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There will be plenty of opportunity to explore the new world you've created and you decide that you want to be in familiar surroundings tonight. Accordingly, you lock up your office and head towards the taxi rank just a couple of streets away from the college, whence you normally take a cab home. However, your route takes you past Sorority Row (formerly Fraternity Row) and you see something which makes you stop in your tracks.

At the end of the street which opens onto the road is a rank of rickshaws operated by one of the sororities. The sisters are dressed slightly differently from the other students you've seen, wearing backless, halter top mini-dresses in the sorority colours and trainers. A large sign reads:

Sorority Rickshaw Rides – Anywhere in the city
Pay what you want!

You reach into a pocket to find some change to put in the collection bucket under the sign, but one of the sisters runs forward to assure you that university staff always ride for free. You start to tell her your address, but it seems she already knows and beckons the first rickshaw to come up to you. The runner is a sporty-looking blonde with mid-length hair done up in a bun, who has a broad smile on her face as she positions her vehicle for you to embark.

You settle into the seat and notice a long whip in a holder on the side. Clearly, the hairstyle and revealing frock are intended to facilitate a rider whipping the runner if she is too slow or the ride too bumpy. You have read that in the nineteenth century, pulled rickshaws were regarded as the most dangerous and degrading occupation a human being could pursue; adding the option to whip the runner hardly makes them any less so, which tells you that the sorority is deliberately making the job as difficult and unpleasant as possible for the girls doing it. After all, they could have used faster and easier-to-operate cycle rickshaws if this were just about making money.

The fit blonde is puffing a bit as she hauls the vehicle up the incline towards your home. You're making reasonably good time, since the human-powered conveyance is permitted to use both bus and cycle lanes, allowing it to cut across the park and through the pedestrianized zone to the end of your street. As the exhausted girl slows to a halt at your front door, she is panting for breath and looks so pale and sweaty that you fear she may throw up from the exertion. However, when you alight, she manages to gasp out "Thank-you for using Sorority Rickshaw Rides, Professor. Please travel with us again," before turning the rickshaw around and heading straight back without taking even a moment to rest.

You marvel at the pleasing way your use of the Rulebook has changed attitudes and customs. There is no way that the proud and progressive sororities would have put their members through such an ordeal before, but now it is accepted as perfectly normal behaviour for a young woman to engage in public servitude. Taking your keys from your pocket, you walk up the path to your house, glad to be home.

Opening the door, you are greeted by a marvellous aroma of home cooking. You stop on the threshold, wondering what is going on, when a delightful figure steps from your kitchen into the hall in front of you.

Even by the standards of women attending the university, she is stunningly beautiful, peaches-and-cream complection framed by midnight-black ringlets piled high upon her head to expose an elegant neck rising out of a french-maid style outfit. She is tall and slender and could easily be a model or starlet, but your Rulebook-implanted knowledge tells you that this is Imogen, one of your grad-students, who have formed a rota to do your housework and look after your domestic needs. You suppose this could be viewed as important training for a life after college, rather than a pedagogue taking advantage of **** labour from his students, but you wonder how widespread the practice is.

You are jerked out of your musings by a melodious voice saying "Welcome home, Professor. Your dinner is in the oven and will be ready in about twenty minutes. I've cleaned the house and tidied the garden, so is there anything else I can do for you in the meantime?" She steps towards you, head coquettishly to one side as she adds impishly, "I mean, anything at all, Professor."

You close the door behind you and take a seat in the drawing room, beckoning your unofficial maid to follow and then pointing wordlessly to the floor at your feet.

Imogen beams her pleasure and virtually runs to throw herself to her knees in front of you. Licking her lips, she leans forward, eager to discover what you want from her.