The Sensual Life Ch. 03bycaramelgirl_2©
Chapter 3: College Life- Mason Riley
By the middle of the semester, Dylan and I made a regular habit of getting together. Marcus was still his roommate, but most of the time, we had the room to ourselves-- Marcus was spending most of his time with his new, asexual, (aka, boring) girlfriend at her dorm. While I couldn't help but wonder what Marcus would find to do with his new girlfriend to stay at her place, Dylan and I made good use of the privacy and Dylan left me little time-- or breath-- to think of past loves lost.
I suppose you could say Dylan and I were dating-- we did spend time going to the movies, going out to eat, and things like that. Maybe we weren't any little less conventional than most boyfriend/girlfriends, but a lot of our time together surrounded one subject: Sex--thinking, talking, and doing. That was probably why I felt so comfortable with Dylan. My relationship with him was the first of its kind since Perry.
To make better use of our obsession, we took Marcus' bed and put it together with Dylan's by double tying the adjacent inner legs of each bed together with bungie-cords. I would strip the bed, stuff a thick blanket lengthwise between them, then put the fitted sheet over it to help hold them together. We thought it was rather ingenious, if not fool-proof, and we tested the limits of our invention vigorously.
There was one particular afternoon, at Dylan's dorm that marked a turning point in my life. It wasn't very dramatic. It wasn't about what happened. It was all about the thought process it began.
It was a Sunday evening, we had our books out, all over the conjoined beds. Dylan had an exam for his Criminal Justice class and I had one coming up for 19th Century Art. Dylan was a bit anxious about his, but I wasn't too worried about mine. I had a 4.0 average in all of the subjects I'd taken in my major and was chosen to work in the slide library as a side advantage of this achievement. I knew my painters, sculptors, works and eras well beyond what we'd studied in class. So I was trying to help Dylan study for his exam instead of my own.
While he was read the highlighted sections in his textbook, I read through his syllabus to see what I should quiz him on, I looked up to see if he was ready to start, when I noticed he had a very distinct hard on.
"What the hell are you reading?" I asked Dylan. He looked up at me with those sleepy green eyes, the way they got when his mind is wandering.
"Your cock is hard. I knew you liked law, but I didn't think police codes were all that arousing."
"Restraints," he said, in one word, throwing the book aside, getting up to look in the little refrigerator across from his bed. His dick angled up and out from his crotch making a respectable tent under his sweatpants.
"Restraints?" I said, asking him to get a chocolate milk for me. "What about 'restraints'," I added.
He threw me a milk, and got one for himself, opening it up and chugging it down before I even got the lid off of mine. "I think you'd like them."
"Restraints? Is that all you got out of your reading?"
"Yeah. Restraints." he replied. "Have you ever thought about getting tied up? To the bed? Or even a chair," he said, winking at me.
"Not really," I said, taking a sip of my milk.
"The thought of having your naked body tied to my bed, helpless and no way for you to get away from me...no way for you to stop me from doing whatever I want to you.... THAT made me hard."
"What's the big deal about it," I asked, not quite understanding the attractiveness of the idea. "I give you what you want anyway," I chuckled, shifting my book on my lap.
"Yeah," he answered, laughing. "Marcus was right, you little slut," he said jokingly. I giggled, but I wasn't sure I liked being called that, even in jest.
"So that turns you on?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said, tilting his head to one side and nodding. "I never thought about it until now. But, yeah. It does."
I shrugged my shoulders and took another sip of my milk, then set the container on the floor. "Doesn't do a thing for me," I replied. "But your hard cock sure does," I smiled. He smiled back and moved towards me, his crotch a little above my eye level. He held the back of my head gently and I placed my hands on his ass cheeks, then nuzzled my nose in his crotch, letting his cock, straining against the cotton jersey of his pants, thump against my cheek. I looked up at him with my brown eyes wide and wicked.
"Damn," he said with a sigh. He looked down at me with a sleepy look in his eyes, "You are so fucking hot," Study session was over.
Now this little comment of Dylan's about "restraints" wouldn't have meant very much if I didn't have an encounter with someone else who had the same interests.
