National Association of Women...Ch. 04

The National Association of Women University Deans Part I

Sharon came to a stop at the intersection leading from her house. Across the intersection was the car of Dr. Ortiz, heading in the direction opposite Sharon. Sharon turned and nodded, only to be greeted with Marta's knowing smirk. Sharon with a Black man, Marta noted. Going to be away for two days. Ah yes, the convo speaker. Speaking about Nigger-something. Marta had not planned on attending any of the lectures. Suddenly she felt the need to attend this week's faculty symposium.

"That was the director of Health Services," Sharon informed Race. "Probably making one of her famous house calls."

Meow! thought Race.

* * *

"Let it go, Sam," Dave advised his partner for the umpteenth time. The two of them sat in their cruiser, watching as Sharon and Race got in her car and drove away from the Vinchelle residence, only to have Marta Ortiz arrive moments later.

"Look at them," Sam had groused. "The wife goes off with a nigger, and the husband plays house with a spic. And we're supposed to look up to them!"

Dave sighed. He'd listened to his older partner complain like this for four years. At first he shared Sam's indignation. College kids he expected to be wild. Even at a girls' school. But the sexual promiscuity of the faculty had shocked him. Especially the older faculty. But they were campus cops, not city, county, or state. Well, technically they were also deputy sheriffs, but their main function was to patrol Lydia Sampson College, make an occasional beer bust, and make certain most of all that none of these precious darlings was raped. Five years of this, Dave figured, and he could transfer to the Department of Public Safety. One year left.

He stole a sidelong glance at Sam. Why was he so angry? This was a sweet deal for man in his fifties. A beat with no crime and a good pension. Just ride it out year after year. So the faculty is a bunch of sexual perverts who can't stay out of each others' pants. They're Sixties people, for gawdsake! If they had fucked each other silly in their teens, why would they stop in their forties or fifties? They're just a bunch of overaged hippies who never left college, aren't they? Besides, they aren't so snooty they don't throw pussy his and Sam's way now and then. While neither of them took advantage of the offers when together, Dave did use his solo patrols enhance his sex life. It is a girls' college. Lots of pussy in their twenties. He stayed away from the undergraduates, but the grad students were fair game. And he had had a professor or two ... or three. But never a dean. He wondered if Sam did the same, and all this complaining was merely cover. Real or cover, it was old--real old. One more year.

***

Sharon swung the car into the campus loop, most of the buildings being within a large circle with a radius of a mile, defined by the road. To the outside of the loop, a belt of trees and shrubs had been allowed to grow wild, creating a dense wooded barrier between the town and the gown. Sharon dutifully pointed out the library, the tallest building on campus; the administration building; the student union; the various department buildings; where Race would be speaking each of the following three days; and, sorority row. This brought them to Lydia Sampson Hall. Unlike yesterday, Sharon drove up the service entrance, parking in the rear of the building.

By the time the drive had reached the library, Race had his hand on Sharon's thigh on top of her skirt. As she pointed out the three venues for his lectures, Race's hand progressed to her knee, under her skirt, up her thigh, along the garter strap and into her bush, but not her pussy. When she stopped the car and turned off the engine, her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel in the 10-2 position.

"Recline your seat all the way back," he commanded. Sharon did so, the seat now being nearly level. Race lifted her skirt onto her stomach, exposing her pussy framed by the garter belt and the straps. He bent over and sucked the outer lip nearest him.

"Yesssss!" Sharon hissed as her pussy flooded.

Race sat up. "Inside." He got out on his side without waiting for her response. As he opened the door that led to the kitchen, Sharon plastered herself to him. They made it as far as the living room where Race pushed her onto a couch, pushed up her skirt and rammed himself into her. He had really intended to wait until that evening before fucking her, but the situation had changed. Or rather it was clarified. No jealous husband being cuckolded; no ambiguous sexual situation with the dean.

He swabbed the inside of her mouth with his tongue, registering the taste of a cock other than his. He subconsciously decided that the next time Sharon kissed her husband, the Frenchman would taste Black cock in return. He noted mentally that Sharon did not flinch from kissing a mouth tasting of cunt--her cunt!

