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Was he going to do it, or not?

He was, lifting up his blue and white striped shirt to reveal a torso of solid muscle, the bronzed skin filmed with a subtle patina of sweat. Naked above the waist, he looked powerful, primitive, intensely male and, as his rich, strong laughter carried up to my window, I felt my stomach flutter. I could just imagine him picking me up so easily, to carry me off in his great brawny arms and thoroughly indulge himself with me in the changing rooms to celebrate his team's victory.

Why just him? There are fifteen men in a rugby team.

Why just the one team? No doubt the losers would like a consolation prize.

Thirty men. Thirty big, muscular men, wet with sweat and running with adrenaline after their game. There would be no nonsense, no twee little courtesies or awkward questions, no insecurity. They would just take me, enjoy me, as I would enjoy them – all thirty of them.

Not that it's easy to just give myself, not at first. I'd be ready enough physically after watching them play, and watching them strip off their shirts afterwards, just as my favourite had done on the pitch below my window. Mentally I might need a little more preparation, just to feel secure. Maybe I'd need to be cajoled a little before it started. Maybe I'd need them to lock the door to the changing room, just to make it clear there was no escape. Maybe I'd need them to tie me up...

'Dr Jones?'

I managed to withdraw my tongue and put on my serious academic face just before the door came fully open, only to ruin the effect by banging my knee on the leg of the bench as I tried to swivel my chair around towards my computer instead of the window and the sportsfields outside. As Tiggy Blackmore walked in she gave me a look that seemed more condescending than sympathetic, and I was sure hid a trace of amusement.

Out of my thirty-two students she just had to be the one to catch me gawping out of the window at the men on the sportsfields – Miss Tiggy oh-so-beautiful-oh-so-popular-never-seems-to-do-any-work-and-is-still-going-to-get-a-first Blackmore. Her perfect ten figure, her perfect face, her perfect confidence, all made me feel hopelessly inadequate; to say nothing of her waist-length natural blonde hair and her ability to dress as if she'd just stepped off the catwalk. I mean, how many students wear Prada shoes?

Even in her first year she'd been one of the most confident students I'd ever known, and a year and a half of life at Keynes had given her a polished familiarity I simply wouldn't have tolerated in anybody else. As I sat rubbing desperately at my hurt knee and trying to maintain some vague vestige of authority she sauntered over to the window, looking down on the men below, not in awe and longing, but with an expression better suited to an agriculturalist running an eye over a selection of prime stock.

'Been watching the rugby?'

'Yes.'

My answer had been somewhat sheepish, but she didn't seem to notice. I quickly pulled myself together, refreshing the figures for farmland biodiversity on my screen as she went on.

'We really need more strength at the back, but we'll still be hard to beat as long as Josh is captain.'

'Josh?'

'The tall guy with the floppy black hair and no shirt on.'

'You know him?'

'Sure. We were together for a few weeks in my first year.'

'You split up? I'm sorry.'

'No big deal. Too much rugby and not enough me. I dumped him.'

I gave what I hoped would look like an appreciative nod for her decision, but my feelings were very different. Here was the man I'd been making the object of a fantasy, and she'd not only been out with him, but ended the relationship because he wasn't paying her enough attention. I knew full well what I'd have been doing in her place and at her age – bringing the oranges out at half-time.

Not that I'd have been with him, not when I was a student. I might have admired him from afar, but I'd never have admitted to wanting him, not even to myself. No, I'd have preferred to be protesting against EU agricultural policy or petitioning for new SSSIs, both far more worthy pastimes than indulging in hot, sweaty sex with some Neanderthal rugby player but, of course, it was impossible not to feel that I'd missed out a little.

Tiggy had turned away from my window and sat herself down on my bench, as if she owned the place. Any other student, particularly a male student, and I'd have told them to get off, but not Tiggy. She put on a slight frown, expressing a mild dissatisfaction that immediately made me feel I'd done something wrong and to want to help her in whatever way was possible, but if her essay was going to be late again I was going to have to put my foot down.

'What can I do for you?' I asked her, gently.

'It's a bit awkward. I've got an accommodation problem. I was wondering if you might be able to help?'

'Have you been to the office? You can apply for a change of accommodation, but you need to be able to show good reason.'

'Yes, I've been, several times. They gave me an assessment form and told me the adjudication process takes a month, but that my case is unlikely to be accepted.'

'You're in the Gaitskill Building, aren't you?'

'Yes. That's the problem. I just can't hack it.'

'What's wrong with it?'

