In Taylor Lefevre's two years as an accounts analyst at the Smithsonian's Museum of Ethnography, the most interesting thing she'd seen up until now was an honest-to-goodness receipt for a Peruvian tattooed mummy hand.

While quite logical for an exhibit of South American artifacts, even that made her crack open several federal guidebooks plus do a thorough internet search to make sure that it came with the proper audit-trail required for collections expenses. But there was no freaking way she was using her work computer to look up the appropriate business purpose of anything that could be from Bunny's House of Sexploration.

Praying that the vendor name was a fluke, Tay's horror only increased as she clicked through the details of the purchase order she'd been tasked with approving.

Dildo, 6 inch, silicone.

Cock ring, molded extra large.

Anal beads, vibrating.

Strap-on with vegan leather harness.

Butt plugs, set of 3.

Fetish ball gag in candy red.

Bondage set, leather.

Handcuffs, padded, pink.

Nipple clamps, feathered.

Pleasure whip, satin.

Couples swing . . .

The list went on, but Taylor couldn't.

Not only were these items inappropriate for a regular workplace, but they also were exponentially worse for a federal entity. And there was at least two of everything, to boot!

Now, she obviously was no prude, even if the trusty rabbit vibrator she bought without her husband knowing was hidden at the bottom of her sock drawer. And once in college she had even kissed a girl, tongue and all. But just reading these product descriptions was making her blush.

What was the point of a nipple clamp, she wondered. The pinch must have hurt like hell. How could that be considered a turn-on?

Whips. Butt plugs. Bondage. All of this sounded like stuff straight out of Fifty Shades of Grey. Come to think of it, that stupid book did end up giving Taylor a couple of new things to try with her boyfriends at the time.

But not the hot tub sex. No one needed that yeast infection waiting to happen.

Oh, gross. She was thinking about sex at work! This had to be a mistake. There was absolutely no reason why a distinguished museum in the heart of the nation's capital would buy sex toys. No reason at all. Na-uh.

Scrolling to the end of the digital document made Taylor pause. The order had been placed from an account associated with the institution's temporary exhibits unit. The woman in charge there was sharp and followed policy. All of her "i's" were always dotted and her "t's" were always crossed. Which made this request even more puzzling.

After logging out of the purchasing system before any of her colleagues could see the screen and god forbid, start asking questions, Taylor stood from her desk. She needed more information, and this was the rare occasion when a face-to-face meeting was better than an email.

She navigated the building's labyrinthian basement, going from the financial offices past archives and then storage. But as she rounded a corner, the assistant general counsel exiting the elevator nearly ran her over.

"Oh . . . sorry, Taylor," sputtered the woman, barely slowing down in her billowing trench coat as she headed toward the legal section of offices.

"Everything okay?" Taylor yelled after her.

The woman waved her hand without turning around, her heels clickety-clacking on the stone floor. "Maybe. Maybe not. You know how it is. There's a Congressional press conference that'll be streaming on C-SPAN in a few minutes that I'll need to catch to find out."

Taylor smirked, thankful that she decided to pursue a CPA instead of going for a law degree. Numbers never lied, unlike people.

Right now, though, her numbers were leading her to a person—one she hoped to find in the curatorial realm, which was just around the corner.

Although the assistant director for temporary exhibits wasn't at her desk, the mock-up of a promotional poster spread across the top featuring a blindfolded woman with cherry red lips began to put the odd purchase order in a new light. Reassured that she was on the right track, Taylor headed upstairs to the galleries with a renewed energy and a lot more questions.

If Andrew Pace had his way, he'd never have to deal with a college student ever again.

No more giving lectures. No preparation for exams. No grading papers. And definitely no holding office hours. Instead he would travel the world, visiting the libraries of grand palazzos, majestic chateaus, and lavish manors in search of elusive primary sources supporting his research.

But no matter how much he dreamed of his modern Grand Tour (the Lord Byron type, not the Jeremy Clarkson one), it would have to wait.

"Come in," he grumbled after the previously ignored gentle knocking on his office door repeated.

A young woman slowly stuck her head inside.

"Professor Pace?" she asked, hesitating to go any further.

His impatience grew. "Well, don't just stand there. You asked to see me, so let's get on with it," he demanded in a strong British lilt, waving her inside.

A first-year graduate student, Tissa Kane was twenty-three or twenty-four perhaps. With her straight, mousy-brown hair parted in the middle, wide eyes and narrow lips, she could only be described as ordinary. One of the many girls fifteen years or more his junior who spent their formative years on his campus before fluttering away to join the great big world, she was nothing special.

But Tissa wasn't exactly the same as the others, either. She'd bought his books and even volunteered specifically to be his teaching assistant, showing greater interest in his scholarship than anyone else prior.

As she slipped her backpack off her shoulder and rummaged inside for a notebook, Pace intently watched her from his swivel chair behind the worn desk. The pile of overdue library books on his guest chair gave her pause, until he stood and offered her his seat.

"Here," he said, pointing to the now empty chair while stepping behind it.

It was an order, not a request.

"Thank you," Tissa whispered, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear before obliging. When she found the right page in her notebook, she glanced up. "I'm not sure if I'm on the right track, but I wanted–"

"Read it," he commanded without letting her finish.