Sharon tightened her pussy around Race's cock, throwing her hips up to meet his. Every now and then, Race would press his hips against her bush, moving his nappy nether hair against her vulva. This caused her to shiver with many mini-orgasms. Fucks like Jacques, Adelie said. Wrong! For the first time in her life, Sharon was experiencing a different type of orgasm--a never-ending series of little ones that relieved and then re-built immediately. Even when Race buried himself in her and came, he continued moving against her, eliciting more mini-orgasms.

Race lay on top of her for several minutes, moving against her, enjoying the feel of her cunt gripping him, her legs wrapped around him. Some prude! He kissed her again, ignoring the taste of cock. Pulling out, he continued to kneel between her legs as he unbuttoned her blouse. She could barely sit up enough to reach behind her and unfasten her bra. Race pushed the cups up just as she undid the clasp and attacked her breasts, sucking one nipple, then the other, raking the aureole with the edges of his incisors. Sharon grabbed the back of his head with one hand, a breast with the other, and fed herself to him, humping her vulva against his now deflating cock and pubic hair.

Race was now sucking her tit with a passion, rubbing his crotch against hers. She grabbed his head with both hands, wrapped her legs around him again and threw her cunt against him, the mini-orgasms now combining into the Big One.

"Aiieee!!!" she screeched again. She rolled them off the couch and onto the floor, her on top. Straddling him, she continued to move her hips against his, fitting his cock between her cunt lips so that she could rub her clitoris against him, even if he was no longer erect. Race let her ride him this way for several minutes, nursing at one breast then the other. When he sensed her orgasms lessening he flipped her onto her back and knelt over her, licking the underside of her breasts, her stomach, .

Soon they were in the classic 69 with Race on top, his face buried in Sharon's cunt. He did not particularly like eating his own cum, but it was not something he had not done before. He really wanted to eat Sharon's pussy, though, and he grovelled at her trough, semen and juices and all. She likewise cleaned his cock with her tongue, enjoying the taste of cum and her own secretions, a combination she had tasted often. She got Race hard again and soon they were making the beast with two backs again. Only when Race collapsed on top of her in a dry cum did they realize they were out of breath.

Race rolled off of her and the two lay side by side on the carpet, legs entwined, their hands on each other's inner thigh. When they were able to move, they sat up and removed the rest of their clothing, then helped each other upstairs to Race's shower.

***

Sharon rubbed her pussy, smugly thinking what Lucinda or Adelie would think of her if they could see her now. Laying on the bed of a Black man she'd met only yesterday, her pussy thoroughly sucked and fucked and washed and fingered by him. And they were going to do it again in a few hours, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. They might even still be doing it now if he was not a mere man. Their peters do require a period for recuperation, she mused. Prude. Uptight. Hah!

Race entered with her luggage. He looked at her, reclining on the beach towel he'd used to dry her after their shower. Reubens would have painted her that way. He sat on the bed and kissed her, breaking the kiss to mouth her breasts, lick her stomach and flick her clit.

"You're a damn good fuck, dean," he said. "I'd like to stay in this room with you for the rest of the week, but I do have a purpose for being here, and you're not it."

Sharon pouted. "Can't you call me Sharon? Dean is so formal. I mean ... we've passed that stage, haven't we?"

"Yes and no. Referring to each other formally prevents slip-ups in public. As long as you're Dean Vinchelle and I'm Mr. Blackmon, we don't have to worry about calling each other 'honey' or 'darling.' Bad form if we're both available. Could be embarrassing if your husband is standing behind you when you call me your Mandingo sex god."

Sharon smiled and stretched, arching her body. "You are my Mandingo sex god."

"Yeah, but you don't want to be heard saying that by the undergraduates at convo." He looked at her. He really wanted to jump her bones again--right now--but knew that time as well as physiology dictated otherwise. "I still haven't had breakfast. How about you fixing an offering for your sex god?"

Sharon swung her legs to the edge of the bed, sitting up and leaning on Race. "I thought I was your offering."

