer and put it in the oven. "Miss me?"

"Missed your body, sure. Didn't miss your attitude."

"What're you doing?"

"Crossword puzzle."

"Ask me one."

"Luminiferous number -- five letters."

"Three," she was counting letters on her fingers. "Seven, eight. One of those. After twelve they get too long."

"Forty, fifty, sixty," he pointed out. "But the actual answer is 'ether.' You forgot the 'luminiferous' part."

"Ether isn't a number."

"You're not a Nation crossword fan, obviously. You'd get numb if you breathed it; so it's a number."

"That's stupid!" she said. He could hardly deny that she had more experience with stupidity than he had. Still, he didn't think Frank Lewis qualified.

The problem with Janet, he suddenly thought, was that she wouldn't accept a fantasy. If she'd just let him finish his crossword puzzle first, he would be perfectly willing to turn her over his knee and spank her for being a bad little girl. He'd enjoy it, in fact. But that wouldn't satisfy her; she had to be a bad little girl. And that meant he couldn't let her near anything he cared about. 'Child proofing' could be a chore when the child in question was 18 with a driver's license, enrollment in college, and a key to his front door.

"Where's the orange juice?" she asked from the refrigerator.

"There's a can in the freezer." Instead, she opened a can of tomato juice from the 'fridge. Apparently, mixing the orange juice with water was too much trouble. She mixed herself a bloody Mary and drank it with the TV dinner. He went over and used the rest of the can to make himself one. The crossword was a lost cause, and the rest of the evening would be more endurable if he had a little edge on.

The next morning, he mixed a fresh pitcher of orange juice despite being half-awake and hung-over. Two screwdrivers, three cups of coffee, and four aspirin got him ready to leave the house in time for his nine-o'clock class.

His worries got deeper as the weeks went on. He didn't want to use the electric cord or turn her over the back of the easy chair. After all, having a grown girl wriggling on his lap while he put his hand on her bare ass was much more of a turn-on. And he spent his sober moments worrying about possible damage to her. Part of that worry was a consciousness that Janet didn't worry about that at all.

And those worries weren't his only ones. Janet, who couldn't be trusted to exercise simple common sense, shared a secret which could destroy his life. If he weren't teaching in a university, he'd be bagging groceries. And dismissal for having seduced a student wouldn't be much of a recommendation for getting another teaching job.

Drink was Housman's prescription for fellows whom it hurt to think, and he followed that prescription. This eased the immediate worries, if it piled up more things to worry about later.

Meanwhile, Janet's misbehavior escalated. Her participation in class, never very helpful, went further and further off topic. One Wednesday, she came home before he did, for once. She sat watching television while he fixed dinner. "Turn off the TV and come to eat!" he said. She reached for the remote. Instead of turning the set off, she changed channels to a loud rock program. His headache, always present these days, felt excruciating.

He walked over and turned off the set. Her walk to turn it back on took her right past him. With the music blaring, he grabbed her. He'd made his preparations long before. He tied her wrists in front of her and tied a washcloth in her mouth for a gag with pieces of the old extension cord. He took down her jeans and panties and turned her over the back of the easy chair. He held her against the back of the chair with his left hand and whipped her with the longest piece of the cord, holding it by its middle.

Once he could see the welts all over her ass, he stuck the end of the cord in his hip pocket. He pulled her sweatshirt half over her head. He unclipped her bra and reached under her to fondle her nipples. He wasn't surprised that they were hard.

With his left hand still on one tit, he caressed her ass with his right. One finger in her cunt discovered considerable dampness. He stroked that over her clit until she was squirming in anticipation of her orgasm. Then he brought out the cord again.

He whipped her thighs until she had an orgasm.

Pocketing the cord again, he resumed stroking her cunt. Instead of her clit this time, he held her labia minora gently between his thumb and index finger and rubbed them together. He rolled her nipple between thumb and index finger of his left hand. She moaned through her gag when she had the second orgasm.

He turned off the TV and washed his hands. His dinner was cold by the time he got to it. He was halfway through when he heard stirrings from the easy chair. Janet managed to push herself off and on to her feet. A little later, she escaped from the knot at her wrist. The sweatshirt, gag, jeans, and shoes didn't take long once her hands were free.

"You are a pig, you know," she said.

"Your dinner's cold. You didn't come when you were called."

She sat down, wearing nothing but a wristwatch.

"And," he added, "I may be a pig but I'm not enough of a pig to eat dinner without washing my hands."

"It hurts to sit down."

"That's one consequence of being spanked. Being spanked is a consequence of misbehavior."

"'Spanked'? You call that a spanking? That was a whipping."

"Being whipped is a consequence of flagrant misbehavior."

"They could put you in jail for that."

"And then there would be nobody to spank you when you wanted it," he pointed out.