'Everything, really. I asked for a north light because I draw, and they've put me at the corner, and with the other half of the block and all those sycamores there's hardly enough light to see at all. I've got this girl Nina next door too. She complains about everything, and I do mean everything. I don't get on with the warden, either, and it's making it really hard to work.'

I paused before answering, trying to balance my instinctive need to be helpful against the fact that her problems were obviously trivial. At least, they seemed trivial to me. She seemed to breeze through life without conscious effort, so perhaps found minor difficulties harder to cope with, or maybe it was because she wouldn't put up with minor inconveniences that she seemed to breeze through life. I couldn't see the accommodation office being impressed either way, and it was certainly nothing to do with me, as I told her.

'I sympathise, Tiggy, but I really don't see that I could help, except to say that you don't need to worry about your work. You've been late a couple of times, but you obviously do your research and you're also insightful.'

She shrugged, for once less than one hundred per cent assured.

'Thanks. Dr Jones, but what I was really hoping to ask is whether you'd consider letting me lodge with you. I know Sally Goulding did last year and I would really appreciate it.'

'Sally was a postgraduate.'

'Oh ... does that make a difference? I'd be happy to pay the same rent. I'd sort out my own food, everything. You wouldn't know I was there.'

I would. An image had come unbidden into my mind, of myself sitting in my living room attempting to read New Scientist while the ceiling shook to the passionate love-making of Tiggy and a large muscular partner, for some reason to the accompaniment of Beethoven's fifth. It was absolutely and utterly out of the question.

'I suppose that's possible, er...'

'Great, thanks! That is so kind of you!'

'Um ... yes. When would you want to move in?'

'The sooner the better, please. I've just got to get out of that place.'

'The room is empty, so whenever it's convenient, I suppose.'

'Brilliant! There's one other thing. Do you think you could come around and get my stuff about eight?'

'This evening?'

'Sure, if that's OK?'

I was supposed to be meeting Robert at seven, but even so I very nearly agreed.

'Eight's not convenient, unfortunately. I could manage tomorrow evening, or the weekend.'

'Tomorrow's great. See you then.'

She'd already jumped down from the bench and would have simply left if I hadn't managed to pull myself together enough to stop her. I seemed to have already let myself in for having her as a lodger, and the rent was certainly going to come in handy, but I really couldn't put up with the boyfriend and Beethoven scenario. I was going to have to be firm.

'One moment, Tiggy. If you're going to stay with me there are going to have to be some house rules.'

'Whatever you say, Dr Jones.'

I've always made a point of treating my students as adults and as equals who just happened to be at an earlier stage of their education than me. Most of them still call me Dr Jones instead of Hazel, Tiggy Blackmore included, but by and large I've managed to dispense with the barriers of traditional authority, which I feel makes me more effective as a tutor. Inevitably there are some who bring the attitudes they learned at school with them to university, and others who take advantage of the situation, like Tiggy. Normally I manage to set things right, but with her it was different.

There's an aura some people have, something that sets them apart. Call it charm, or charisma, or presence, but it goes beyond simply being friendly and good looking, and can only really be appreciated face to face. Some pop stars and actors have it, a very few politicians, sometimes despite being as ugly as sin and downright arrogant. It gets things done, and Tiggy had it in spades.

It had never occurred to me to object to her employing me as a taxi service, and I'd come close to altering my own plans just to suit her convenience. I even felt guilty about going out with Robert for the evening, even though I knew that rationally it was ridiculous. Not that Robert would have minded. He never does, always accepting my decisions with a saintly forbearance for which I really ought to be grateful.

I am, I suppose, but it's just that occasionally I'd like a man who didn't always accept my right to personal space, who wasn't so ready to defer to my opinions, who wasn't always so correct. On paper Robert was my perfect partner, but I wasn't in love with him and being together did nothing to dilute my vivid fantasies of virile, primitive men or being physically restrained for sex. Inevitably if I did try to form a relationship with such a man it wouldn't last five minutes, or at least not beyond the first time he objected to me visiting male friends. Impasse.

Edward Albee's Who is Sylvia? was being performed by a touring group at the university theatre, and I'd wanted to see it for a long time. The production was well rehearsed and well polished, also delivered in front of a minimal set and with no clever effects or changes, allowing the power of the piece to come through without any distractions. It left Robert earnestly examining whether, despite all evidence to the contrary, he was in fact a bigot.

