Anatomy 601 - the second One-on-One
By Dreamspinner



Roseanne's apartment is like so many others in old Victorian homes on the near
northwest side of Portland. 'Houses divided against themselves' is what I call
them. At one time, a single family lived in the five and six-bedroom
structures, but beginning in the mid-1960's, the old owners' children""rather
than sell them outright""cut them up into as many small apartments. One by one
these old places became communes. Five or six students would lease bedrooms,
share cooking responsibilities and more often than not""each other's beds on a
more-or-less rotating basis. The landlord runs a loose ship in most instances,
stopping by once a month to collect the rent and get high with his tenants.

Roseanne and I had walked hand-in-hand to her place after our session in her
father's greasy spoon. When I woke at 11:30, she was gone. A note was pinned
to the pillow. It read: 'See you later. I'm late for ballet class""R. PS: Did
you know you thrashed around and yelled out in your sleep?' I knew.

I get my clothes on and go out to the kitchen, looking for coffee. A couple of
student types are sitting at the table, passing a joint. One asks me if I want
a hit. I tell him 'no' and go on out.

Out on the sidewalk my dream comes back. It was about my old mama- san, and in
my dream""just like the other one""she had big muscled calves like professor
Hensley. I remembered watching her in the dim light of her precious candle.
She was standing in her hooch, rising up on her toes like the professor had
done a week ago.

In my dream I look at my watch "Shit!" I hiss. The dream goes away. My second
one-on-one with professor Hensley is in a half hour. If I pick up my pace I'll
just make it. Campus is five miles away.

I get to the Morris Building ten minutes late. I take the steps two at a time.
By the time I get up to the seventh floor, I'm breathing hard. Room 714 is at
the west end of the hall. The lights are off. I go down the hall and into the
classroom. No one is there, but I smell the old professor's sweet breath
hanging in the air.

She's printed a message on the chalkboard: 'Come to Room 812,' it says. I go
out and up the stairs. An arrow at the top indicates that Room 812 is to the
right""the way she had turned after our first one-on-one. The hallway is dark
but I see a light coming from the third office down and I go back to 'Nam. I'm
combat-ready, sensing danger all around, readying myself. I fall to the floor
and slowly ease down the corridor, shoulder pressed to the wall, my right hand
feeling frantically along my right hip for the textured grip of my .45.

I hear an F-4 scream over and feel a draft on my face. Professor Hensley's
sweet breath is in my nostrils and I piece it together""what I had thought was
an F-4 was really the whine of the ventilation system kicking on somewhere in
the bowels of the Morris Building. The air set in motion by the ventilation
system carried her scent to me.

When I come back completely I realize I've crept to within inches of the door
to Room 812. I get to my knees and peer through the crack between the jamb and
the door. The professor is sitting at her desk, leafing through a stack of
papers. She's wearing a ragged sleeveless gray sweatshirt and tights.

She's got a cardboard box on her desk next to her stack of papers and as I
watch I see her turn papers over with her left arm after she's finished
skimming them. She turns loose of them when they're over the opening of the
cardboard box and they settle down in. I figure that's her way of preserving
the order they were turned in.

It's what happens on her arm as she turns the papers over that catches my eye.
As she reads, she has hold of the lower left-hand corner of the page between
her thumb and forefinger. Then, when she finishes her read she carefully turns
her wrist over so the page is upside down. That's the thing""it's the turning
over of her wrist that causes her arm muscles to run up and form a lump""or
rather two lumps""one on the outside of her upper arm, the other on the
inside. When she turns loose of the paper, she brings her arm back in front of
her and the lumps smooth out.

Some papers don't seem to interest her and after she reads a few lines, her
arm moves quickly, making the muscles run up and down her arm like mice
darting along under the skin.

She must be as interested as I am in what's happening on her arm, because she
starts watching the muscles bunching up and relaxing as she flips her wrist
over and back again, and then she goes to turning her wrist over and back
without a paper""just staring at them like she's hypnotized or something. She
grabs hold of her muscles with her other hand so she can feel them bunching up
and the next thing I know, she looks up and says right out loud, "My, it's
gotten warm in here all of a sudden," and in one fluid movement she has her
old sweatshirt off. She's wearing nothing underneath.

It is July 14, 1968, and I'm with my unit twenty-five miles south of Da Nang.
We're on our way down Highway 1 and we're heading back to camp. A group of
women see us and come running. One who stays behind looks old enough to be my
grandmother. The other guys pair up with the younger ones but I go over to
where the old one stands watching. I introduce myself. One thing led to
another and within the hour, we were in her hooch, speaking the universal
language.