As I mentioned before, I was awarded a part-time job in the slide library of the art department as a result of my GPA. This required a lot of late hours and some fraternizing with the faculty. One of the professors with whom this fraternizing went a bit further than normal was Professor Mason Riley. Mason was one of the younger professors, in his mid thirties, and well on his way to being tenured. He was a big brain. It was well known that he was something of a prodigy--he entered his first juried show before he was 19 years old.
Perhaps these factors accounted for his being a bit more avant-guarde than any other art professor. Like how he wore his hair. For class, he would put all that mass of shiny black hair up into a bun-- yes, a bun-- looking something like a trimmer version of a Samurai. There was even a name for the male art students who emulated Professor Riley. They were known as "The Bun Men".
So the Tuesday after Dylan and I had our "study session", I had to do a late shift in the slide library. No one else was around, but I had a key to the building and the room. It was easier to get my work done, in solitude, without interruptions.
Sometimes, if it was past 9:00 p.m., a guard or two would pop in, making their rounds, but usually, I was alone. That night, while filing and amusing myself-- singing off key to the tunes on the college radio station-- I felt a presence at my side. I almost jumped out of my skin. It was Professor Riley. His hair was down, out of the bun, and it was long, gleaming under the florescent lights, and falling in thick locks that curled down to his shoulders like snakes. No man should have hair that beautiful.
"Excuse me," he said, "I didn't mean to startle you, but can I bother you for a minute?"
"Sure," I replied, catching my breath.
"I was wondering if you could take a look at something for me?" He was wearing a smock which looked incredibly dorky, but it must have done the job because his jeans and shirt were spotless. The only things splattered with paint were his boots, and his smock. "I'm working on something and I just need an objective eye. Just for a moment."
I followed him down the corridor to the room he was working and there was a painting of a woman reclined on a chaise, satin draped around and across her naked body. Her arms were above and over her head, slung backward and her hands were together, bound by something I couldn't quite decipher.
"How does this look to you,?" he asked, hovering his finger in a circle over the lower arm and hands. "Does it look natural, to you?"
"Um," I said, cautiously, "I'm not sure,"
He watched my face. "Come on," he said good-naturedly. "Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. I can take it."
I tilted my head to one side, then to the other, and when he stepped aside from the painting to let me get a closer look, I went closer, and looked, then stepped back when I thought it polite enough to do so.
"What do you think?" he asked eagerly.
"Well," I replied, "To be honest, I don't know what it should look like. I mean, how exactly are hands positioned when they're tied together?
His eyebrows scrunched together and I thought I had done myself in with that response. "I suppose that's a fair answer," he said, standing back from the painting again. "I think you hit on something, though," he added, moving to where he was standing next to me. "You mention 'tied hands'," he said, and he looked me in the face, holding his chin with his hands. He stood with one leg stretched out in front of him a bit, bearing most of his weight on the opposite leg. There was space between us, but there was the feeling of something there, something full and electric, even though there was only air. "I want the impression to be 'bound hands'. There's a difference." He looked at the painting and back at me. He seemed to be taking in my entire face and whatever was behind it. It wasn't disconcerting , but it made me feel something I couldn't really describe. Maybe it was a feeling of being known without knowing.
"Do you know what I mean?" he asked. I shook my head. He smiled and laughed a short, quiet laugh that was endearing, if a bit condescending. "I'm sorry. I'm talking too much. And keeping you from your work."
I shrugged. "That's okay."
"No, it really isn't. I should probably make up for it by helping you, since you helped me."
"Oh, you don't have to do that," I replied, not seeing where I helped at all.
"Yes, I definitely do. It's exam week anyway. We can work on the slides and get you out of here at a decent hour so you can study."
With that, Professor Riley actually led the way back to the slide library. We sorted through the piles of returns and new orders and my work was done in only an hour. Since he was an artist, and I loved art, he couldn't get through the process without commenting on one slide or another, holding it up to the light and talking about it. He'd seen many of the works in person, whether they were in Europe or the US, which was fascinating for me. It was like my own personal lecture with benefits.
"There," he said when the bin was finally empty and the last slide filed. "Finished."
"Great. Thank you. I really appreciate your helping me," I said, happy to get out a bit earlier. Dylan wouldn't be too disappointed either.
