The Sensual Life Ch. 03bycaramelgirl_2©
"It's smoky, dark, with a rich body to it," he said in a low voice that had a gravelly tone to it. "And yet it's sweet." He looked at me with those dark eyes, waiting for a response he knew he wouldn't get, at least not in words.
After an hour or so of talking and a drinking a few more cups of chai and coffee, we got up and browsed the cafe, which had artwork on the walls and a few sculptures positioned on podiums and small tables throughout the cafe. Mason had helped some of his students get there work installed there, but he didn't tell me this (or which ones were from his students) until after I had commented on them. I told him what I liked, what I didn't like-- one piece I didn't like happened to be his favorite, a still life with bright, garish colors and too much red for my liking.
"I tend to like bright colors muted down to blend with more somber colors." I said, pointing to where I thought it needed it. " That would even out the mood of the piece and makes more of a commentary on the psychology of each color. That's what this painting needs," I said.
"You don't think that would fight the theme of the painting?" he asked.
"Theme? The theme of that painting is 'no-theme'. That's the whole problem with it. It needs a life! Some contrast!" I replied.
He laughed. "I like the way you think." he smiled.
We looked at some of the other paintings and talked, mostly about painting, until about 11 o'clock. It was getting late, and although my classes weren't until late Wednesday morning, I figured I should get home. We were on the opposite side of the city, and it would take at least 30 minutes to get home and then I could get a little studying in before I went to sleep. Professor Riley suggested one more drink, "for the road", and I ordered a latte, thinking it would keep me awake for the ride home. "Make that two," he told the waitress. His silence had been broken, perhaps by all the caffeine, and we didn't seem to run out of things to talk about.
The lattes arrived, and conversation was winding down, with those little gaps that seem to float in the air without time. I was getting a bit sleepy, despite the latte, and I guess I missed my mouth taking one sip A bit of foam sat on my lower lip. Professor Riley raised his thumb to my lip and wiped it off, gently.
"You have beautiful lips," he said. "Soft and full. Men must love kissing you," he added.
"Umm, I don't know. I guess so."
"So sure about the paintings, not sure about how you kiss?" he commented, with a chuckle.
I thought sure I must've blushed-- even if I was too dark for it to show, he could see it in my eyes.
Then he gave an odd, breathy sort of cough and tilted his head a bit, looking at the table and back at me. "I have to confess something to you," he said.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I masturbated in my office today... thinking of you." He was looking at me, full in the face, his dark eyes sparkling but a little glazed over. I felt my limbs weaken, and that sickly swirl in my belly.
He must've seen the initial look in my eyes because he immediately said, "I'm sorry. I hope I didn't alarm you," he said.
"No," I said, holding my cup. I wondered if he should know. I wondered where this was going. He was a professor. I was a student, soon to be a student no longer, but a student right now, nonetheless. Wasn't there something on the books about this? Couldn't he get in trouble?
Then I told him. Honesty and desire overrode reason. I told him about the night he took me back to my dorm, after the evening we formally met. I told him that I had masturbated too, about the dream I had, about his painting, and me being the woman in the painting.
"Obviously it's been on both of our minds," he said. His leg brushed up against mine, and stayed, pressing gently against it. "Let me ask you this. What would you think of coming home with me tonight?" he asked.
"I only live two blocks away from here," he said. "My studio is there as well, and," he added "If you're not comfortable there, you can go home."
I weighed the circumstance for a few seconds. It was a shorter drive than home, and maybe I could get a second wind while I was there to make the drive back to the campus side of town. Then, there was a bit of curiosity. Like what exactly could happen?
We got into his car, and he navigated the dark streets, occasionally looking over at me. His hand caressed the back of my neck, then rested on my thigh. Neither of us said anything, but there was no time for awkward silence, as his house wasn't far from the coffee shop at all. We stopped on a side street of a quiet urban neighborhood in front of an old Victorian style house with peaks and pointed roofs. He opened the door for me and led me up the walkway and the stairs to through the front door.
"My studio is upstairs," he said as we walked through the front door into the foyer. A hallway light was on ahead of us, up the long staircase that trailed around an unseen corner, and he started up the stairs, so I followed.
He flipped another switch and there we were. The room took up the entire second floor. It was as if the walls of every room that had originally been upstairs had been leveled to create a space that was wide and almost endless. Windows surrounded the room on all sides except for the wall to the inner hallway, and there were no curtains on them, just shades that were pulled to various positions of open and close. A piece of fabric trailed along the top ledge of the windows, connecting them visually, and draping down at the end of each outside window.
There were tables splattered with paint, with cans and tools and all sorts of painterly items crowded on them. Chairs were scattered about as well-- wooden ones and the kind you would see in a living room, with cushions and afghans. In the corner of the right side of the room was a table with a single floor lamp sitting next to a bookcase. In front of the bookcase was a large, red, circular-shaped air mattress. A collection of large and small throw pillows in various colors and shapes were lying at the head of it.
The "woman" was propped up on a large wooden easel at the left side of the room.
