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“It’s like this big storage room in the basement where people sometimes go for privacy. It’s got a combination key on the outside and you can like shut it with a bolt on the inside.”

She glanced significantly at Mr. Jones and continued. “So when we got there we both like pulled down our pants. Mosy was very ready and I was, too. He showed me how to like sit down on him and took care of the details. And we started doing it.”

She seemed to have run out of things to say. I wanted to ask her what they had for lunch, but thought it best to wait.

“Then what happened?” someone prompted gently.

“Then, I don’t know. It was kind of like vigorous motion. Then I felt this feeling go through my whole body, right into my bones. It made me feel strange to myself. When I came to my senses, I said, ‘Please, Mosy, please stop, please.’ But Moses wouldn’t like let me get up.”

Mr. Jones, shaking his head and smiling self-consciously, interrupted. “You kept saying stop but you wouldn’t get off me.”

“You wouldn’t let me.”

“Please, Mr. Jones,” Professor Athol admonished. “You’ll have your turn. Ms. Spronger, please continue.”

“I mean he’s like a wheelchair marathoner and he’s got these powerful arms and he just like kept me in place and I gave up trying to stop.”

After a moment of silence, during which time it was more or less established that she had completed her version of things, Professor Athol, who is chair of the subcommittee, asked, “How sure are you that Mr. Jones understood your request to stop?”

“He had to. He was like right there. I mean you can’t get any closer.”

“Were you facing him or did you have your back to him?” Izzy asked.

“I had my back to him.”

“Could you tell me what you had for lunch?” I asked, drawing puzzled stares and frowns from the other members of the subcommittee.

Ms. Spronger shrugged. “I had rice.”

“From a restaurant?”

“No, I made it myself.”

“Is this really pertinent?” Ariel Dearth asked.

“It could be very pertinent.” But glancing around at a majority of puzzled frowns, I realized the morass of skepticism I would have to slog through to get to the facts. I decided to interview them privately as soon as I could. Like a cross-examining attorney, I shook my head. “No more questions.”

Mr. Jones spoke next. His account accorded pretty much with what Ms. Spronger had to say except for his motivation and who would or would not desist during their congress. While admitting, like her, to a sudden, inexplicable impulse to have sex, he added a note of righteousness, saying, “I thought if I could show her what she was missing by messing around with other women, I would be doing the work of the Lord.”

He said that while he did hear Ms. Spronger use the word stop, he was unable to lift her considerable bulk off his lap, especially as she continued “to squirm around like she was really into it.” He continued, “Then I really shot my wad. I mean I had an ejaculation like man …” He was shaking his head.

“Then I told Bobbers okay. I mean she should get off, I mean off of me. I said I’d had enough. I tried to push her, but she had grabbed the arms of the wheelchair and wouldn’t let go.”

“That’s not true, Mosy, and you know it.”

“Please, Ms. Spronger, allow Mr. Jones to continue,” said Professor Athol. “Mr. Jones …”

“Then, I don’t know. I never did lose my woody, so we were into it again. You know what I’m saying. I think she was coming again.”

From the rest of his account, events apparently continued in that fashion for some time before the couple, sexually exhausted and horrified at what had happened, were able to separate and make themselves presentable.

“What made you stop finally?” Ms. Brattle asked.

Mr. Jones shrugged. “I lost my woody.”

“If the arms of the wheelchair were lowered,” Izzy asked, “how did Ms. Spronger manage to stay in place?”

“I only lowered them halfway down.”

By this time I was in an agony of interrogative anticipation. I had a dozen questions I could have asked them. What did they have to eat? Where did their lunch come from? How long after they started eating did