'It's so easy to become complacent about these things, and I think Albee makes us see that, and also teaches us that we must learn to extend our tolerance beyond those areas where it is little more than the safe option. Not that I mean to undervalue the importance of tolerance towards ethnicity, or sexuality, but those are, I think, instinctive, while in this case we need to examine what remains to many a deeply seated taboo.'

'Instinctive? I disagree. Human instinct is to distrust what's different, and it takes a conscious effort to do otherwise. Tolerance is something we learn is right at a rational level.'

'You're right, absolutely, and it's an effort we all have to make. It's just that I now feel maybe I've been complacent about my own tolerance. Really I should be constantly reappraising my own attitudes.'

'Nonsense, Robert. You're the most thoughtful, caring man I've ever met. Anyway, we should really be beyond the stage of simply tolerating ethnicity or sexuality, because that implies putting up with something we'd rather not accept. With ethnicity or sexuality there should never be any question of having to accept things, any more than you would need to accept the colour of somebody's hair. I don't think Albee's motif is directly comparable, because in the case of Sylvia there are very real issues of consent and cruelty.'

He thought for a while as we walked down the Yarmouth road, nodding every so often to show he was ingesting what I'd said before he replied.

'You're right, absolutely, so rather than sympathising with Martin's need for tolerance we should see him as attempting to manipulate the other characters by using what is effectively emotional blackmail. It's certainly thought provoking.'

'Very, and funny too. I think he manages to combine a serious message with humour very effectively. Black humour, it's true, but still humour.'

'You're right, absolutely...'

We had to get across the road, which meant making a dash for it with a bus coming one way and a lorry the other, so I didn't hear the rest of his answer. As I reached the far side I was smiling to myself, wondering whether if I suggested that Albee had in fact been attempting to promote goat worship in Middle America he would have told me I was right, absolutely.

It was over a mile back to my house, and it had begun to spot with rain. Immediately I was wishing I'd compromised my principles and used the car. Robert wouldn't have approved, although he probably would have agreed with whatever rationale I chose to come up with. I'd always made a point of keeping my car use to an absolute minimum, which certainly didn't include theatre trips into town, but as we stood watching the yellow-lit drizzle beyond the inadequate shelter of the bus stop it was hard not to think of putting personal comfort first for once.

By the time I got home I was feeling cold and slightly fragile. That was where Robert really came into his own, putting together a thick vegetable soup while I sat down and sipped a glass of white wine. I'd taken to picking up all my vegetables once at week at the new farmer's market, which meant fresh, local produce and most of it organic, or at least untreated. The soup was delicious, and along with the wine it left me with a warm glow inside, a little drunk and a little tired.

Robert was still full of energy, but had switched from examining his own conscience to ways of making other people examine theirs, specifically recalcitrant landowners who were attempting to get around the right to roam laws. I was in two minds on the subject, balancing ecological considerations against a human right which, while valid, was also selfish. Robert had no such qualms, happy to view anybody who tried to restrict public access as an evil feudalist throwback, and definitely not including them under his umbrella of tolerance.

'... so we have to make these people see that we're not just some rabble who need to be put in our place; they need to see that we are the people, and huge majority. Mark you, it's still iniquitous. Did you know that among EU countries the UK has the second highest proportion of land in private hands after Spain? It's like living in the Middle Ages!'

'Oh, I don't know,' I replied, somewhat indifferent to the issue, 'at least they can't put us in the stocks.'

'They'd like to.'

'I'm sure they would, some of them. So, what's the program for this Sunday?'

'Chalkpit Wood, near Newmarket. The owner's argued that access should be denied because the quarry makes it dangerous and they don't want to accept liability, so the council agreed they could fence it off, and even awarded them a grant. And do you know what they've done?'

I swirled the wine around in the glass, watching the light bounce off the rim.

'No.'

'Fenced off the entire wood, including an established right of way!'

'And what are you going to do?'

'Cut the fence across the footpath at the least. Some of us want to remove it completely, but I think we should minimise physical confrontation. Will you be coming?'

I hesitated, trying to find the courage of my convictions. He was right, and somebody had to make a stand, but I'd been feeling more and more that I'd done my bit after twenty years as an activist for more causes than I could remember, from my first outing with the local hunt saboteurs at fifteen. Yet too many people were making excuses, and apathy was as bad as defeat. I nodded my agreement, provoking a pleased smile from Robert.

He glanced at his watch and swallowed the rest of his glass of wine before speaking. I knew more or less exactly what he was going to say.

'I've a nine o'clock tomorrow, first year Social Philosophy, but it would be great to make love, if...'

