1 comments/ 2175 views/ 2 favorites Candy Girl By: DevisPixi I thought she said her name was Candy, although she looked more like a Cathy. "It's Condi," she corrected me with firm politeness, as she shook my hand. "I'm Rick Norman," I said, enjoying the warmth of her handshake. "Poli Sci from UConn." "I thought you were a historian," she inquired with an arched brow. "I'm a historian in sheep's clothing, I guess." I delivered my standard academic joke, devoid of humor to laypeople. "Well, IR is interdisciplinary by definition." She smiled and I noticed her beautiful white teeth and a prominent space, front and center, an endearing imperfection. I was surprised at her height, five-eight or five-nine, I figured. At the podium during her talk, she seemed slighter, narrow shouldered and smaller in stature. "How did you go from Denver to Moscow State University?" I asked as we made our way to the buffet table. "I flew," she quipped, laughing easily. "My advisor, Professor Korbel, helped me get the grant. It was before Soviet relations went sour after they invaded Afghanistan." We were at the Foreign Affairs Council conference in San Francisco. It was June 1988. Normally, these academic conferences become drudges for presenters and panelists, while the gathering serves as a "cattle call" for grad students looking for their first academic appointment. I don't usually meet intelligent, vibrant women with whom I want to spend time. Condi was different. "Aren't you wondering how a colored girl from Alabama becomes a Russian and Soviet expert?" she asked whimsically, forking a jumbo shrimp on a plate, passing it to me, and getting another for herself. "That issue never occurred to me," I said, as I took stock of her old-school hairdo, framing her head like a helmet. "I know that," she smiled, turning toward me to make contact; our legs, hips, and arms touched. "I'm attracted to your engaging personality." Condi was sensibly dressed in charcoal pants suit, with a button-down pale blue shirt and black pumps. There was nothing provocative or sexy about her clothing, but my libido was aroused to attention. We found a table with a collection of anonymous colleagues who seemed to know each other and ignored our presence. Condi and I partook of shrimp, cocktail weenies, cheese, and crackers. A wait staffer came around with wine and I took red, she took white. "I'm going to work for the Bush campaign after the convention," she informed me. "You're a Republican?" I asked, astonished. "Yes, my father's Republican," she emphasized. "The Jim Crow Democrats wouldn't register him in Birmingham, but the Republicans were glad to have his vote." "I've met Mike Dukakis. He's the most down-to-earth and honest politician in the country. Condi snickered, "Like a Jimmy Carter without the wealth or the peanuts?" "How can you work for people who despise you?" I challenged her. "Ronald Reagan and George Bush aren't racist or sexist," she shot back. "The Republican party has written off blacks and women since 1964. The Southern strategy is nothing but racist white backlash." "Bush is a moderate, not a conservative," she explained carefully. "Anyway, I'm more concerned with national security and foreign policy." "Well, Reagan and Gorbachev said the Cold War is over. So, why join the military-industrial complex?" "I believe in peace through strength," she responded with conviction. Her eyes reflected steely determination to argue me into the ground. If we continued the debate, she would knock me down, step on my neck, and grind me into dust. Then I would spend the evening alone in my hotel room. Condi and I pleasantly avoided politics, even though we both passionately loved the subject, as we chowed down on the chicken cordon bleu and several more glasses of wine. I brazenly asked Condi, "Married? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?" She laughed and replied, "I came close twice. Both times they were football players." Another surprise! "That seems so incongruous to me. You're a scholar, an intellectual..." "A nerd?" she added, giggling, lifting a spoonful of rice between her delicate lips. "It's just that academics and sports are different cultures." I gave her my spiel about UConn. "The two highest paid employees are the men's and women's basketball coaches." "Division 1 sports can be a great source of income for the school," she argued. For a minute, I realized that her career and mine had moved along completely different trajectories. She had risen from undergrad to grad to fellowship and full professorship in less than ten years, while I had struggled as a "freeway flyer," an adjunct instructor teaching part-time at two or three different schools to make ends meet. Not only was she probably making a lot more than I was, she was five years younger. I had to change the subject. "You went to high school and college in Colorado. So do you ski?" "Oh, no-no-no!" she treated the question as a logical absurdity. "I'm an ice skater, though." "You're good, aren't you?" I came to that conclusion rather quickly, assuming she wouldn't have mentioned it otherwise. She nodded her head, beaming, and finished chewing the last tidbit of fancy chicken. "I went to states and regionals, and I almost made it to Olympic trials." "What was your music...for your routines?" I propped my chin in my hand, and smiled inches from her face, breathing in the fragrance of a mild perfume or cologne. "The Beatles' Yesterday," she spoke barely above a whisper and held a tight-lipped smile, looking at me, but picturing an image from long ago. I imagined it, too. An elegantly athletic angel gliding and spinning on the ice. After the dinner speakers' droned laboriously about the state of the discipline and academe, I asked Condi if she