The Sensual Life Ch. 04

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Ayilah's relationship with her professor continues.
3k words
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Part 4 of the 7 part series

Updated 10/26/2022
Created 10/02/2005
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Chapter 4: Ayilah's

The next morning, I woke up to sunshine streaming in through the tall, curtain-less windows. The cross of the panes were making shadows that stretched in diagonal lurches onto the hard wood floor. Things appeared to be the same places they had been when Mason and I arrived the night before. There were only two differences I could see in the room: A quilt was draped over me, and Mason's boots and saddlebag were no longer sitting by the table and chair.

When I rolled my head over the pillows, I heard crackling, and something hard, but flexible cutting into my cheek. A piece of paper, lying on the side Mason had been on, now I had rolled over to it. The note read:

"Didn't want to wake you. Will be back to take you to campus."

I got dressed and walked down the flight of stairs to the first floor. It smelled of fresh coffee. I let the scent lead me to where it was, the kitchen. Searching the cabinets for a cup, I poured coffee from the pot, and sat at the little table that was set against a wall. I looked at my watch. It was still morning. I should have been concerned-- about getting back to campus, studying, Dylan...any number of things. Instead, all I could think of was last night. At a moment of extreme pleasure, I had cried.

Why the hell did I cry? I replayed the scene in my mind not as it was, but imagining the worst possible aspects thatcouldhave been a part of it: A snotty nose, puffy eyes, running mascara.

None of these actually happened. It wasn't exactly that kind of crying. And I always made a point of wearing waterproof mascara, even when I did expect to cry-- like at a chick flick I found stupid but endearing.

How embarrassing. Did I ever cry like that before? In front of someone else? During sex? Odd. What bothered me most was the feeling I had, at the very moment the tears started to fall. I felt like I had lost something that I couldn't get back, and if I couldn't get it back, I at least wanted to know what it was I'd lost. Sitting there, sipping coffee in the solitude of Mason's kitchen, I was getting angry.He'd made me cry.

I went back upstairs, with the cup of coffee, and looked around the studio. There were painted canvases stacked against each other on one side of the room, blank ones at another. Cans of paint were stacked in a corner, next to a metal filing cabinet. I walked over to the cabinet and pulled the middle drawer open. Inside were several tubes of pigment, along with a few small bottles of varnishes and glazes. When I pulled the drawer above it open, it contained more of the same, except there were more thinners and varnishes, and less tubes of pigment.

The top of the file cabinet was covered with old coffee cans, without their lids, so full of paint brushes that the the brushes all stood up straight rather than leaning. Their bristles were stained, but they were soft when I ran my fingers over them.

I looked over at the bed, then to the bookcase beyond it, then walked over to the bookcase. Pulling out one book, then two, my fingers flipped through them, anxiously perusing the contents. Color theory, Abstract Expressionism, Foucault. There was nothing on the titles or the contents that gave a hint to who Mason was beyond what I already knew.

I heard the front door shut. I looked at the way the sun streaked through the windows. When I looked over at the doorway, Mason was standing there, a paper sack in his hand.

"You're up," he said cheerfully, setting the bag on the table that was near the bed and the bookcase. "I brought you breakfast. I see you found the coffee," he said, pulling out the contents of the bag and setting it on the table, beginning with two small jars of jam, then placing a croissant in a napkin. "These are hot. The bakery makes them fresh every morning." He opened a jar and slathered the croissant he set it the napkin with jam, and handed it to me, all wrapped up and steaming.

"I'm not really hungry," I replied, putting the book back in its place on the shelf.

He stared at me, blankly. I stood up, my arms folded, then tried to relax them, slipping my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

He twisted his lips in an funny way, and nodded. He stood there for a moment, with the croissant held at a distance from himself in his hand, as if whether to bite into it or not was a huge decision. Then he set it down on the table, letting the jam ooze off of the pastry onto the napkin and table.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said, feeling a certain sense of satisfaction. "I just want to go. I have classes."

"You don't have classes until this afternoon. You have a couple of hours."

"I have things to do," I replied curtly.

He reordered his stance, shifting a foot forward, looking at the floor, then at me. "I thought you might want to talk about last night," he said. His eyes were a lighter brown in the sunlight. They were soft and calm. He didn't look like anyone to be feared. Yet I had a trepidation inside me that made my legs weak, and not from pleasure.

"No, I just need to go," I said, gathering the courage to walk by him, but I didn't make it all the way passed him. He grabbed my arm gently.

"This isn't what I expected from you."

Thatmade me angry-- the coffee must've kicked in, and, what I perceived as logic at the time, woke up.

Most of the time Mason's air of condescension seemed merely incidental, a result of him being naturally older than me, and very intelligent. But at that moment-- maybe because I felt bested in an area I'd never been before-- it felt like purposeful, patronizing behavior.

"What'sthatsupposed to mean?" I asked. I snatched my arm back, almost hitting him in the face in the process. He was about to say something, when I did it. I made the bumbling blunder. "What? Are you afraid I'm going to tell someone what happened?"