Race kissed her lips lightly. "That's what I mean, dean. If you want to be a nigger's bitch, you've got to do what he tells you. Now put something on and fix me something to eat."

Sharon smiled, feeling like a co-ed half her age. A nigger's bitch. "Okay, my man." Instead of opening her suitcase, she left the room, naked.

Race shrugged. Even Adelie had acted giddy the first day they spent together. Adelie!!! Race picked up the phone and dialed her.

"Effingham State University Humanities Department, Office of the Dean," came the pleasant greeting.

"This is Horatio Blackmon. I need to speak to Dean Hennings."

"Hello, Race," the phone purred. "Can't you at least say hello?"

"Hello, hello, hello, now get me Dean Hennings."

"You don't even know who this is, do you, Mr. Blackmon?" the voice pouted indignantly.

"No, I do not," Race answered, exasperated. "I do know you're a very impertinent young woman who might be looking for another job after I speak with your boss. Now get me Dean Hennings."

"My, aren't we high and mighty," the voice cooed. "I don't think my grandmother will fire me, Mr. Important Visiting Lecturer. But you can be sure I'll never suck you again!"

Granddaughter. Athena! The memory of the only grandmother-mother-granddaughter session he'd ever had flashed into his mind just as Adelie's raspy voice came online.

"Race, what's going on out there?"

"Everything's okay, Adelie," he assured her. "Was something going on between you and Prof. Vinchelle."

There was a long pause on the line. "Not a relationship, Horatio."

Race noted the formal use of his first name, as well as the long pause. "Well, Dean Vinchelle seems to believe there is one, and she was not happy about it."

Another pause, not as long as the first. "You mean the little bitch is jealous of little ol' me?" The sarcasm could not hide the glee in her voice.

"I wouldn't say it was jealousy," Race replied, anxious to bust her bubble. "You deans have some sort of code, about fucking each others' husbands only with permission or something?"

"Not really," Adelie said, nonchalantly. "Just professional courtesy, so to speak." Another pause. "Does Sharon think I'm trying to steal Jacques?"

"I don't know. I'm new to all this higher education shit. Everybody being so damn formal during the day and giving every one tongue baths at night. Whatever's going on between you and the professor, his wife ain't happy about it. Seems you picked this morning to let her know about it."

This time the pause was as long as the first one. "Maybe I was not judicious in by choice of words, or my timing," Adelie admitted. "But I know Sharon, and I know Lucinda. I knew Sharon would not take the e-mail well. I just wanted her to know that you were an excellent convo speaker first, and that you were well versed in the ... other academic pursuits of us deans."

"Did you have to tell her that I only ate pussy as well as her husband?" Race now sounded piqued.

"Race, dear boy, that is a compliment. No man can surpass Prof. Vinchelle in that department. To be considered his equal is high praise indeed."

"Well, Dean Vinchelle did not like the fact that you had a basis for making a comparison."

"What comparison?" The voice came from behind Race. He turned to see Sharon wearing a shirtwaist dress, the same tan as her skirt.

He held up the handset. "Dean Hennings. I thought I needed to inform her of developments before she called the local gendarmes."

Sharon walked over to the phone and pressed the speakerphone button. "Good morning, Adelie. Or is it afternoon there?"

"Sharon. Thank god! You gave me a fright. Scared me out of a year's growth. Not nice for an old woman like me. How's Jacques?"

Race marvelled at the feigned civility between the two. If they had been in the same room, he was sure blood would cover every wall.

"He's about the same as the last time you saw him. Could you tell me when that was?"

Every wall.

"The last time I saw you, my dear. Sorry if that upsets you. Just wanted you to know what an excellent convo speaker you had."

"Thank you, Adelie. That's why we younger women look up to you."

Meoooow! thought Race. Bitch! thought Adelie.

"Oh, by the way, Adelie," Sharon continued. "Mr. Blackmon is much better at eating pussy than my husband." She paused to hear Adelie's response. Hearing none, she continued. "At least better at eating mine. And he's bigger. Not longer, just bigger. Not by much, but enough to stretch my mouth. I guess he couldn't stretch yours."