Like Professor Hensley, Trung Nhi knew how to take it off in the blink of an
eye. And""like the professor, my old mama-san had been wearing nothing
underneath.

Being with a naked Trung Nhi in a hooch in Vietnam was one thing""peering
through a crack between the door and the jamb to room of 812 in the Morris
Building on the campus of Portland State University where the topless
Professor Hensley sat making her muscle run up and down her arm was another.
There was no ambiguity about the first situation""Trung Nhi wanted to earn
some money and she knew how to go about it. I'm not so sure about what's
happening now.

Professor Hensley starts talking like she's addressing a class: "Behold the
action of the anterior muscles of the upper extremity""especially the biceps,"
she says. She makes a fist and tenses her arm. Her biceps strains on its
tendon, making two, separate, smooth bellies. "Are you watching?" she asks the
air. I nod, kneeling in my hiding place.

"What are your thoughts?" she asks, and in her own voice, she answers, "I like
it."

She says, "Good. You'll like what happens next, I'm sure."

She bends her elbow to an angle of 120 degrees, and the two elongated shapes
become more distinct. "Do you see?" she asks, like she's continuing her
lecture. Answering herself, she says, "These are the two heads of the biceps
brachii. 'Biceps' means 'two heads,' of course," she says, tracing the
outlines of the two shapes with the forefinger of her right hand.

"Now," she says, continuing on. "Please take careful note of the
transformation that's about to ensue," and bends her arm to a right angle. The
elongated shapes contract into two angular knots and they coil up next to each
other. She presses on them but I can see she can't make a dent in either one,
hard as she tries.

"Would you like to feel?" she asks herself.

I nod. My mouth is dry and my dick is stiff as a rod.

"Please do, then," she says.

She feels her muscle with her right hand. "Is it hard?" she asks.

"As a rock, professor Hensley," she says, answering herself.

"Let's continue our lesson," she says. "This," she says, tracing the knot of
muscle on the outside of her arm, "Is the lateral head." She nods. "And this,"
she says, tracing the inside knot, "Is my favorite of the two""the medial
head."

"Why is it your favorite?" she asks, like she's a curious student.

Professor Hensley draws in a long breath and says, "Because, my dear,
contracting the medial head of the biceps brachii assists in supination of the
wrist."

"Show me," she says, in her interested student's voice.

She turns her wrist away and the two hard knots untie and become long, smooth
shapes. "This is the wrist pronated," she says. "Now," she says, "This is the
wrist supinated." The two smooth shapes of her biceps coil up into hard,
angular knots, turning her wrist inward.

My eyes haven't left her muscles and I want to see more.

"I must have missed it," she says, being coy.

"Pay attention," she says, and turns her wrist outward and her biceps
lengthens. "Now, watch carefully," she says. She turns her wrist inwards and
once again; the two hard, angular knots coil up next to each other.

"Do it again," she says, and it's obvious from her tone that she's getting
turned on.

"Do you thoroughly understand the role of the medial head?" she asks the air,
holding her elbow flexed, turning her wrist away, then towards her again and
again. The two lumps appear out of almost nowhere and disappear again.

"It eludes me," she says.

"Resist me," she says. "Try to prevent me from supinating my wrist."

She grabs her left palm with the right. "Go," she says.

Try as she might, she can't keep her wrist from turning inward. As she
strains, the medial head of her biceps becomes even more distinct. It quivers,
trying to push its lateral partner to the side as if it were vying for a
coveted position. "Ooh!" she exclaims in her old, smoky voice, staring at her
muscle. "They look hard as walnuts," she says.

"Feel them!" she commands.

She takes her right hand free and pushes on her muscles. She can't budge them.
The veins of both arms are bulging.

"Fabulous," she says. "Do it again," she says. "I'll resist you again."

Again, she holds her palm. "Keep focused on the medial head," she says. "I
want you to completely understand its role," and rotates her wrist away. "Are
you ready?" she asks. She nods and again she tries to keep her wrist from
turning. Every quivering muscle in her upper body looks like it's ready to
burst. For thirty seconds, then a minute, then two, she struggles. Beads of
sweat appear on her brow.

The next thing I know she's got her right hand shoved down the front of her
tights and she's pounding her pussy, her other wrist twisting back and forth,
her eyes glued on the quick muscle mice running up and down under the skin of
her upper arm.

Out in the hallway I get to my feet, break out my dick and go to whacking off
as quietly as I know how.