"Not a problem. Now we should probably get you home. I can drop you off. It's not safe walking around campus in the dark."
"No, that's okay. I can call my boyfriend to meet me."
"And then, you have to wait for him to get here, and then you have to walk all the way back. That takes time."
"He won't mind," I replied, shrugging my shoulders as I gathered my things from beside the secretaries desk.
"Ah, but we have to make sure you get your rest. I want to make sure you ace your exams," he said, with one hand running his long fingers through his hair. "How else can I be sure you'll be working in the slide library the next time I need my inspiration unclogged?" he said, jokingly. His eyes were sparkling. Dark, intense eyes with the light seeming to pooling within them instead of reflecting off of them.
After grabbing our belongings and locking up everything in the building, We walked to the edge of the faculty parking lot where his car was parked. He opened door of his vehicle for me just as he had opened the doors of the building for me-- being only twenty-one, I found that particularly new and charming.
As he drove out of the parking lot, he asked, "So who's your favorite artist?"
"You are," I said, with a sly smile.
"That'll get you points, I can't deny it," he replied, laughing. "Seriously, though."
"Miro," I replied, and proceeded to tell him why. It was getting late, and when it gets late, I fall to one of two extremes, gabby or silent. This time I was favoring the gabby side. After my long discourse on why Joan Miro was my favorite artist, Professor Riley nodded his head.
"My," he said, "You really do have the eye of an art critic. Promise to be kind to me when you're out in the real world."
"This isn't the real world?" I asked.
He shifted the gear of the vehicle and turned to look at me. "For me it is. For you it isn't."
"I think I want to know more about the real world," I said, glad that I had given directions to my dorm instead of Dylan's.
Professor Riley smiled. "I'd be happy to show you," he replied, turning into the entrance to Kepler Hall, where the room I was supposed to sleep in every night was.
He walked with me up the pathway to the door, standing a respectable distance away from me.
"I feel better now," he said, "knowing you're home safe." Looking up at the building, most of the lights were off in the windows, but a few still glowed a warmer glow than the one of the moon against the evening sky. "I should probably stop here though, or people will talk."
"I understand," I said. We were both silent for a moment, until he turned to walk back to his car. "Thanks Professor Riley."
"Not a problem," he replied. "And please, call me Mason. I only make people I hate call me Professor Riley," he said. Then he took my hand and squeezed it. "See you soon."
When I climbed into my bed that night, I forgot all about Dylan expecting my call. My roommates were asleep in their own beds, but I was lying there thinking about the evening, wondering what had just happened.
I thought about the professor's voice, his hair, where he had been, and the touch of his hand over mine. With all that thinking, it wasn't long before I had an overwhelming desire to cum. I moved my hand down my body, but stopped short when I heard one of my roommates stirring. It was impossible. After months of being able to be as loud and wild as I wanted to be in Dylan's bed, I didn't know how to cum quietly. Still gloating in Professor Riley's presence and touch, feeling he'd left the imprint of his hand on mine, I rolled over and fell asleep.
That night I had a dream, one of those vivid dreams that you try to hold on to for as long as you can, but eventually have to wake up from. I was lying down somewhere, my fingers parting the lips of my pussy. I let my fingers run along side the island of the inner lips and rubbed the dark pink flesh until the thick juices oozed out and over, onto my fingers. I could feel them trickling down out of my slit, crawling slowly down to my ass and onto the surface I was lying on. I moved my fingers so that one rested at the opening of my pussy, the other resting at the hooded head covering my clit. I began grinding my hips slowly, rubbing with just enough pressure to make my body quiver. I closed my eyes, and imagined I was being taken. I was the woman in that painting, my body gyrating under the long trail of satin, letting the fabric rub between my legs without making it wet, letting it glide over my breasts, teasing my dark brown nipples to hardness. Then, like a sudden invasion of light, my hands were hers, perfectly painted this time, the color of my caramel skin instead of fleshtone. They were in the process of being bound-- not tied-- and thrust behind me. Someone was blowing the tips of my fingers, making the juices from my cunt evaporate and cool in the air. In contrast, my pussy felt like it was on fire. I looked down and there were flames in place of my pubic hairs.