had plans for the evening. She said no. I asked her if she wanted to have a drink in the bar. She said no. I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk and she said yes. "I guess I asked the right question," I joked. "Scholarship isn't about having all the answers," Condi quipped, wrapping her left arm around my right and clasping my hand as we strolled. "It's about asking good questions." We walked to a lounge area, where there was a grand piano, sitting silently, waiting to be played. Condi let go of my arm, sat on the bench, and simply started to play. I recognized Clare de Lune, followed by Moonlight Sonata. The intensity of her expression was fiery, mouthing unvoiced notes as her fingers deftly manipulated the keys. Her mind and body melded with the piano in an erotically frenetic consummation. "That was sensational," I said, though I meant sensual. "I was originally a music major." Condi confided, "I saw my future in teaching twelve-year-olds to murder Beethoven. So, I switched to political science." We talked about music, politics, and the mixed blessings of teaching college students. Then, for no apparent reason, she kissed me on the cheek. I smiled and she kissed me on the lips. It was just a soft, moist peck. I smiled again and she returned her lips to my mouth, this time with warm breath and exploring tongue. "You need to learn to ask good questions, Professor Norman." "Would you like to come up to my room, Professor Rice?" "That's the right question, Rick." Condi leaned into me, pressing her petite bosom to my chest and lightly massaging my thighs with her exploring hands. As I rose to leave, she met my manhood with a pincer motion of her fingers and laughed teasingly at me when I reacted with surprise. We enjoyed one of those elevator rides where prospective lovers can't keep their hands off each other and one of us was topless when we arrived on the sixth floor, but it was me, not her. Condi buried her nose in my swirling chest hair, caressing and sucking my nipples as I enjoyed the feel of her muscles and the aroma of her freshly sweating body. Once inside the hotel room, Condi begged my pardon to go pee. I felt awkward about taking off my pants or even my shoes and socks while she was in the bathroom, and so I just sat on the edge of the bed, literally twiddling my thumbs. Condi emerged from the bathroom and scolded, "You're not ready for me!" She ran across the room unfurling her jacket and blouse, stepping out of her slacks, and kicking off her shoes by the last step to the edge of the bed upon which I sat. With the skills of nose tackle, Condi delivered a shoulder block that laid me flat on my back, climbed onto my lap, and began to work at disengaging my belt. In ten seconds flat, she was pressing my kingly member between her palms and seemed to be inspecting it for flaws. Apparently satisfied with the adequacy of my endowment, she kissed its swollen crown and I nearly shot my issue right then and there. Clad only in her sensible plain beige panties and bra, Condi sat upright on my forelegs and busily stroked my phallus, all the while eyeing my sprout with a look of tenderness as she fondled it. Finally, she paused masturbating me to lose the underwear and she showed me her diminutive, poppy-seed breasts, her sparsely downed Venus, and flat buttocks. I reached for a tit and she pushed me, straddled my stomach, and pinned my shoulders. The lady was in charge. I felt the hot, moist, strength of her cunt, undulating against my groin. Then she kissed me with such force, moaning from deep in her soul, that I gasped. Instead of pulling off me, she covered my mouth with hers and shot her tongue down my throat, while reaching behind her butt to resume kneading my cock and ball sack. I have read the average man comes to orgasm in three minutes. That was about how much time it took for Condi to pinion me, twiddling her bulblike clitoris, as my full-length feature disappeared into her warm cave. I was looking forward to after-play, but Condi wanted to talk. "Dating is an issue for me," she said, as I studied the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks, wishing to kiss them all, one at a time. "Black men want to give me lessons on being black and white men want to give me lessons on being white." "It can't be easy for you," I said understandingly. "A lot of men are intimidated by smart, assertive women. A lot of other guys are afraid to approach you, thinking you're out of reach." "That's why I like politicians." Condi confided, "They love power. Anyone who craves power that much has to have an enormous ego and a giant-size sex drive to go with it." That was when I realized Condi was just like a power-hungry politician—and I was her whore for tonight. "To play with the big boys," she offered, "I have to be twice as good, twice as smart, twice as tough. That's the story of my life, though." Condi let me taste her delicious garden, humming sweetly as I gave her cunnilingus before switching to her most private spot, her tight behind. She squashed and pinched her nipples as I ate her ass and cunt, but was disinterested in me suckling her teats. Instead she started licking my mister man and gave me five minutes of bliss before her impatience overtook her and she yanked my dick till I filled her mouth with ejaculate, which she swallowed with relish. With efficiency and precision, Condi looked at my bedside clock and saw that it was not yet midnight, and determined, "We can screw one more time before I have to go." This time Condi let me climb aboard, locking her hands together behind her knees, so that I could impale her pussy willow with great ease. She was too composed, even with my cock thrusting between her labia, to grunt or shout, but she breathed