Less than a minute later, we both get off. Professor Hensley doesn't try to
stifle herself""she nearly screams when her orgasm comes, but I manage to keep
from yelling out when I spill my load, standing out there in the hallway
outside Room 812.

The hot mushroom smell of it betrays me, I think. Less than thirty seconds
after it splatters on the old tile floor the old professor says, "Come in,
dear boy""I've been expecting you."

I put my dick away, pull the door open and go in. Professor Hensley's wiping
the sweat from her torso with her old sweatshirt. After she's finished, she
hands it to me. "Here," she says. "You need to clean up your mess."

I look at her like I don't know what she's talking about.

"You made a mess in the hallway," she says. "I watched you," she says,
pointing out in the hallway with her chin.

I turn and see a convex mirror mounted high on the wall directly opposite her
office door. "I had maintenance install it. I'm in my office late oftentimes,"
she said. "Now, go clean it up with my sweatshirt."

I go out and wipe the floor, thinking about how stupid I am for not seeing
that damned mirror. When I get it all up, I go back in her office. "What do
you want me to do with it?" I ask.

"Give it to me," she says. "Or better yet, put it in here." She reaches behind
her and picks up her gym bag and holds it open for me.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

She nods and I put the gooey thing in her bag. She puts her face over the
opening and breathes in deep through her nose. "Ah," she says. "I prefer
women, but every now and then I like to smell man stuff."

She drops the bag on the floor behind her, turns around and crosses her arms
on top of what's left of the stack of papers like the two of us haven't just
finished masturbating less than six feet away from each other, and like she's
not topless. She waits.

I clear my throat. "Sorry I'm late," I say, like nothing out of the ordinary
is going on.

She nods. "It's OK," she says. "My class at the dance academy ran long. I take
it you saw my note."

"Dance academy?"

"Yes," she says, standing up and stretching, flexing her reed-thin arms,
making the walnut-hard lumps rise up. "I've been teaching ballet for decades."
She makes her arms go out in a graceful way, like a ballerina.

"Oh," I say. "That's why your calves are so big."

She smiles. "Very good," she says. She sits down again and picks up the rest
of the papers and puts them in the box. "And speaking of that," she says.
"Between you and me, one of the things I like best about teaching is seeing my
student's calf muscles grow."

I don't know what to say, so I say, "Hm."

"Yes, indeed," she says, warming to the subject. "One of my young students has
superbly muscled legs already and she has the genetic potential to get bigger
still. I just love seeing her rise up on her toes time after time, her young
calves swelling, bursting with springy muscle. Yum!" she says, rubbing her
hands together.

I start to wonder if Roseanne isn't the one she's talking about. I look around
for a chair. "May I sit down?" I ask.

She nods.

I take a folding chair from where it's leaning against the wall, open it and
sit down directly in front of her and stare at her sinewy arms. I start to get
another hardon and squirm around on the hard, steel chair, trying to make room
for it.

Professor Hensley waits a minute and then asks, "Did you ever imagine looking
at an old woman's muscles would make you stiff?"

Her question takes me completely by surprise and at first I think about
pretending I don't know what she's talking about, but then I figure there's no
use trying to bullshit her. First of all, I know she knows I just jacked off
looking at her muscle display, and secondly, it's obvious to both of us that
I've got a boner from looking at her arms, and thirdly, the notion of an old
woman having muscles""let alone muscles like the old professor's""was
completely novel. "No," I say. "I never imagined it."

"But they do, don't they?" she asks, twisting her wrists, making walnuts
appear on her arms.

"Yes," I say. "There's no denying it."

She leans forward, her old tits pressing on the edge of her desk. "Have you
ever been with two women?" I tell her about the two girls with a two-headed
dildo I had seen on a bar top in Saigon.

"Ah, that sound's exciting, doesn't it?" she says. It isn't a question.

"I liked it," I say, squirming again.

"But you weren't 'with them' with them, were you?"

I shake my head.

"Did you want to be?" she asks.

I nod.

She pushes away and tips back on the back legs of her chair. "I'm having some
friends over tonight," she says. "Why don't you join us?" She puts her hands
behind her head and makes her walnuts pop up and down.

After a minute, the old professor gets up, comes around in front of her desk
and hops up on it, locking her legs at the ankle. Her navel is right at eye
level. She crosses her arms and stares down at me. I see a thin slice of skin
fold over the waistband of her tights, but that's all that hangs""her old
belly is as flat as a teenager's and as tightly muscled and her tits are high.
My dick is throbbing and my mouth goes dry.

"Do you think you could have another orgasm," she asks.