Mason was standing, his one leg forward, looking a little startled. With one hand, as if to calm himself, he hooked his thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. With the other, he held the back of his head, towards the nape of his neck. "This, isn't aboutme," he said calmly, looking pensively down at the floor, then up at me again, staring me straight in the eye. It was then that I noticed how bushy his eyebrows were, how the distance between them and his eyelids made his eyes look bigger.

"Oh, yeah, right. Like you didn't tell me you masturbated in your office so you could fuck me?"

"Jesus," Mason tipped his head to the side, letting his thick hair fall forward, scratching the scalp absent-mindedly with his finger tips. Then he lifted his head, so his hair swept out of his face a bit. He held a hand to his chin, then held his hand out, as if presenting the issue on its surface. "Ididn'tfuck you. And if all I wanted was tofuckyou, I would've done that last night, no?"

In a voice that sounded more hurt than I wanted it to, I asked, "So whydidn'tyou?"

Mason was quiet for a moment, then laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. He took a bite of the croissant that he had set on the table, and rolled up the top opening of the paper sack, leaving it there on the table as he walked towards the door. "Come on. I'll take you back to the dorm."

"You didn'tanswerme," I replied.

"I'm taking you back to the dorm," he said firmly, but-- surprising to me-- rather calmly, and headed down the stairs, leaving breakfast on the table.

I didn't see Mason for almost three weeks. For me, it was the roughest three weeks I'd had in my four years at university. Midterms, finals, and papers are what's supposed to give students the most stress. Not me. Sex. Sex gave me the most stress.

Not seeing Mason could have been a relief. I wasn't forced to choose between him and Dylan, and more importantly, I didn't have to deal with what being with Mason had caused me to feel. But what should've been a relief wasn't, because, in keeping with the winds of karma, Dylan picked these same three weeks to make his exit from our relationship.

All of a sudden, I was around-- every day, including Tuesday-- and Dylan wasn't. I called his dorm: No answer. If he did answer, the conversation was shorter than if I had dialed a wrong number.

He'd been somewhere, the times he didn't answer the phone, but he didn't volunteer the information. And I didn't ask. Wasn't I the one who pulled away first, intentionally or not? It's not a familiar quip, but it should be: He who pulls away last wins.

I was hurt. And I was alone. So for three weeks, I pretended. I pretended I hadn't stiffed a boyfriend for a new possibility. I pretended I hadn't had a clandestine relationship with a member of faculty. I pretended I hadn't had a monumental orgasm with that member of faculty who knew more than I did about art and wasn't hard to look at either.

I worked on papers, did my job in the slide library, and met with my advisor. That gave me the shock of reality I needed. Although she didn't know what I was experiencing personally, she was quick to give me every reason not to be dwelling on sex and men as my senior year was coming to an end. After leaving her office, I had three post-graduation job interviews to prepare for, in addition to the final papers, projects, and exams I already knew were coming. Graduation was only a two months away.

All that work didn't give me much time to think, but the moments that I did, I thought about Perry. Everything was so simple and innocent back then. I wondered if he'd lined up as much baggage as I had in four years?

By the end of those three weeks, I had given Dylan his key back and was a regular resident in my own dorm. My roommates weren't too happy because they had found other uses for my designated space, but they retreated to their own areas without a fuss.

I was getting used to the living the normal life of a single collegiate female until the following Thursday, when I saw Mason. It was in the hallway, while I was on my way to a class. I was walking to the line of rooms he was coming from. The hallway was a bit crowded with students making their way to and from classes. Our eyes met, and while I'm sure they lit up, something real heavy sunk into my belly. We were about three people apart and without a word said, we both stopped in the middle.

"My office, 2:30" he said to me in a calm voice, as someone walked through the large space between us. I wanted to turn around, wanted to see him walk away. I wondered if he noticed I was breathing faster, even in those few seconds. I felt foolish, and a little ill, afraid I looked too eager, afraid he alreadyknewhow eager I was to see him again.

When I got to class, I chose a seat against the wall, towards the back of the room, instead of my usual near front and center. The wall felt cool against my cheek. It was little consolation. My stomach gurgled all through class, my mind clouded with wondering just what would happen at 2:30.

What should I do? Should I apologize for being an ass? Should I just quietly walk out before he dumped me? Wait a minute. Dump me? Were we dating?

Too many questions, not enough answers. The "critical thinking" they impressed upon us so much in university wasn't working here.

When my class was over, my body couldn't decide whether to run out of the room or wait to be the last one out the door. I chose a pace that was somewhere in between.

I arrived at Mason's office, walking the squared corridors, around a few corners, to a room with notes and clippings pasted to the door. The door was closed, so I knocked.