in short spurts and her eyes rolled around wildly for a few seconds. Sort of out of character, Condi clung fast to me after we were done, displaying rare vulnerability, as our passions ebbed. "Thanks for coming," I said after she dressed. "Thanks for making me come," she said with a wink and left. The next day's conference activities drew me far from Condi's orbit. I gave a talk about my book, Trade in Conflict, and got into an uncivil exchange with an elitist free-trade disciple, who objected to my characterization of free trade as "managed trade," politically manipulated and serving the interests of multinational corporations. Meanwhile, Condi was charming the pants off high-powered IR gurus—fellows named Brzezinski, Lake, Berger—while cutting the balls off their liberal idealism. Condi barely nodded as she walked past me at the next evening's dinner reception, accompanied by a hawk-nosed, but handsome woman, whom she later said was her mentor's daughter, Madeline. So, I was surprised when she tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Remember me?" "I've been thinking about you all day." "Am I your hottest wet dream?" I nodded like a little boy whose been offered a piece of candy. Then Condi, wearing a dress, scanned the room to see if we were being watched. Satisfied of discretion, she reaching under her hem, swabbed a finger in her honey spot, and presented her essence to my nose to sniff, my tongue to taste, and my lips to keep. All she said was "ten o'clock" and she went off to confer with a couple of men who looked old enough to have served in the Eisenhower administration. At exactly ten, she tapped at my hotel room door. Condi leapt into my arms, tightly wrapping her legs around my waist and sending me hurtling backwards. We enjoyed the first fuck of the night right on the floor, mostly clothed and somewhat furiously. After I shot inside her, she squatted and rubbed her luscious, sloshing cunt all over my face. We undressed, took a bathroom break, and reclined on the bed, where she licked, sucked, and nibbled my cock while using her arms and legs to hold me down. After she swallowed down a wad of my semen, she asked if I minded a little light bondage. "I would never hurt you," I said sincerely. "Not me, silly!" she chortled. "I meant you." Condi used my belt to tie my hands to the headboard and stretched out a pair of tube socks to secure my feet. "The only thing you can touch me with is your guided missile," she quipped, as she wrapped her fingers around my shaft and lowered her umbrella over it. In the frenetic dance that followed, Condi came very close to gasping, shouting, or otherwise letting loose. Yet, in the end, she humped me till she came without losing her cool. She kept me tied up and played with my ass, cock, balls, and nipples and spoke about her mentors, George Shultz and Brent Scowcroft, at Stanford. "A couple of old fart Republicans," I called them and she slapped my erectile penis in playful rebuke. The finale was an unexpected delight, as Condi swiveled around, rubbed my instrument against her bottom parts, and took me anally. If that shafting in the back door didn't make her howl, I would do it for her. "Will you put a lid on it, sweetie? Hotel security will come and investigate." We laughed heartily. At eleven sharp, Condi left and I called my wife in Boston. "The kids are fine and I miss you," Joanne said over a crackling landline in those days before cellular became ubiquitous. "How's the conference going?" "Boring..." I lied. "I miss you, too." "Wanna have phone sex?" Joanne crooned. "What'll I do with a boner three thousand miles away?" "Save it for me." Sad to say, I didn't save anything. After morning sessions, I met up with Condi at the conferees' luncheon and she even followed me into the men's room, coaxed me into a stall, and sucked my rooster dry. Then she invited herself back to my room for a nooner, explaining we couldn't spend the last night together because she had to catch an early flight tomorrow. We hooked up for an extended-play copulation, where Condi let me mount her and I kept my gun in her holster for three rounds of coupling. "I don't even know you, really," Condi said, almost quaking with emotion. "But I love your sex, your taste, your voice, your warm body, your sweat..." I held her close and called her, "my candy girl," and that made her laugh. Then the phone rang. "Oh, hi, honey," I stammered. "No, I wasn't asleep. It's the middle of the day...Oh, yeah, I know there's a leaky pipe in the basement. I'll take care of it when I get home... Uh-huh, I love you, too. Bye, Jo!" The expression on the face of the beautiful, brilliant, naked woman beside me on the bed was of utter surprise and embarrassment. "Oh, my Lord, you're married!" Condi shook her head, unintentionally setting her charming titties awhirl. "I've been fucking like a rabbit with another woman's husband. Why didn't you tell me?" Carefully, I answered, "You just didn't ask the right question." She smiled, certainly forced, and sat up. "I should be going." I reached for her hand and she smacked my shoulder. "Please!" I stayed on the bed and watched her get dressed without speaking a word to one another. "I was planning to give you my card with my home phone number written on the back," Condi said softly. "Forgive me if I don't." "I understand," I said with a nod. To my surprise, she kissed me one last time—hard, wet lipped, and lingering—before pulling away. At the door, Condi turned and said, "Bush in '88!" I raised my thumb and said, "Dukakis, all the way!" Condi displayed a smile to die for and declared, "Well, one of us will have a job in D.C. for the next four years anyway." I said, "May the best man, win." She nodded and closed the door behind her.