"I don't want it. I never want it. You are as bad as my daddy." Briefly, Bruce wondered whether her father fucked her when he spanked her. He didn't ask. In the first place, he didn't want to know; in the second place, he wouldn't believe her if she told him.

"Ow!" Janet said when she got up. "The bruises from your whipping stuck to the chair. It's all your fault."

"Not quite all." She could have worn something; she could have put something down to protect the chair seat; she could have eaten her dinner first and misbehaved later. For that matter, she could have behaved herself. The last was only a theoretical possibility.

He didn't drink between the morning wake-up -- several drinks these mornings -- and getting home at night. When he got back Thursday night, he found the bindings and whip still lying on the floor. Janet would mess up the papers he was grading; she probably would tear up his notes on poetry; she didn't hide -- much less discard -- the instruments of the punishment she claimed not to want. He got a new washcloth, the old one being covered with dirt from the floor, and put everything back under the seat of the easy chair.

He used them that evening to punish Janet for returning late. If she wanted to be punished for misbehavior, he'd set her some clear rules which would destroy neither her life nor his career when she broke them. When she did her homework and where, he couldn't figure out. He didn't even know whether she did any except English. The latter she did poorly, but she wasn't ignoring it. If somebody else were writing her papers, it was nobody in her section; such errors were as distinctive as fingerprints. Since she got off on defying standards, he saw no sense in setting standards in that area.

Saturday, when they each had some classes to meet, she came home soon after her last one. She asked what he wanted for dinner and then cooked it. He wasn't surprised to discover that her period had started.

He stroked her clit until she'd had two orgasms Sunday night. Monday, he lay on his back and slapped her with the ruler while she did all the work. He kept that up, using his finger one night, his cock and a ruler the next night. He had figured out how to deal with Janet one week in the month.

When his calendar said she would be acting wild again, though, she behaved no worse than usual. Her behavior evened out for most of the rest of the term. She even began coming home at predictable times.

As finals approached, Bruce let himself hope. He could go somewhere for the summer where she wouldn't follow. Where would that be? A monastery? She couldn't keep her pants up for three months; she'd find another victim. Bruce would come back to cruise the cocktail lounges.

Monday of the week before finals, Janet came out of the bathroom with something blue in her hand. "Guess what?" she said.

"What?"

"I'm pregnant."

"God!"

"We're going to have a baby."

She was a rich kid. Her father paid for a dorm room she barely saw and a car nicer than any Bruce ever expected to own. On the other hand, he didn't know if she got more than pocket money in her own name. She might have a large bank account; she might just cajole her daddy into paying everything. And Bruce didn't want her to try to cajole daddy into paying for an abortion. Well, the endings he'd been dreading were much worse. What did abortions cost these days, anyway? He had some savings since he wasn't cruising cocktail lounges any more; and he could borrow from the credit union without more than a cursory explanation. "I'll take care of it," he said.

"You will? You'll marry me?"

That wasn't what he'd meant. Then he thought again. Keeping this relationship secret was unlikely. Marriage, though, seemed to pardon past sexual behavior -- in terms of social opinion if not in law. And Janet had been reasonable -- well, reasonable for Janet -- recently. Maybe she would "have a babe and mend." And having one of the trustees for a father-in-law was better than having one looking for vengeance for his wronged daughter. Besides that, however annoying Janet's personality was, she had been the most exciting sex partner he'd ever had.

"I'd have to move back to my house before the ceremony," Janet added. "Mom would insist on that."

"Fine. We don't want a wedding when school is in session."

And the future was determined that lightly.

But not all of the process was that light. The interview with Janet's father included several references to what the university should do to professors who seduced their students. Bruce didn't try to defend himself. "Well," Mr. Nelson finally concluded, "Janet has a way of getting what she wants, and she wants you." If his words didn't express disagreement with that choice, his tone did. Marriage to Bruce might be preferable to unwed motherhood, but that choice wasn't mentioned.

However unhappy Mr. Nelson was with the marriage, he intended to continue supporting his daughter. The Nelsons regarded Bruce's "garden apartment" and furnishings bought at garage sales or acquired when previous roommates had moved out as totally unsuitable for their darling daughter. They rented and furnished a house for the new couple. All Bruce took with him was his bookcases -- Mr. Nelson's opinion of how much space was appropriate for books was remarkably sparse considering he was a university trustee -- his desk, and the easy chair. Most of these were fitted into the third (and smallest) bedroom in the house.

The second bedroom would be furnished for their child. Bruce would be a father. Odd, he didn't feel like an adult; his in- laws didn't treat him like an adult; and Janet sure-as-hell didn't behave like an adult. Except for sexually, she behaved like a spoiled kindergarten kid. Shouldn't parents be adults?

They had a brief ceremony before a justice of the peace with only a few witnesses besides Janet's family.