He put his jacket and saddlebag down at the tables on the left side of the room and I followed suit. When he turned around he said to me, "Take off your top and your bra." Just like that. No formality, and in a very stern voice. The way he said it, there was nothing for me to do but to do just as he said. I pulled both of them off, feeling awkward and a bit chilly once I had done so, until he looked at me. His eyes followed my neck, my shoulders, my breasts, down to my belly. "Dark and sweet," he murmured to himself, though it was loud enough for me to hear it.
"Lie over there," he said, motioning towards the large red cushion. I walked over to it, topless, slipped my shoes off my feet, and laid down. "On your back," he directed, "Head against the pillows."
He was standing underneath a lamp, running his hands through his hair so that it smoothed away from his face, but it was so heavy, it fell back, with dark strands falling in his face against his pale skin. He was standing under a hanging lamp, and the strong lighting animated the tone of his skin, increasing the warmth of his cool features, the sheen of his hair.
He sat in a chair on the left side of the room facing me, unlacing them methodically, occasionally lifting his head from the task to look over at me, laying on the mattress.
It was if we had both been transformed by walking through the doorway of that room.
He walked over to me in his stocking feet and stood beside the mattress, his eyes moving across my body, then he squatted on the floor next to the mattress. He held his hand out, and tentatively touched my breast. Then he cupped it, leaned over and took my nipple into his mouth, and sucked gently. I gasped, my body arching up just a bit, then back down. His hair was soft, splayed across my chest. I wanted to touch it, but I knew I shouldn't. He didn't switch to my other breast, but continued sucking and tonguing the one, never releasing his lips, sucking harder and harder until I cried out from the soreness it was creating, but he didn't stop. His hand was resting on my belly as he sucked. He was silent. All I could hear was his breath.
His hand moved down and unfastened my jeans, unzipped them, and slid underneath my panties, straining against the fabric and fasteners until it reached the desired destination. I pictured his pale fingers-- long, slim, and neatly manicured-- as they deftly slid down until his hands cupped my pussy, pressed between the crotch of my panties and jeans and my cunt, my wetness oozing onto the palm of his hand as he rubbed gently. He lifted his lips from my nipple. I felt his saliva evaporating from it. There was no sense of pain present any longer. It throbbed like a pool of water releasing ripples after being disturbed by a stone.
In my panties, he bent his middle finger. He looked full into my eyes at the very moment he began rubbing clit. He rolled the palm of his middle finger on it, using my juices to ease the circular movement that he would stop and start all at the hint of my eyes glazing over. It was as if I was fainting and coming to again. Whenever he saw my eyes sinking far away, he straightened his finger and slid it between the lips of my cunt where the nerve endings were less sensitive. I wanted his finger to go inside me, but he wouldn't. I didn't ask. He seemed to have control of me, and I liked it. I whimpered and moaned and he intently watched every expression on my face. With his right hand, he ran his fingers through my hair, as the left worked diligently below. I started to grind against his hand, but he gave me a look I immediately understood to mean "Stop it", so I did stop as quickly as I began. When I did, he smiled at me, whispered, "Good girl", then waited a bit before he continued. There was something about his words to me, just those two words, that took the place of any action at all. I felt a chill through my body, even as he "punished" me, by holding off my gratification. When his finger teasingly dipped its tip into my slit then rubbed my clit, my whole body shuddered, starting in the center of me and shooting up my body like an electrical shock. I trembled and moaned a long, loud moan that almost turned into a shriek. I was trembling all over and I came in such a rush of pleasure that my limbs tensed until they ached, my pussy glued to his hand by an invisible force, my juices running over his hand as I cried out in pleasure. Mason's eyes never left my face, his finger never stopped rubbing my clit, even when I wanted him too, and I felt another orgasm rack through my body, making my legs bend up, my body fighting against his hand, and it was such an odd feeling of pain with pleasure that I started weeping.
It was only then that Mason stopped, but I was too overwrought to notice right away. When I did, I looked up and he was standing over me, wiping the hand that had brought me to orgasm with a towel.
He had a smile on his face that was both wicked and smug, a glint in his eye that he too was satisfied, but not spent. He walked over to the table, away from the bed, and began removing his clothes. He definitely hadn't been unaffected by the recent activity. His cock was rigid, not at full attention, but almost. He stroked himself as he walked over to the bed.
He laid next to me and whispered, "Take off your jeans and panties, love." His voice trembled. I didn't think I had the energy to, but I lifted my hips off the bed and made use of the way the remaining clothing I wore had been stretched and pulled away from my body by his ministrations. As I squirmed out of them I felt Mason smoothing his hand over my ass, cupping one ass cheek.
We both lay on our sides and he pulled me close to himself and held me so that he could whisper in my ear. I felt his cock on my thigh, but as much as I desired him, I wasn't sure I could take anymore.
"You," he said, his breath hot against my ear. "Are a very sensuous woman. That should not be wasted on little boys."
And as if to show me the difference-- between men and boys-- Mason never penetrated me that night. I could feel the firmness of his cock against my ass and thighs as we slept, but he refused to do anything. His hands rested on my side as we slept, my body spooned into his until morning.