National Association of Women...Ch. 01

The National Association of Women University Deans Part I

"I'm going to fuck the nigger," Prof. Sharon Vinchelle announced to her husband as she stood at the door of their study. Her husband, Jacques, looked up from the stack of essays he was grading, nodded imperceptibly, and returned to his work. His wife turned and repaired to their bedroom, where the telltale buzz of her vibrator informed the male professor that he would be spending as much time that evening with his face buried in his wife's pussy as he was now buried in his students' papers.

***

The "nigger" Prof. Vinchelle intended to fuck, Horatio Blackmon, known to his friends and lovers as Race, was surfing the internet holdings of Lydia Sampson College from his suite at Sampson Hall, the guest house for visiting scholars, as his host was announcing her intentions to her husband. If he had been present at the Vinchelle home, he would not have been surprised at either the announcement or the reaction. Six months into his book tour, he was now well aware that academia's sexual passions were second only to its academic pettiness. And at small colleges like Lydia Sampson, both reached their peak. Every professor seemed to make it a point to have a liaison with one of their students each semester/quarter/term, as well as having an ongoing affair with the spouse or significant other of his/her academic rival. Bedding the visiting professor or artist or writer was another coup, lessened somewhat by the fact that such visitors, well acquainted with the sexual mores of academia themselves, fully expected sex to be provided with the honorarium.

Race had been more than surprised six months earlier to find the dean of the humanities department at the first college he spoke at waiting for him in his room afterwards. He was shocked when she attacked him as soon as the door was closed, unfastening his pants, pulling out his member and engulfing it as if she had not been fed for days--no, weeks. Race experienced a myriad of emotions simultaneously and in seriatim: fear that he would be accused of attacking the dean; shock that such a prim and matronly white woman of such position was now positioned on her knees with his very black cock stuck in her pasty face; pleasure, for a blow job is a blow job. And the dean's enthusiasm was due to lust not deprivation. She sampled a different dick each day of the week--her husband, her graduate assistant, two seniors for whom she was faculty advisor, the husband of the dean of the arts department, and several of the townies. However, all of them were white, and Dean Harkin had promised herself she'd lose her racial virginity before her fiftieth birthday. That was her primary reason for suggesting the college invite Mr. Blackmon to give a convocation on his book "The Niggerization of America."

As his climax approached, he did not know what to do. Race was no stranger to blow jobs, or to having his black cock being sucked into some white female's face. And Dean Harkin was not the oldest white woman to bestow this beneficence on him. But this was a college professor! And the dean of one of the more prestigious departments of this college! He couldn't just grab the sides of her head and fuck her mouth, could he? He couldn't run his fingers through her eloquently coif, making her his bitch, could he? But she was already on her knees, his cock in her mouth, her tongue laving its head. If Race knew anything about white women--and he knew a lot--he knew they all wanted to be treated as the bitch slut of some Black stud. The Mandingo Factor he had called it. A full chapter in his book. Besides, he really needed to cum.

He dropped his briefcase and his keys, which he had held onto throughout the dean's ministrations, ran his hands through her hair, loosening some of the hairpins holding it in place, pulling her back until only the head was in her mouth. Tilting her head back, he looked down at her sternly as his seed began to spurt into her mouth. She returned his gaze, locking her smeared lips just back of the crown of his cock. They remained like that for several minutes, until he had cum completely and she had swallowed it all.

When he was finished, she licked him clean and started to rise. He pressed her shoulders, keeping her in position. "I need to fuck you," he said.