I felt the winding and tugging of the rope tighter around my wrists, then felt fingers parting the lips of my pussy, cooling the fire as the breath on my finger tips did. When I looked up to see who was performing this service, I saw no face at all, then, it came in clearer focus. It was Mason Riley. The ends of the hair on his head actually were snakes, wriggling and darting their tongues. Mason moved in closer, resting his head on my smooth brown thigh. As he head was positioned close to my crotch, one of the snakes from his hair thrust its head inside me and squirmed its way inside me. My belly bulged with the movement of that snake inside me. My pelvic muscles tightened, and my belly felt overwhelmed by a wonderful sensation that made me feel light and heavy at the same time, a sickly swirl in my stomach,, until a flood of juices rushed from my body, and everything faded to black.
In the morning, I looked up and saw all my roommates were gone. I reached under the t-shirt while lying under the covers and pressed my fingers to the lips of my pussy. Not only was I soaking wet, but I'd actually left a bit of a wet spot underneath me, as if I had wet the bed. I sat up to get out of the dampness and looked around the room. There was a message on my desk that said, "Call Dylan!" written with a big black marker that still sat next to the note.
I picked up the phone and dialed his number, but there was no answer. Just then, there was a knock on my door.
"Lah! It's me, Dylan!"
I opened the door and let him in.
"Where the hell have you been?" he asked. "Where were you last night. I waited all night for when to come get you?"
"I got a ride home. It was late. I was tired," I said, scratching my head. I was still tired. I felt like I was hungover. That dream wore me out.
"Who from?" Dylan asked, shutting the door and sitting down in the chair at my desk.
"Professor Riley," I replied.
"The 'Bun Man'?"
"He's a freak," Dylan grumbled, staring at me. He was tapping his foot on the floor. He wasn't too happy with me.
"He's a nice guy," I said, answering and ignoring his comment at the same time while pinning up my hair, getting ready to go to the showers. " He helped me get my work done."
"Well, next time, call me...instead of riding with the Bun Man," he said, grabbing his crotch to adjust himself and tipping the chair back.
I stood in the shower and let the water run over me for a while to wake myself up. I watched the water pool at my feet. I thought about graduation being just a semester away. I thought about Dylan. I thought about Professor Riley. Maybe I did need to know more about the real world. And maybe it was time to give up the key to Dylan's dorm.
Every Tuesday evening for two months went similar to the previous one. I was alone in the slide room for only a few minutes when Professor Riley would stop by. He asked for my "critical eye" on his "woman with bound hands" painting and then he helped me file slides. Each time he dropped me off at my dorm. It became the only night of the week I didn't spend with Dylan, and I made no excuses for not doing so.
Then one particular Tuesday evening, the professor walked in the room and immediately started helping me file.
"Hey, this is out of order," I said, jokingly. "We're supposed to check out your 'bound woman' first."
"She's home," he replied. "I took her home to work on for a while."
We filed slides in silence, which was rather unusual for what I was used to. I wondered if something was wrong. Then, once the last batch of slides were filed away, Professor Riley spoke up.
"Ayilah," he said, shutting the file cabinet, "How about going for coffee before we call it a night? My treat."
"Sure," I replied, hoping to clear up any problems there might be between us. His silence had been a little disconcerting.
We drove all the way to the opposite side of town, and it was dark by the time we arrived at our destination. It was a small cafe, with drop-down lights and fabric strewn along rafters, hanging down like curtains.
I ordered a vanilla chai and Professor Riley ordered an espresso. I made a face when he ordered, and he noticed.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "How can he order espresso and go to sleep at night?" he smiled.
"No, I'm thinking how can you order espresso at all," I replied, smiling back. He was begining to act like his usual self.
"Ahh. I'll show you," he said. When the waitress arrived, the professor thanked her, then dipped the tip of his index finger in the demitasse cup. He then held it to my lips. "Taste." I scrunched up my face again in distaste. "No, really-- taste it."
I put my lips to the tip of his finger, where the brown liquid stuck there with a bit of a gleam. I let the tastes settle in my mouth on my taste buds, to see if I could get a sensation from it other than just bitter.