"Maybe," I say.

It is September 15, 1969 and I am lying on a straw mat in Trung Nhi's hooch.
We've just fucked, and she's curled up next to me rubbing the place on my side
where I've been shot a few week's earlier. I light a cigarette and gave it to
her. She pulls on it for a while and I can tell she's thinking real hard about
something. Finally she gets up on one elbow and tells me she'd like me to fuck
her again, that she's afraid I'm going to buy it and she wants as much of me
as she can get before I do.

Before I can tell her I'm all fucked out she's down on me, sucking away.
Pretty soon we're fucking away again, with the thud...thud...thud of a distant
155 drifting through the door of her hooch.

When I come back, professor Hensley's down on her knees in front of me. She
got my pants down to my ankles and she's bobbing up and down on me. She comes
up for air and asks me did anyone ever push my hot button. I tell her I don't
know what she means.

The old professor gets this sly look on her face and sticks her middle finger
in her mouth and gets it all slathered up. "Relax," she says. "You'll really
like this," she says. Quick as a mink, she grabs my balls with her left hand
and lifts them clear and pushes her finger about three inches up my ass. When
she gets it where she wants it, she crooks her finger and it feels like
somebody's got a cattle prod up in me and it's dialed all the way up. My eyes
roll back in my head. She pushes real hard and goes down on me again and in
the next moment it feels like hot lava is running out of my loins.

Professor Hensley draws off, swallows hard and licks her lips. "I really
prefer women," she says. "But every now and then," she says, "I like the taste
of a man."

I just stare at the old professor's forehead without saying anything, but
thoughts fill my head. First of all, she invaded me before I could say 'yes'
or 'no.' Not only that, fifteen minutes ago she saw me in the hallway outside
her office without my knowing it. What's more, she got into my pocket the
first time we were together without my knowing it. And to top it off, now
she's got me by the balls""literally. She's got the advantage, and I don't
like that feeling. I wonder if she's thinking about killing me.

I wonder if I should kill her first.

It is raining like it rains nowhere else. My unit is outside of Hoi An and
we're hunkered down like the hogs I used to see back on the farm when it
rained with the stream pouring off their rounded backs which are now our
rounded, hunched backs. We're peering around. It's like trying to see through
a waterfall. I think about a woman one of the guys blew away the day before.
She came up to where we were, smiling, blackened teeth showing, her hand out.
He told her to stop but she got too close. Sarge told him to waste her and he
did. When she pitched backwards, she let loose of the grenade she'd had behind
her. We all hit the dirt.

That was the thing""you couldn't trust anyone you didn't know through and
through.

"What are you thinking about, young man?" Professor Hensley asks, laying her
right arms on my thigh.

I'm back, but I'm still staring at her forehead. "Not much," I say. She's
still got a death grip on my nut sack.

Her one eyebrow shoots up. "Really," she says, pretending to be astonished.
"You looked like you were a thousand miles away."

"More like seven thousand ninety-seven miles as the 707 flies," I say.

She gets this look on her face like she's thinking real hard and then says,
"You make me nervous. It's like you're a tight spring. I have the feeling you
are capable of great violence." She lets my balls go and eases away.

I stuff my dick back in my pants and zip up. I stand up and make for the door.
"I gotta go," I say and go on out and down the hall to the stairs without
waiting for a response.

"Think about joining us tonight, won't you?" she yells.

I just barely hear her""I'm already going down the steps. I go out of the
Morris Building, making a bee-line to my advisor's office. When I get there,
he's sitting behind his desk holding on to his beard with both hands. I go in
without knocking and sit down.

"How's it going with Professor Hensley?" he asks, still holding on to his
beard.

"Is she crazy?" I ask.

He pulls hard on his beard. "No, not 'crazy' per se," he says. "Just, ah,
well...unique."

I stare at his forehead.

"I was her student," he says. "She gave me one-on-one instruction." He looks
at me and waits. He's still got both hands full of whiskers.

I get up and go for the door.

"Don't hurt her," he says, right before I go out. "She's very special to me,"
he says.

I stop halfway out the door and ask, "Why did you say that?" I turn around and
sit back down again. "Why did you say, 'Don't hurt her'?"

He lets loose of his beard and says, "Because you have that look about you."

I nod. "I don't trust her. That makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I get
aggressive."

"You need a girlfriend," he says.

I stand up and go to the door. "Yes, I do," I say, and go out and across
campus towards the diner where I know Roseanne will be behind the counter.
She'll want me to admire her muscular calves, and I'll be happy to oblige her.

The End