The word "need" was crucial. Dean Harkin had not known what she was going to do when she entered Race's room. She knew she wanted to be fucked by a Black man--this Black man. She knew that no man could resist a blow job--especially one of her blow jobs. Not wanting to face rejection and humiliation, yet not knowing how to seduced a Black man, she had used the same approach she used with her students--introduce them to her skill as a fellatrice then use her position to both silence them and engage them further. Only with Mr. Blackmon, she had no such position. Three days from now he would be gone, probably never to see her again. What if he did not enjoy her attentions. What if he didn't find her attractive. After all, she would be fifty in a week. And not a Cybil Shepard, Cher, or Raquel Welch fifty. No, she was short--really average for a woman--full-hipped with almost no waist. While not ugly, she had never turned heads. Her marriage, while not devoid of passion, was more of convenience. Her affairs came about because of her position, first as a grad student, then a professor, then a dean. She regretted nothing, but fooled herself neither. she wanted this Black man to fuck her--no, not just fuck her, but want her--need her.

Race held his limp dick to her mouth. She flicked her tongue at it, then wrapped her perfectly manicured fingers around the shaft, pulling the head back into her mouth. Gently sucking it, like a baby nursing, she brought him to full randiness. Race pulled his cock from her mouth, pulling her up with him. He half-guided, half-pushed her into the bedroom, pushing her onto the bed. He unbottoned the top of his pants, pushing the pants and his boxers to his ankles. Dean Harkin began unbuttoning the jacket of her suit.

"Leave it," Race nearly barked. She looked at him confused. "Just hike up your skirt."

She complied. Race spread her legs and stepped between them, looking at the pantyhose veiling his destination. He reached for the waistband and pulled them roughly down her legs, taking off one of her pumps, and peeling the nylon skin off that leg. He placed his hands at the back of her knees and forced her legs back, nearly doubling her over. Kneeling on the bed, he pulled the crotch of her panties aside, and slid into her easily. He knew as soon as he was fully into her that he was her first Black man.

He lay still, letting his cock twitch inside her as her cunt adjusted to him. From her labored breathing he knew she was experiencing that psychological orgasm women have when they have crossed some psychological frontier. First fuck, first orgasm, first cunnilingus, first sex outside of marriage, first fuck with someone significantly older or younger, first fuck with someone of the same sex, first fuck with someone of a different race, or social class, or educational level. First fuck with your clothes on. First fuck after the first divorce. First fuck just to be fucked. So many firsts, so few men.

He placed his forearms on either side of her head, shifting his weight to them and his knees as he began pistoning in and out of her. She lay there, letting him have his way with her, not realizing that her cunt was contracting and releasing him in rhythm with his thrusting. After several minutes, he buried himself inside her and stiffened. She realized he had cum. He continued to lay on top of her until he became soft, then rolled off of her. He sat on the bed and removed his pants, boxers, shoes and socks.

Dean Harkin didn't know what to do next. She had come to Race's room to be fucked by a Black man. And fucked she had been. It wasn't what she'd expected, but she really didn't know what she'd expected. Race wasn't any bigger than all of the white men she'd had. He didn't taste any different, not that cocks taste good in the first place. He wasn't a better fuck, or a worst one, although doing it fully clothed was a new wrinkle. She realized that her expectations were racist, yet felt cheated that they weren't realized. Sort of the same experience she had fucking townies or working-class types. A cock is a cock, and race doesn't make for a better fuck any more than class.

Race stood, grabbed her arm, and pulled her out of the bed, practically dragging her to the bathroom. He pulled her panties below her knees and sat her on the basin. He wiped her clean, then looked at her.

"Disappointed?"

She looked at him blankly,

"The nigger didn't live up to expectations." She blushed, deeply. "Look, Dean Hark ... Do you have a first name?"

"Lucinda."

"Look, Lucinda. ... Do they call you Lucy?"

"I hate being called that!"

"OK, Lucinda then. I'm your first Black man, right?" Lucinda nodded. "You're not my first white woman. Most of the white women I've had I was their first, maybe their only, Black man. It's like taking a virginity. Most women expect me to be hung like Mr. Ed, to last for hours, and to make them see stars and hear the chorus of the angels. Sorry. I'm a man. Just a man. Like any white man, except a different color. I like to think I'm a decent fuck. I'd like to fuck you again, tomorrow. I'd like to eat your pussy. I'd like to suck you tits, and lick your body. But I'm not promising you anything better than what you just got."