"Hey," he said, opening the door, his hair in the requisite bun. A few stray hairs were falling out of it. "How are you?" he asked, taking me in, smiling. I was wearing a short plaid skirt, black tights and army boots, a light pullover sweater, and a jean jacket. It was spring, but it was still a little chilly for the season. I looked around his office.

"Fine," I replied with a nod, tucking my hands in my jacket.

"Busy time of year," he said. "Probably for you more than me, with graduation around the corner."

"Yeah," I said. "Pretty busy."

"I was out-of-town," he said, taking notebooks and textbooks out of his saddlebag. "A conference in Connecticut." He placed the items from his bag to the places he had assigned for them on his desk and the little book shelf next to his desk . "Bad time of year for a conference. But it was a good one."

We were both still standing, me just barely on the inside of the door. He reached behind my waist to grab the door knob and I felt his arm brush against me. I shuddered.

"I like what you're wearing," he said quietly, pushing the door so that it was still slightly opened, then quickly added, "Are you free this evening?"

We stood in the corner where the inner edge of the door and the wall met. I looked up at him, with wide eyes, relieved that he even asked, not realizing he was backing me up against the wall.

Before I could answer, I felt his hand go up my skirt, rubbing one, rounded, black tight-covered ass cheek. Stray hairs fell out of his bun, into my face, and along my neck, tickling it as he let the top of his head rest against the wall I leaned against. I felt his breath and mine, warm, filling up the space between us, his hand, moving from my ass to my crotch. A finger weaseled its way through a tiny rip in the crotch of my tights. It was insistent, widening the hole, then inching around the elastic leg of my panties until it found the lips of my pussy. I gasped, audibly, as my pussy tingled. I felt myself getting wet.

"You," he whispered to me, "Are a very bad girl."

He foraged against the resistance the elastic and nylon of my clothing posed until his finger was successfully inside my pussy. He let it rest there for a moment, his hot breath on my bare neck, then he began moving his finger, slowly, in and out of my moist, dark hole.

"You made me think of you-- that beautiful dark skin, those lovely brown eyes... that lovely round ass--every night while I was away."

'I made him?' I didn't get that. I also didn't care that I didn't, but just whimpered softly, feeling my juices moistening his slim, pale finger as he squeezed my other ass cheek with his hand.

"I could've fucked you that night, just like I'd like to fuck you now," he continued in a low voice, and I knew I hadn't been the only one regretting the morning after our last meeting. He was using his thumb-- which rested on the outside of my tights-- to balance the finger that was slowly moving in and out of my pussy; But that thumb was also resting strategically on my clit, which it softly massaged, just from opposing movement. I shuddered, then moaned softly as I felt myself on the verge of cumming.

"I could've fucked you then, and I could fuck you now," he repeated. "But I won't," he said, and he abruptly lifted his head from leaning against the wall behind me and stood so he was looking me full in the face, with searing dark brown eyes.

He pulled his finger out of my cunt and rubbed his slim, pale finger on my lower lip, leaving a damp trace of my own juices there. Then he put that same finger in his mouth, slid it out again, and quietly sucked off whatever taste of me was left on it. Then, he kissed me, alternately sucking on my tongue, gently, then letting his tongue lick the roof of my mouth. I could taste the smooth, tangy flavor of my pussy juices in the mingling of our saliva.

"Iwillhave to make you ask for itproperly," he said.

Then he pulled away from me, leaving me dazed. Except for an absent-minded rub of the front of his jeans, he appeared to recover quickly. 'Ask for itproperly'. What did that mean?

"Meet me at the shuttle stop behind your dorm," he said, very business-like. "At 9 p.m."

And that was it. He opened the door quickly, as if we had merely been discussing a grade on a paper. He would've squashed me behind it if I hadn't gathered my wits quickly and shuffled to the side.

As I walked out of his office, down the hallway, I looked down to see my skirt was still flipped up in the front. Thank god no one else was around. I hurriedly flipped it down, smoothing it down self-consciously over the top of my thighs. I felt how the fabric stuck to my tights and my mind clicked. The tights. There's a hole in my tights that wasn't there before.

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5 Comments
AnonymousAnonymousover 13 years ago
loving this part

just gets better and better! I want to know what will happen. This seems sort of real in a way but Idk why as I usually don't get that vibe with stories.

AnonymousAnonymousover 15 years ago
Lovely

I love the intellegence of this. very teasing and the build up is wonderful

AnonymousAnonymousabout 18 years ago
That's so sexy!

Umh Umh Umh! Delicious!

AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
So Now its about Feeling?

"You know I could've fucked you that night but I didn't". So now you're trying to turn it into a love story that has some meaning? It's very nice to know that all her male lovers are either black jerks or white guys that get tired of fucking her black ass and move on to something else. God you make this person sound pathetic! She doesn't have any girlfriends, no real family, she keeps to herself, she has no real relationship with any of the guys she fucks( she never really dates them anyway). Can't we just get back to the sex please!?

AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
Thank You

I love your stories. All of them are well written and creative. PLEASE don't stop writing.

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