The question was left unfinished, allowing me to fill in all the criteria under which he was hoping I would allow him to invade my personal space. I'd have preferred him to pick me up over his shoulder, carry me upstairs and take me on the bed without even bothering to undress. It would never happen, not with Robert.

No. If I told him, he would do it; just as he did everything he possibly could to please me. He would do it, but it wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be real. He was caring, conscientious, faithful – everything he should be – which made me feel bad about wanting something else, so I smiled and held out my hand.

He took it, pulling gently to help me lift myself from the chair and holding on as we climbed the stairs, me with my wine glass still in my hand. At the door to my bedroom he kissed me and I began to respond immediately, my body reacting to his familiar embrace. As always, I would have to lead, the only way to overcome his exaggerated care for my feelings and the sanctity of my body.

Holding him close against me I moved carefully back to the bed and sat down, easing him gently lower by his shoulders. He took the hint, favouring me with a sly grin as he got down on his knees. A brief adjustment of my clothes and I was open to him, all the tension of the day beginning to drain away as he went to work. As I closed my eyes in bliss I reminded myself that it was another good thing about Robert: he was prepared to go down, and stay down, without stopping or complaining, until I had what I needed, and wouldn't even demand the equivalent favour in return.

I could take my time, and if there was a little guilt for what would be going through my mind while he gave me my pleasure, then I could console myself that he need not know, and could fondly imagine that my ecstasy came solely from the well-practised ministrations of his tongue. It wouldn't be true, because I had always needed to hold my pleasure in my mind rather than rely on my body alone, and this time would be no exception.

Something he'd said earlier had caught my imagination, something deliriously improper, something he and all my friends would be deeply shocked by if they knew it appealed to me, even as an impossible fantasy. It was how he'd said that some of the landowners would like to put protestors in the stocks if only they'd been able. I could just imagine it happening to me, not in reality, but as a fantasy – a fantasy in which there were no consequences, in which everybody got what they wanted.

I'd be caught cutting the fence. No, Robert and I would be caught, because it was only fair to include him. It would be the landowner, an arrogant young man, completely confident in himself, along with half-a-dozen burly farm hands, not one of them under six foot or two hundred pounds of muscle and bone.

There would be no argument, no choice. They'd simply tie my hands behind my back with bailing twine and frog-march me down to the local village green, Robert too. In the middle, where everyone could see, would be the old stocks, the sort where the person being punished has to bend down with their head and hands trapped. They'd put me in them, but only after they'd pulled my clothes off, every single stitch.

Robert would be watching, tied and helpless as I would be relieved of my clothes and fixed into place, completely vulnerable to all seven men. The young landowner would be the first, taking his right as the local squire to enjoy me as he pleased, indulging himself with me in every way before giving me to his men. There would be seven men, seven big, powerful men, taking turns with me, one at a time, two at a time, three at a time, over and over again as I reached climax after climax, which was exactly what was going to happen in reality.

I took hold of Robert's hair as it hit me, gripping hard and gasping out my passion as my body went tight with ecstasy. He stayed as he was, licking firmly until I could bear it no more and pulled him away. He rose immediately, eager for me yet still waiting for my nod of acceptance before allowing his body to settle on top of mine and sliding himself deep inside.

Tiggy Blackmore moved in to my house the following evening. I'd had visions of myself humping suitcases and trunks and bags and crates stuffed full of her belongings while she supervised me but, as it turned out, she had everything well in hand. When I turned up at Gaitskill House it was to find everything she owned being stacked on the pavement by no less than five young men: four rather alarming youths in black leather with their motorbikes parked on the pavement and a blond Adonis in a football jersey who carried a faint tang of fresh sweat.

The blond boy I took to be her boyfriend, but she treated them all in exactly the same way, always friendly, always laughing, and somehow managing to convey the impression that if they all behaved themselves and did their best to please her, she just might favour them a little, yet without ever in any way seeming easy. Rather, it was as if a smile from her was all the reward they could ever want, or even aspire to.

I watched her work her magic for a couple of minutes before getting out of my car. She hadn't realised it was me driving the little red Honda, but once I began walking towards her she recognised me immediately, waving happily before her expression changed to a slight frown.

'Oh. We may need to make two trips. Never mind, the boys can look after my stuff. Boys, this is my tutor, Dr Jones ...'

'Call me Hazel, please.'

'... who's very kindly letting me have a room. Three of you better come with us, and the other two can stay here.'

She didn't introduce them, no doubt regarding them as mere muscle, but quickly had them organised so that once half of her things were piled into my car we drove across town with a motorbike escort. Tiggy chatted happily, taking her ability to corral large numbers of young men for granted but at least genuinely grateful for my help.

