“Dr. Carlson, you must do something for me!”
The Social Sciences professor stared coldly at the girl seated across his desk. He shook his head. “Miss Taylor, I’ve been trying to do something for you all semester long, but you haven’t been responding. You’ve cut classes and when you have shown up you’ve been inattentive. When I’ve called on you to participate you’ve looked – well – annoyed that I bothered you. Your homework has been shoddy. From what I hear, the only activity you seem to have excelled in is gymnastics. It’s good to develop your physical skills, but you’re here in college primarily to improve your mind. I’ve warned you repeatedly, Miss Taylor, and now it’s too late. You’ve failed the class and that’s that.”
“If you fail me I can’t graduate!”
“I did not fail you, you failed yourself. You can stay another semester and put some effort into it.”
The girl started to protest some more, but the professor raised a dismissive hand. “Your failing grade stands, Miss Taylor. Good night.” He didn’t even say, “I’m sorry,” because he wasn’t. Dr. Carlson had little patience with students who tried to slide through his class with minimal effort. That’s not what he was there for and it wasn’t what they were there for.
Marsha rose and her imploring look was quickly replaced with one of disgust. “You’re a dried-up little jerk pretending to be a man. I bet you haven’t gotten it up in years!” She strode out, slamming the office door behind her.
Carlson was thunderstruck. No student had ever talked to him like that before. Despite his recognition that the insult had been rendered by an immature, lazy girl and therefore should not be taken seriously, he felt hurt and angry. This was largely due to the fact that her arrow had struck its mark. He had not gotten it up in years – at least not with a companion. His wife had left him ten years ago, when he was 38, and the shock of her earlier professed love turned to contempt prevented him from entrusting himself to another woman.
Nevertheless, he was not totally the stereotype of the wimpy, bookish professor. He kept his spare body in good shape by jogging every morning and playing handball three times a week. He also took an aikido martial arts class every Friday evening.
And he was not impervious to the attractions of the female sex. Every weekday he faced classes made up in part of attractive young women, many of them dressed – or nearly undressed – in clothes designed to show off their long legs and full young breasts. He had heard that some of the male faculty members enjoyed affairs – or at least one-night stands – with some of their students, who either had crushes on them or were hoping to improve their grades by putting out.
Carlson had not availed himself of these opportunities, one possible reason being that the opportunities had not come his way. His imperious manner was repellant to students and faculty alike.
After Marsha Taylor flounced out of his office, he wondered what he would have done if the girl had offered herself to him in exchange for a passing grade. She was certainly attractive, with long dark hair, brilliant white teeth, and a very good figure. Carlson fantasized briefly on what it would be like to use his power over her scholastic records to enjoy her luscious body.
Then he shrugged, drove home in his van, fixed dinner, read for a while, and went to bed.
At 1:10 a.m. the police came to his apartment and arrested him for the abduction and rape of Marsha Taylor. He spent the rest of the night in a jail cell, after refusing to answer questions put to him by his interrogators. Later he was able to obtain the services of a criminal attorney, Robert Wallace.
“I don’t understand how she was able to completely fabricate such a story and have me thrown in jail as a result. Don’t I have any rights?”
“You’re here because Marsha Taylor told a credible story. She said you accosted her in the college parking lot after she had left your office, forced her into your van, tied her up, drove to a secluded part of Riverton Park, and raped her repeatedly.”
“These are total lies! How did she say I forced her to get into my van?”
“She said you threatened her with a gun.”
“A gun? That’s ridiculous! I have never owned a gun!”
“And she said that after you raped her, you threatened to kill her if she went to the police. Then you let her out of the van and drove away. She also said that when she was in your office you offered to give her a passing grade if she would go to bed with you, and she refused.”
“More lies! Don’t the police have to prove all this?”
“The District Attorney will have to prove it if he decides to prosecute. I must tell you that there is evidence to support her testimony. She has bruises on her neck and arms, and cord marks on her wrists and ankles. Also some scarring in her vagina and her rectum.”
“Her rectum?”
“Yes. She says that after you raped her vaginally, you sodomized her.”
“It sounds like you believe her.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m here to defend you, regardless of whether you tell me you did it or you didn’t do it.”
“Well, I didn’t do it. So what happens next?”
What happened next was a series of predictable events as the justice system shifted into gear. Carlson appeared before a judge, entered a plea of not guilty, and was freed on a bail of $100,000, for which he had to pay $10,000 to a bondsman. He was suspended from his teaching position at the college, pending the outcome of the case. He was shunned by his neighbors and his colleagues, who assumed that if he was charged with this revolting crime, he was guilty and it was just a matter of time before he would go to prison, and good riddance.
Then came an event that was not predictable. Carlson met with his attorney for one of their endless strategy sessions and Wallace had incredible news, prefaced by an uncharacteristic grin.
“Well, it turns out you didn’t rape the Taylor girl after all.”
“Of course I didn’t – but how do know?”