As he spoke, Race removed her pantyhose and continued to rub her pussy. Lucinda assessed her position. She was a rather dowdy woman just shy of her fiftieth birthday sitting in the wash basin of the bathroom of a guest at the guest quarters of her college with her panties at her ankles. She had just sucked that guest's cock and let that guest fuck her. She had wanted to fuck a Black man and she had. Now that Black man was very decently offering to eat her pussy, bathe her body with his tongue, nurse at her breasts, and fuck her again. She looked at Race, and realized that she had never kissed a Black man. When she broke the kiss, she wondered how they had moved from the bathroom to the bed, and whether the fact that his dick was inside her pussy meant that it was tomorrow.

***

That was six months and seven women deans ago. Race did all the things he said he would to Dean Harkin. And more. When he left Waverford College at the end of a week, Lucinda Harkin not only could testify to the sexual prowess of at least one Black man, but she gladly notified her academic sisters who comprised the National Association of Women University Deans, a small and select group of college professors who had risen within academia to head various departments at various colleges and universities, most of them small colleges such as Waverford and Lydia Sampson. Race was booked for a week each month for the remainder of the academic year at one or another of these colleges or universities. His book became a required text, to the joy of his publisher. And Race found there were no shortage of upstanding, seemingly prudish college professors only too willing to drop to their knees and taste black cock for the first time.

Race knew he would be fucking Dean Vinchelle when she picked him up at the local airport. She had that NAWUD look: fortyish-fiftyish, slightly overweight, medium-length hair in a nondescript style, wearing a skirt suit, hose, heels, single strand necklace, stud earrings, powdery make-up and too red lipstick. No one's sexual fantasy. But the sparkle in her eyes as she extended her hand to him, and the first words out of her mouth confirmed his belief.

"Welcome to Lydia Sampson College, Mr. Blackmon. Dean Harkin has told me so much about you. I hope your stay here is a pleasant as it was at Waverford."

Race shook her hand, returning her smile. "Thank you, ... Ms. ..."

"Dean Vinchelle. I head the Women's Studies Department."

"Thank you, Dean Vinchelle. Are you a member of the National Association of Women University Deans?"

"A founding member."

"Then I can assure you that you I will find my stay here very pleasant. I've found that your organization's members are both professional and gracious to us visiting scholars."

Sharon Vinchelle grasped only part of Race's meaning. She knew that he was making the circuit of colleges and universities which had at least one member of the NAWUD on its faculty. She also knew that he had had sex with a member dean at two other colleges in addition to Lucinda Harkin. The internet is also a gossip fence. She didn't know he had fucked every member dean at each of the five colleges he had been to, and her being a member dean indicated to him that he would fuck her too. But then she didn't admit to herself that her reason for securing his visit was to have him fuck her.

"My car's outside," she said, turning toward the entrance.

The two of them walked through the terminal, really just a large hall more suited to a Safeway, Race pulling his wheeled luggage. As she pulled out of the airport, she asked "Would you like a tour of the college?"

This was a standard procedure when a dean or professor picked him up. It gave the dean a chance to break the ice and get a feel for Race, as well as give Race a background on the college. Normally, Race would concur, but the plane ride had been rather bumpy, lasting only one-fifth the time he had to wait at the departure airport. Damn Al Queda. Besides, after five colleges in as many months, he pretty much had his routine settled.

"I'd like to save that until tomorrow. Right now, I just need to rest. But I would like to know about Lydia Sampson College."

