Dinner with Professor Steinkampf

 

 

            Professor Steinkampf’s second one-to-one lesson had been more arduous than the first.  The State University Clock chimed eight, then nine times before I woke, lying on her classroom floor.  “Nine O’clock!” I exclaimed, as bits and pieces of the second lesson gradually came back to me.  The pain in my asshole helped me remember the most important detail. 

            A note on the old professor’s desk caught my eye as I stood up. 

            Dinner at my house tomorrow night.  6:00 PM.  225 Main Street.  Be on time.

            I didn’t need a map.  The old brick mansion at 225 Main had caught my eye many times on my trips through the university town.  I had always wondered who lived there.  Now I knew. 

 

            My heart was pounding as I pulled up.  I looked at my watch.  Five fifty-nine—one minute to spare.  The creaking of the old cast-iron gate sent a chill up my spine.  I wasn’t sure if it was fear or excitement.  There was no telling what lay in store for me that night.

            Frau Steinkampf must have seen me coming up the walk.  The door opened before I could ring the bell.

            “Guten abend, my little man”, she purred.  “I’m lookink forvard to zis.”

            Words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.  The sight of that muscle-bound old woman in a little black dress had tied my tongue. 

            “Vell?” she asked.  “How do you like ze vay I look tonight, hmm?” she said, twirling around like a model.

            She was nothing but muscle from head to toe.  Mountainous traps; delts the size of grapefruit halves; broad, deep chest; arms that belonged on a longshoreman; a waist that couldn’t have been over 24 inches around; a high, solid ass; thighs like tree trunks; and diamond-shaped calves I knew I couldn’t get both hands around—all balanced carefully on black patent leather stiletto heels. 

            “Vat’s ze matter, little man?” she asked.  “Does ze cat haf your tongue?”  With that, she wrapped her arms around my waist and ground her crotch into mine.  “Vell, I don’t vant ze cat to haf all ze fun”, she began.  “I vant some of your tongue, too!” she exclaimed, pushing hers between my lips. 

            “Feel zis ass of mine, little man”, she commanded, between kisses, taking my hands and putting them on her buttocks.  “Are you ready?” she asked, with one eyebrow raised.  I nodded assent.  “Hold onto mein ass vis all your might, little man”, she said, as if she was warning me. 

            With good reason.  Her buttocks suddenly seemed to turn to stone.  Try as I might, I could find no soft spot.  My dick throbbed. 

            “Professor”, I began, still searching for a soft spot on her ass.

            “You may call me ‘Helga’, little man…please.”

            “Ok”, I said.  “Helga, I’m full of questions about you…”

            “In due time”, the old woman interrupted.  “Let’s talk over dinner, shall we?”  Despite the rising inflection, her last sentence didn’t sound like a question.

            She took me by the hand and led me into the high-ceilinged dining room.  Candles, dark oak table set for two.  Exquisite china, heavy silver, linen tablecloth, red wine.  Music from a Bose CD player.  Her selection didn’t surprise me—Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries.

            One ring of a small golden bell brought an old man in butler’s livery softly into the dining room.  They exchanged a few words in German.  Within minutes, he was back, pushing a silver serving cart.

            “I hope you like pheasant” the old woman asked.  “I acquired a taste for it many years ago.”  She took a bite, chewing with her eyes closed.  “Some say it is an aphrodisiac…”  The corners of her mouth curled upwards, pulling the line between her lips into the shape of a bow just before the arrow is released. 

            The old man had disappeared.  We were alone.  “Helga”, I began.

            “Let me guess” she interrupted.  “You vant to know how it is zat I look like zis”, she said, flexing her massive arms.

            It seemed like hours before I could find the words.  I had never imagined a woman her age—and by now I had figured she must be at least seventy-five—could have peaked biceps, but she did.  Not only that, she had triceps like hawsers.  And as she held her arms up, muscles beginning to tremble, the veins in her arms filled to bursting—they were as thick as nightcrawlers. 

            “Yes, Helga” I finally managed, barely able to think past my hard dick.  “How?”

            “Vell”, she began.  “Ven I vas little, I vas part of an experiment.  Durink ze var, ze scientists ver vorried zat ze men vould all be killed, und ze girls vould haf to fight.  Zo, zey started gifink steroids to girls, und zen zay made us all lift veights, every day, until ve got real bik and stronk mussels.”

            “But, Helga”, I objected.  “Your muscles couldn’t possibly look like they do today because of what you did years ago—you look like you still lift weights!”   

            “I do” she responded, crossing her arms on the table.  “Every day.”  

            Then I saw it.  It was so faded I could barely make it out, but there on her right biceps was an old tattoo, written in the old German Fraktur, and it read:  Deutschland Uber Alles.   

            I was suddenly afraid of this old woman.  A hundred questions about her rushed though my mind, each one more dire than the one before.  What had she done during the war?  Was she some weird, soulless Nazi, who could kill without a second thought?  What if she was planning to kill me--tonight?  What if this wasn’t really pheasant we were eating?  After all, I hadn’t seen any bones in the meat.  The blood drained from my face. 

            “Helga”, I squeaked.  “Suddenly I’m not feeling well.”  I rose to my feet, and started for the door. 

            Quick as a mink, she blocked the doorway, thick arms crossed on her chest.  “But ze evenink’s just gettink started” she said, her voice full of steel.  “Und you hafn’t efen finished your meal.  You vudn’t vant to disappoint Helga, vould you, little man?”

            “N-n-no” I stammered.

            “I zink I know vat’s ze matter vis you, little man”, the old woman whispered, massaging my now very limp dick.  “I saw you lookink at my tattoo” she said, still whispering.  “Ver you zinkink bad things about Helga because of zat silly little tattoo on mein big mussel, hm?” the old woman asked, one iron arm around my waist. 

            “Well”, I began, fearing what might happen if I told the truth.

            “Don’t say another vord, my little man”, the old woman said, putting a finger to my lips.  “Vat I vas zen, and vat I might haf done years ago is of no consequence now” she said with a wave of her hand.  “All zat ist behind us.  All I am now ist an olt mussel-bount professor of German—nussink more, nussink less…unless, of course, you take into consideration my fondness for young college boys!”  Her pale blue eyes were smoldering.

             Of a sudden, her free arm was behind my knees, and she had lifted me off the floor as if I were as light as a child.  “Now, my little man” she said without effort, mounting her long swooping staircase, “I vill carry you to mein schlafzimmer—my bedroom, und ve vill haf ze most wunderbar time, no?” 

 

            The old man must have known what Helga Steinkampf liked.  By the time the old woman threw me on her bed, the music was so loud I could almost smell the valkyries.