“The police became suspicious after there were inconsistencies each time she told her story. First of all, they thought it unlikely that a college professor, with no criminal record, would be packing a gun, so they bore down on her about that. She backed down and said no, it was a knife. A knife? Well, then it became a letter opener. Then she began contradicting herself about what you said to her and did to her in the van. Among other things, she claimed that you raped her on one of the rear seats of your van.”
“There are no rear seats in my van!” Carlson interrupted excitedly.
“Exactly. Also, they were surprised that her parents, who live in Chicago, didn’t come to support their daughter after she was supposedly assaulted. So they sent a detective to interview them. They turned out to be quite elderly, considering the girl’s age, and rather testy. About fifteen minutes into the interview they stated that Marsha had been a problem since she was a child, that she was a congenital liar, and had accused two boys of molesting her on the high school grounds. It turned out that the boys had airtight alibis and when she was confronted with this she admitted having concocted the story because the boys had made rude remarks about her. She was suspended from school for a month.
“The final nail in her coffin was hammered in when a college student named Sylvia Baum came forth to state that she saw Taylor drive off alone on the night you were accused of assaulting her. Armed with this information, the police questioned Marsha more aggressively and she finally admitted that she had falsely accused you because you refused to give her a passing grade..”
Carlson asked, “How did she get the bruises on her body?”
“Self-inflicted. She even shoved a broom handle into her vagina and rectum. She must have really hated you to abuse herself that much. Anyway, you’re off the hook. The charges have been dropped.”
Carlson felt immense relief. Then he asked, “And Taylor? I assume she will be charged with false arrest and will wind up in jail.”
Wallace smiled cynically. “Don’t assume. She got a plea bargain from the D.A. – and it’s a real bargain for her. Five hundred hours of community service, raking leaves or whatever. No jail time.”
Carlson was livid. “Why does she get off with a slap on the wrist after what she did to me?”
Wallace was philosophical. “Chalk it up to politics. This is an embarrassment for the D.A. and the police – swallowing the girl’s story when they should have done their homework sooner. Now they want this whole thing to go away quietly.”
Carlson’s original feeling of relief had turned to bitterness. “And I’m supposed to go away quietly, too. What about the damages to me? The ten thousand I paid for my bail bond?”
“That belongs to the bondsman. And my fee belongs to me. It’s tough for you. You didn’t screw the girl, but she sure screwed you.”
That’s right, thought Carlson. I didn’t screw the girl.
He was reinstated at the college, but it didn’t surprise him that he was now being treated differently than before the rape charge. People congratulated him on his vindication but they were still reserved, as if they suspected that “where there’s smoke there must be fire.” Carlson became more and more furious that so much had been taken from him by this vindictive girl. It kept going through his brain.
I got punished for screwing the girl.
Without the pleasure of screwing her.
What can I do about that?

* * *

Marsha was paying a price for her bad conduct. Her parents, now thoroughly disgusted, had disowned her and she was stuck without money in a town where she had to perform five hundred hours of community service without pay. She managed to get a job as a waitress in an all-night restaurant, working from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m. What with her daily six hours of picking up trash in the county parks, she was pretty exhausted by the time her restaurant shift was over. Too tired to pay attention, one night, to a familiar van as she started to walk past it on the way to her car.
“Good evening, Miss Taylor.”
“Oh. Dr. Carlson.”
“Yes. Dr. Carlson. You look tired, Miss Taylor. Allow me to give you a lift.”
His tone was polite – edged with sarcasm. Marsha did not like it. “That’s all right – I have my car.”
“Oh, but I insist.” With that, Carlson pressed his remote, the van’s side door slid open, and with surprising strength he threw the girl into the van, face down, and the door slid closed. She took a deep breath to scream, but his hands went to her throat, cutting off her breath. She struggled, but he was lying on top of her and she could not move.
“Do you want to breathe?” he asked. She nodded vigorously. “Then keep quiet.” He removed his hands. Her chest heaved as she took in life-giving air. “One sound and you’ll stop breathing again. Perhaps forever.”
He got off her. “Now, put your hands behind your back.” The terrified girl obeyed. She felt a cord wrapped tightly around her wrists and then another around her ankles. Thus trussed up, she was turned over and a piece of tape was placed over her mouth. She was completely helpless.
Carlson threw a blanket over her, went up front, and drove for a short time. Then he came back, turned on the overhead light and removed the blanket. As he surveyed the bound girl, he spoke to her in a reasonable, almost friendly tone.
“You might not recognize your surroundings, but we’re in Riverton Park. Remember Riverton Park? That’s where I drove you to rape you – or so you said to the police. It’s very quiet here at this hour and I have learned that the patrol car won’t come by for another four hours, so we’ll have plenty of time.”
Marsha was making muffled sounds through the tape that covered her mouth. “I can’t understand you,” Carlson said, stating the obvious. “But I imagine you’re wondering, ‘plenty of time for what?’ The answer is this: Your account of the various things I supposedly did to you was so intriguing, so exciting, really, that I decided to experience them for myself.
“Also, that evening when you left my office, you called me a dried-up little jerk and went on to say – I believe I’m quoting you correctly – ‘I bet you haven’t gotten it up in years.’ I’m going to take you up on that bet and I’ll demonstrate to you that I can, indeed, get it up. With your help, of course.”