Sharon was disappointed. She had prepared an itinerary and tour guide's speech. All prepared to be the perfect hostess, she was now relegated to chauffeur. Well, when handed lemons, one must make lemonade. Lydia Sampson Hall was a former sorority house, that sorority now being defunct at Lydia Sampson. The road from the airport to the house covered much of the route the tour would have taken, so Sharon got to give most of her spiel anyway. Who Lydia Sampson was (an antebellum abolitionist and feminist, a friend of Elizabeth Cady Stanton); the history of the college (founded as a girls' finishing school in 1854, became a women's college in 1897; accepted male graduate students in 1997; currently debating whether to accept male undergraduates); confers BA degrees in arts, humanities, education, business administration, and social work, and MA degrees in arts, humanities and social work. Ninety-three percent of its undergrads get graduate or second degrees.

Race listened silently, noting how similar these small colleges were in history and orientation. At the guest house, Sharon showed him his room, really a suite created by combining two of the dorm rooms and their shared bathroom. One room was retained as a bedroom, with the other converted into a den suitable for both research and receiving guests. Race was the only visiting scholar that week, giving him the run of the house. While Race put his luggage in the bedroom, Sharon turned on the computer and checked to make sure the phone was working. To test the computer's internet connection, she sent an e-mail to Harkin and the other deans informing them that Horatio Blackmon was now at Lydia Sampson College for the next eight days.

Race returned just as Sharon completed sending the e-mail. She had explained the phone protocols and was showing Race how to access the college's faculty directory on the computer when the e-mail notification logo popped up for Race. Confused, he looked at Sharon.

"I notified the other deans you visited that you were now here. I guess someone wants to say hello." She then opened the e-mail.

"Horatio: "Best of luck at Lydia Sampson. I know the students and faculty will enjoy your lectures. Doubt you'll score with Sharon Vinchelle. Too uptight, too much the proper schoolmarm, the prude. Too bad. An hour of your face between her legs would open the world for her as you did for me. And others. When you're through with your tour, please visit. Or let me visit you. I no longer wear pantyhose! L. Harkin"

Race and Sharon read the e-mail at the same time, Race slightly--very slightly--embarrassed, Sharon in shock. The blood drained from her face, then came back in a deep flush. First in embarrassment, then in anger. She looked quickly at Race, then away. Race took the mouse and hit the SAVE tile.

"Lucinda is a woman of strong opinions," Race said, not looking at Sharon. "Speaking of the lectures, I understand I'm to do an undergraduate convocation on Wednesday, a graduate seminar on Thursday, and a faculty symposium on Friday, correct?"

"Uh, ... yes ... yes," Sharon muttered, not fully comprehending what Race was saying.

Race turned to her. "I think I can handle things from here. Would you like for me to get you something?"

Sharon shook her head. Composing herself, she forced herself to look at Race. "If you feel comfortable here, I'll take my leave. I have cleared my schedule for tomorrow for you. My telephone number is in your telephone's memory. Just dial 1 for my office, 2 for my home. You can also dial me direct from the computer directory, just click on my phone number."

Race nodded his understanding. They walked silently to the door, where Sharon turned and extended her hand again.

"I hope Dean Harkin is right ... about your lectures." she said stiffly.

Race took her hand, shaking it coldly. "You won't be disappointed, Dean Vinchelle." He watched her get into the car: smoothing her skirt, sitting, pivoting with legs together, adjusting the safety belt, pulling into the street carefully although there was no other traffic. Very prim, very proper, very uptight.

It was fortunate that Sharon Vinchelle knew the streets of her college so well, for her mind was not on her driving. That bitch! That harpy! Too uptight! Too much the schoolmarm! Prude! Just because she didn't notch her garters to score her conquests. And she didn't need a strange Black man eating her out either. Her husband--husband!--was more than adequate in that department, thank you very much! She ought to have sex with Horatio Blackmon just to show Harkin how wide her world already was. Yes, that would show her. Fuck the negro and throw it in Harkin's face!

This last thought occurred just as she absent-mindedly pulled into her driveway. She strode into the den and announced her decision to her husband.

To be continued...