The dull buzz indicated that Adelie had hung up.

Race looked at her with resigned exasperation. He had wanted to find out exactly what Adelie had said. From Adelie. He had wanted to get Athena back on the line. He had wanted to arrange to see Athena and her mother Aurora together, and then with Adelie. A 19-year old, a 42-year old and a 67-year old, all great fucks, together again. And he enjoyed just talking to Adelie. His stomach suddenly reminded him that he never finished his breakfast. "Food, woman," he growled.

Sharon kissed the top of his head and hugged him. "I like it better if you call me 'bitch.' "

"Food, bitch!" Race complied.

Sharon smiled, kissed him, then went downstairs.

***

"You really need to come to the clinic for a tetanus shot," Marta advised, concerned about the scratches on Jacques' back. They were in the bathroom of the master bedroom, Jacques' robe gathered about his hips as he sat on the closed toilet seat. Marta had not believed him when he said he needed medical attention, thinking this was just a ruse to get her to come to his home. Seeing Sharon with a Black man going the other way, and remembering that she would be gone for two days, Marta thought she and Jacques would have two days at the Vinchelle home. She was unprepared for the medical situation she found. "That bitch!" were the first words out of her mouth.

"Don't you have something in your little black bag?" Jacques asked.

"Doctors no longer carry little black bags," she informed him. "And we no longer make house calls, either."

"But you are here, my dear doctor," he said, stating the obvious.

"But that is because I thought you were inviting me to tend to your cock, now that you wife was making herself available to someone else."

"I am confused, doctor," Jacques continued. "I quite plainly said I needed medical attention. And I thought you preferred tending to cunts, not cocks."

Marta looked at him, wide-eyed. "As many times as I have had your cock in my mouth, not to mention others that you have witnessed, what makes you think that?"

"I have also seen your face buried in nearly every cunt on campus over the age of forty. And you never sucked me unless my cock was coated with some woman's fluids, especially my wife's. In fact, Dr. Ortiz, I've never seen you take a cock like a woman, although I've enjoyed the many times I've seen you take a woman."

"You're a bastard, Jacques Vinchelle," Marta replied calmly. "But then, you are a man, and all men are assholes. Even you Frenchmen. Here in America, you fuck a man, and he thinks he owns you. Even if you are a doctor with years of education and the ability to heal, and he is a dumb cop who barely graduated high school, he thinks he owns you just because you let him service you. And you educated men are worst. Especially the deans here. I hoped you were different. I hoped you understood a woman has needs, needs that it takes a man--no, a male--to satisfy. Without entanglements. I do not need a man, but I do need cock. I thought you understood, and were willing to service me."

Marta had donned her coat, and gathered her things as she spoke. She looked at him in a cold, professional manner. "Now, if you will get dressed, I will drive you to the clinic and properly dress your wounds."

Jacques looked at her quizzically. Convinced she was a lesbian, he had never thought twice about her, except to marvel at her oral skills for one devoted to the love rites of Sappho. He pulled her to him and kissed her. She returned the kiss, without passion. He knelt before her and raised the hem of her skirt. He kissed the inside of her thighs, alternating until he reached the crotch of her panties. She lifted a leg, placing the crook of her knee on his shoulder as he moved the crotch aside and licked her lips. She leaned back against the washbasin counter, partially raising her other leg. Jacques moved the panties farther away from her crotch, pressing his face further into her.

"This isn't going to work," she said, pushing him away. She removed her panties then went into the bedroom, hiking up her skirt as she lay on her back with her legs spread. Jacques followed, standing between her legs as he studied her pussy. She was quite hairy, dark hair covering her crotch and mons, reaching back to the crack of her ass and trailing upwards underneath the tail of her blouse. He let the robe fall and took his cock in hand, guiding it to her cunt as he lowered himself onto her. As she wrapped her legs and arms around him, sucked his tongue into her mouth and squeezed her cunt around his cock, Jacques knew he had been quite wrong about her sexual orientation.

To be continued...