By this time Marsha had a pretty good idea what Carlson planned to do to her and she thrashed wildly on the floor of the van. Carlson sat calmly beside her until she appeared completely exhausted. Then he reached into the pocket of his jacket and said, “I brought along the transcript of your testimony so I could re-enact the crime without forgetting any of the interesting parts.
“Of course, there was no crime – it was a pack of lies you told to cause me considerable grief,” he added, anger momentarily overcoming his calm, detached manner. Then he regained control over his emotions.
“Regardless, I will now give you the opportunity of telling the same story again, and this time it will be completely true. Only, of course, you will have a little problem. Remember the tale of the boy who cried ‘wolf’? This time, nobody will believe you. All right – let’s get started.”
Carlson placed himself astride the girl, pinning her to the floor of the van. He pulled her top over her head and down her arms behind her. Her bra had a front clasp, which made it easy for him to expose her breasts. He grabbed them and squeezed them, not at all gently. The girl writhed helplessly, totally at his mercy. He sucked her nipples vigorously but was careful not to cause any injury that she could not have inflicted on herself.
After he had satisfied himself with her breasts, he undid her slacks at the waist and pulled them, along with her panties, down to her tied ankles. When Marsha tried to kick him he raised her ankles with one hand, exposing her buttocks and pussy, which he proceeded to molest with his other hand. Marsha kept straining against his invading fingers, but she could not prevent him from exploring wherever he wanted to.
Next, he untied the cord around her ankles and pulled her slacks and panties completely off. With a mock show of thoroughness Carlson referred to the transcript, saying, “Let’s see, what did I do next? Oh, yes, I put on a condom, so as not to leave any evidence of semen, and I fucked you. Yes, I believe I can do that. Look, Miss Taylor.”
Carlson pulled off his pants and shorts and displayed his erect penis to the girl. “You see? I can get it up and, in fact, I have done so.” He unwrapped a condom and rolled it onto his penis. Marsha crossed her legs protectively. Carlson shook his head sadly. “It looks as if you’re going to have more bruises, my dear.” He drew back a fist and struck her uppermost knee. She moaned in pain and after repeated blows she uncrossed her legs in surrender.
Carlson pushed her unresisting legs apart and shoved himself into her. He had not fucked a woman in a long time and he felt no remorse for violating this girl who had wronged him so recklessly. It was, to him, poetic justice that she was now receiving the rape she had falsely claimed.
He experienced a very satisfactory ejaculation but did not remove the condom. “I recall that there are two items remaining on the agenda – your mouth and your ass.” He pulled the tape off her mouth, then grabbed a handful of her hair and bent her head to his penis. “Suck it!” he commanded.
“Please!” she begged abjectly, her defiant attitude completely gone. “Please don’t make me do that – I hate the idea! It is humiliating and disgusting!” “Sorry,” replied Carlson, not at all sorry. “This is part of your script. Suck it – and don’t make any mistakes or I’ll pull your hair out by the roots!”
“All right – whatever you want! Only, don’t hurt me any more, okay?” With a grimace of revulsion she opened her mouth to accept his penis. Carlson noted with satisfaction the change from Marsha’s defiant, arrogant attitude to one of complete submission. His one regret was that the condom prevented him from enjoying the full effect of her moist lips and tongue, but of course he could not deposit in her mouth even a drop of semen, with its telltale DNA.
Marsha sucked energetically and Carlson relaxed, giving himself up to the delight of receiving oral sex from the obedient girl. She was doing a great job!
After a while he felt himself coming to a climax. A second geyser of semen gushed into the inside of the condom and Carlson experienced a glorious moment of ecstasy – followed by a horrible knifing pain as Marsha bit his penis as hard as she could. Carlson screamed. Marsha opened her mouth and Carlson jerked away from her. Marsha dove forward and this time her target was his balls, which she clamped her teeth onto, hard, and then released.
Carlson, in agony, slumped to the floor, clutching his balls. Marsha struggled to her feet and used her training as a gymnast to stomp very effectively on Carlson’s head. After a couple of stomps Carlson lost consciousness. Marsha knelt down and with her teeth pulled at the loose flap of condom at the end of Carlson’s penis. The condom came off into her mouth and Marsha was gratified to taste the sticky semen – the evidence she needed! To be doubly safe, she swallowed the condom.
She backed up to the door of the van, found the handle, and quickly was off into the night.
Sometime later, Carlson regained consciousness. His head hurt, his penis hurt, his balls hurt. He noted that both Marsha and the condom were gone. Ruefully, he recalled her plea not to suck his penis and a second fable took its place beside the boy who cried ‘wolf.’ It was the tale of Brer Rabbit, who begged not to be thrown into the briar patch, when that was exactly what he wanted. Carlson reflected that Marsha Taylor might not have been a good student, but she was damn shrewd.
However, this was not the time for such observations – he had to decide quickly what he must do next.
That decision was taken out of his hands most colorfully by the flashing blue and yellow lights of the approaching police car.

-end-