Most students at this point would have bolted straight for the door and they wouldn't have stopped until they've gotten to the Dean's office. But Tissa lowered her gaze and began to read out-loud.

"Contrary to common feminist beliefs, a woman's power is not in her sexuality. If it were, then why isn't the same said of men? No one has ever suggested that a man has to dress provocatively in order to get ahead in his job. And there certainly is no expectation for a man to use the promise of sex to get a woman to do his bidding. Yet women–"

Pace found himself tuning out the words. Focused on their speaker as her head lightly bobbed while following her notes, he imagined that bobbing happening for different reasons.

". . . those who believe . . ."

Placing his hands on Tissa's shoulders, he held her tight, but her voice didn't waiver.

". . . presumptuous to assume that all . . ."

He lowered his head into the crook of her neck. Today she smelled like lavender body wash, his favorite. Knowing she used it just for him made his cock twitch against the inside of his trousers.

". . . flirting or a lap dance can have . . ."

His lips grazed the skin below her ear and her breath hitched. But as his tongue began to draw a warm, wet line against her carotid artery, she continued to read from the notebook.

". . . which is why there are numerous–"

"Enough," Pace hoarsely whispered as he drew away and spun the chair around for the girl to face him. "Get up."

She blinked, then obeyed.

Pulling the chair away, he sat down while pointing to the desk. "There."

Tissa slowly drew her tongue over her bottom lip, placed her hands on the tabletop on either side of her and scooted up.

Pace rolled his chair closer. Taking a hold of one slender leg, he placed the girl's right foot on the chair's arm on his left before doing the same on the other side. The long, flowing skirt she was wearing now draped loosely between her legs.

"Your thesis is sound, Tissa," he said, placing his hands at her ankles and gently moving them upward, traveling along her smooth legs underneath the thin fabric. "Yet it lacks imagination. You need to include real-life examples to capture your audience's attention."

His warm palms reached her thighs and she closed her eyes, throwing her head back in invitation.

"Vivid examples," he continued, as if he were standing in a lecture hall to deliver his weekly seminar. "Real life precedents with which you will support the point that you are trying to make."

She moaned as Pace squeezed her tender flesh, the reaction accelerating his heart rate.

Taking a deep breath to keep him from bursting right then and there, he dug even deeper into what he knew best: academia.

"Take, for instance, that Nineteenth Century print ad I often use in my introductory course. You know the one, don't you?" he asked, using all of his willpower to keep from ravishing her on the spot. "The one touting massage for the ailment mistakenly identified as hysterical paroxysm?"

While he spoke, Pace moved one hand over her panties. They were already soaked through, wet just from anticipation.

"Uh-huh." The sound came from deep inside Tissa, two short syllables indicating both agreement and a welcome to continue.

Pushing aside the taut satin, his hand found a nest of soft, curly hair. After he spread the folds underneath, his thumb slipped inside and slowly began to move up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

"It was quite normal at the time for a physician to manually stimulate his female patient in a manner that today we would refer to as 'fingering'," he said while his own digits gradually became more and more slick with the girl's warm juices. "I can't be completely sure, of course, but I would imagine that the process was something along these lines."

Tissa's breathing became louder as she struggled to maintain her composure.

"As you also know from being one of my best students, this was an acceptable form of treatment for the vague group of ailments classified as female hysteria. How almost absurd it seems now that for over fifty years, physicians would come to a patient's home and perform the act on her own fainting couch with her husband in the very next room."

Tissa let out another sound of pleasure as she pushed her pelvis forward to the very edge of the desk to give him even better access. At this, Pace quickened his strokes over her erect nub before also inserting two fingers into the wet hole underneath.

While thrusting his fingers inside her again and again and again, he continued. "The dichotomy of the Victorians in their feelings toward sex was, indeed, a paradox. But their treatment of the topic makes its study all the more worthwhile."

"Fuck the Victorians!" Tissa hissed through gritted teeth, clearly wanting to scream, but knowing better in light of the thin office walls. "I want you to fuck me."

Pace stopped. "Now, now. I'm the one who decides what we do. Is that clear?" he asked with his usual air of authority. 

"But--"

He drew his hand away. "But what? Are you so sure you want to finish that sentence?"

Her eyes wide, Tissa bit her lip and shook her head like a good girl.

"All right, then," he said, resuming as if it were a chore.

Of course, it wasn't. He just enjoyed pretending. It was part of this game he played with her. The gives and takes were his source of pleasure, just like climax was hers.

"Yes, yes," she finally whispered when that moment came, unable to bottle up the orgasmic wave any longer until her body spasmed and she let out a final sigh. 

In his trousers, Pace had no such release. Instead, he relished teetering on the brink. How long could he last? Perhaps next time he'd find out.

"Very good," he said, slipping his fingers out and wiping them on her skirt, as casually as if they'd just finished a round of chess instead of an illicit hand job. "Continue with your essay, and I'll see you in the next class."

Sliding off the desk and readjusting her undies, Tessa nodded. "Uhm, thank you as always, professor. Maybe this weekend we could-–"

"Good afternoon, Tissa," Pace cut her off dismissively as he rolled back up to his desk and began shuffling through his papers.

ONC word count: 2,156