It's so good of you,' she went on. 'I really don't think I could have put up with another night in that place.'

'Most people seem to manage.'

'I don't know how. It's like living in a rabbit hutch.'

'You were at private school, weren't you? Wasn't that much the same?'

'Sort of, I suppose, only I was with all my friends, girls I'd known for five years. I hated school anyway. So stifling.'

'You're school was single sex?'

'Saint Monica's Catholic School for Girls, near Arundel.'

'I had no idea you were Catholic.'

'Not me, not after having it rammed down my throat day in and day out all my life. It's all bollocks anyway ... oops, pardon me.'

'Don't worry about it. What makes you say that?'

'You only have to look at the penguins. They think they're so perfect, but it's like all the blood's been drained out of them, like they're not alive. I know that sounds disrespectful, but it's true.'

'I'd have imagined you having rather a good relationship with your teachers?'

'Not at St Monica's. It was either their way, or no way. When I began to have doubts about my faith I tried to discuss it, but all I ever got was "I'm right, you're wrong". It just pushed me further away.'

'I can appreciate that.'

'And doing sciences I could see that a lot of what they were saying just didn't make sense. How am I supposed to respect somebody who says one thing in chapel and something completely contradictory in class? It's like doublethink, and we had the rest too. We used to call Mother Alicia's study Room 101.'

I had to laugh at the comparison, and just managed to stop for a red light, leaving my fingers tingling on the steering wheel. Tiggy didn't seem to notice, and as people and cars began to cross in front of me I went on.

'I don't think you can really compare a religious institution with Orwell's totalitarian regime?'

'No? It was about as just, I promise you.'

She trailed off, speaking again almost immediately.

'Do we have a choice with our project assignations?'

'I'll be putting up a list of titles, or you can choose your own so long as you okay it with me or Dr Woolmer.'

'I was thinking of looking at the effect of tourism on biodiversity along the north coast.'

'That's possible, but if you want to look at biodiversity there's a chance to study a set of organic and non-organic farms, including those implementing the directives on beetle banks and field margins.'

'That would be good, but I was thinking of dune ecosystems, even trying to see how a decline in species numbers reduces stability.'

'You don't know that it does. Remember, gather your data first, draw your conclusions last.'

'Isn't it sure to?'

'You might think so, but that's just speculation. You must always start with a clear mind, even when you're trying to achieve an obviously worthwhile goal. Let's say, for example, that there was a proposal to build a new golf course along a section of remote dune land and you needed to make a presentation against it to the county council. Simply saying that you think there's a risk of destabilising the dunes and therefore of flooding isn't going to make much of an impression on the people making the decision, who you can be sure will be thinking of finances and votes ahead of the environment. You need to present solid data pointing towards a significant risk, preferably a risk to human interest so that it will affect them.'

'And if my conclusions are that there is no risk?'

'Then you have an ethical dilemma, but if you present weak data you're just going to end up looking foolish and, remember, business interests can always hire scientists to look at your figures, so they'd better be good. Getting back to your project, yes, it's a good idea but it will take a lot of work and may not produce clear results at all. Don't let me put you off though. It's a difficult project, but that will be taken into account for your final mark.'

She nodded thoughtfully and I returned to concentrating on my driving as we moved away from the lights. The centre of town was busy, but after a frustrating few minutes I was clear and decided to bring up my main concern about her lodging with me.

'I mentioned house rules, and I think we should have them clear from the outset.'

'I'm happy with whatever you decide on,' Tiggy said casually. 'It's your house.'

'It is, and I'm glad you see it that way. The first thing is guests. I don't want to seem fussy, and your friends are always very welcome, but I need you to use your discretion when it comes to those you've only recently met, particularly non-students, and I don't feel comfortable with the idea of men staying overnight.'

'That's fine. Let's just say nobody at all unless I talk to you first, and that way there won't be any problems.'

'I don't think it needs to be that formal.'

'Really, I prefer it that way.'

'As long as you're sure, but I don't want you to feel that I'm placing unfair restrictions on you?'

'You're not. I'm fine with that, really.'

It wasn't what I'd expected, just the opposite, in fact, but she was always so outspoken that it was hard to imagine her saying it just to please me. I felt immediate relief, now sure that the arrangement would work, yet coupled with a mild but irritating sense of disappointment. There would be no lying in bed listening to her making love, and nothing to spark the vivid fantasies that were becoming an ever more important part of my private world.

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