4 comments/ 64440 views/ 6 favorites National Association of Women...Ch. 01 By: 1946EW 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... National Association of Women...Ch. 02 The National Association of Women University Deans Part 2 As he watched Sharon Vinchelle drive away, Race thought that he had finally met a member of NAWUD he wouldn't fuck. While he didn't realize it at the time, he viewed this with relief. Fucking white professors started as a perk of his lectures; it now had become a chore--a duty even. This was intensified by the fact that all of them were rather plain, dowdy even. And definitely beyond their prime. Yet he felt some obligation to fuck them. They did offer themselves freely; they were enthusiastic in promoting his lectures, and thus his career; they made his book required reading, to his financial benefit; the faculty symposia had furnished enough material for a follow-on book, thus another tour; and, while the deans were matronly and not very attractive, the same was not true of some of their grad students. Of course the same could also be said of the undergraduates, but Race drew a line at 25: no impressionable young girls who might actually fall in love with him, or, become pregnant and want to have his love child. He closed the door and went into the living room. Against one wall was a large fireplace. Perpendicular to it was a wall of glass windows and French doors opening onto an enclosed garden. The wall opposite the fireplace led into the dining area, while the fourth wall had a large bar and serving area. In the corner between the bar wall and the fireplace was a large projection television. The remote was on the bar. Race turned it on as he rummaged behind the bar. The bar was well-stocked. These sorority sisters enjoyed themselves, he mused. He took out a fifth of Jack Daniels black, remembering the days when it was a truly good whisky, before the Jack Daniels company realized that people were buying the label, not the product, and began slapping its black labels on what was once Jack Daniels green. Even so, Jack Daniels green is better than most other whiskys. The screen of the television blazoned with the logo of Lydia Sampson College. As he surfed the channel, Race saw that the screen could also be used as a computer monitor. He looked around the room and saw a keyboard on one of the end tables. Approaching it, he saw that what he thought was a telephone book was actually the manual for using the television. Placing it in internet mode, he quickly contacted Lucinda Harkin. "Dear Lucy: "E-mail received while Dean Vinchelle was showing me the computer. She read it with me. She is not a happy camper. "H. Blackmon." Race had just poured himself a drink when Harkin replied: "Mr. Blackmon: "For Your Eyes Only. Don't call me Lucy! Sorry about Sharon, the damnest people read your e-mails! Thanks for the heads-up. I got some major fence-mending to do. But I meant everything I said. She is uptight and a prude. And I do want to see you again. Soon!!! "L. (as in Lucinda) Harkin." Race smiled as he deleted the e-mail. He surfed the channels until he found a Bogart movie. As he listened to Walter Brennan explain what it was like to be stung by a dead bee for the umpteenth time, Race wondered what Brennan had done before the age of 100. National Association of Women...Ch. 03 "Wait," Race told the cab driver as he opened the cab door. The Vinchelle residence was a two-story Georgian colonial, with a straight flagstone walkway leading to the door. Race walked it like a last mile. He pressed the doorbell with trepidation. He was somewhat relieved when the door opened, and a bearded white man, maybe an inch or two taller than him, appeared. The man was wearing a bathrobe, quite an expensive one Race noted, and was evidently wearing nothing else. The man stared at him, then pass him at the cabbie, now standing outside his cab. The man looked at Race again. "You must be Mr. Blackmon." Race nodded. "And you're Mr. Vinchelle?" "Professor Vinchelle," Jacques replied with Gallic haughtiness. "Is Dean Vinchelle here," Race asked, ignoring Jacques' attitude. "Yes." "May I see her?" "She is ... indisposed." "Look, Prof. Vinchelle. I have just received a very frightening call from Dean Henning. If I do not see Dean Vinchelle right now, I'm going to the police." Jacques looked intently at Race, then relented, opening the door. "I'll be right back," Race said. He returned to the cab, spoke to the cabbie, then returned to the house, following the Frenchman up the stairs. Jacques led the way into the bedroom, where Race found a naked Sharon on the bed, her wrists back in the wrist restraints. Race looked at her, then at Jacques, then back at Sharon. In explanation, Jacques removed his robe and turned his back to Race. It was covered with several welts, some bleeding. From the pattern of four parallel scratches per welt, Race surmised that they had been inflicted by Sharon. "Look, you two," Race said. "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't care. But I told the cabbie that if Dean Vinchelle is not at that doorway in five minutes, to call the cops." The two Vinchelles looked at Race, then each other. Jacques pulled his robe up, then went to the bed and released his wife. She grabbed a satin kimono style nightgown from one of the chairs and stepped into a pair of open-toed slides with pom-pom puffs. The three then headed downstairs, Sharon leading. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they saw two uniformed officers and the cabbie standing just inside the doorway. Both Race and Jacques mentally noted that five minutes had not elapsed. Jacques spoke first. "Samuel, David, is there a problem?" The two officers looked at each other, then at the Vinchelles, then at Race, then at the cabbie, then each other again. Samuel spoke for them. "George called," indicating the cabbie. "Said that there was trouble here, that a nig ... a colored gentlemen had told him to call the police if Dean Vinchelle didn't show up at the door." Sam, Dave, George, and Jacques all stole glances at Race when the racial epithet was sounded. Race gave the cops a standard I-won't-forget-what-you-nearly-said-and-you- will-pay-I-am-somebody look. Instantly Samuel knew he was in trouble. Race then looked at the cabbie. "I thought I said to give Dean Vinchelle five minutes." "I know, sir," George blurted, "but things just didn't look right. And I didn't use that word, sir." Race stared at Samuel again. Samuel stared back, belligerently. "Well, gentlemen," Sharon intervened, "we can all see that I'm all right." She pranced over to Race, placing his hand on his arm. "I really appreciate your concern, Mr. Blackmon. Makes me feel like some princess being rescued by her knight." She sneered at Jacques then exited into the kitchen. The men watched her go, all except Jacques noting how the nightgown clung to her hips, revealing the dimples and globes of her ass, and how the skirt of the nightgown swished back and forth as she walked. As the door between the two rooms closed, the men looked at each other awkwardly. Samuel again spoke. "Well, Prof. Vinchelle, I guess this was a false alarm." "No, Samuel, no." Jacques replied. "George here did the right thing. Better to err on the side of caution. Very grateful, George. Very grateful." The police officers backed out of the doorway, leaving the three of them standing there. Race looked at George, realizing the cabbie was waiting to be paid. "Prof. Vinchelle," he said firmly, "I think you owe this man money." Jacques looked at Race in confusion, as did George. Since Race had called him, he thought that Race would pay him. Jacques understood. Race had come on a mission of mercy, a mission he did not like, and had not liked what he found. He wasn't going to pay for the experience. He also wasn't about to leave. Jacques looked at himself. Barefoot. Naked beneath the robe. "George, could your father just send me the bill?" George Brubaker looked at the professor, then at the African-American, then back to Vinchelle. The sole cab company was a family affair: his father, uncle, himself and his cousin. Two cabs. Most of their fares never paid direct. The Brubakers kept a log of their fares and sent a bill to the appropriate home, sorority, or dean. If there was any dispute, which only occurred with freshmen, the college settled the bill. By the time the freshmen were sophomores, they realized that being able to have a cab pick them up and drop them off any time of the day or night, including weekends, was a convenience well worth the fare. And the Brubakers were reasonable in their fares. George nodded and backed out of the door, closing it. As soon as the door closed, Race turned on Jacques. "Get your wife out here!" The tone and sharpness of Race's command caught Jacques by surprise. He looked at Race, instantly realizing the Black man was very, very angry. "Sharon, mon cherie, I think you better come here," he called. Sharon had been sitting in the kitchen, fuming. She had only began to claw Jacques' back when he managed to throw her off, overpower her, drag her to the bed and restrain her. The arrival of Race and the others forced her to revert to the persona of a dean, but a wronged wife sat there seething. She would not answer the beck and call of her philandering spouse. Race waited for several minutes, then went into the kitchen, followed by Jacques. He looked at Sharon, then around the kitchen until he spied the telephone. "Dean Vinchelle, call Dean Henning," he ordered. She didn't move. "Now, woman!" he shouted. For the first time in their relationship, Jacques saw fear in his wife's eyes as she practically jumped out of her seat, grabbed the phone and dialed. "Hello. Adelie? Sharon Vinchelle here. ... Yes, yes, everything's all right. I think Mr. Blackmon wants to speak to you." She held the handset to Race. "Hello, Adelie. ... No, things are not all right. Nothing deadly. At least not yet. I'll call you tonight. Bye." He hung up the phone, and turned to the errant couple. Sharon and Jacques now began to comprehend the enormity of their actions. The first dean of a prestigious academic organization, a dean at the state's largest public university, had called the visiting scholar at their college to rush to their home to see if a deadly act had occurred between them, followed by police, witnessed by one of the few people who readily moves between townies and academia, and who would surely gossip about it, to his father, uncle and cousin, if not to others. And that visiting scholar was standing in their kitchen at that very moment, a scowl on his face, a sneer on his lips, and evidently very, very angry. Race looked at Sharon, his glare withering her anger at her husband. She looked down at her lap, very much the chastened woman. Looking at Jacques, he said. "Mr. Vinchelle, I think you better have that back attended to." He then looked at Sharon, "Do you have any antibiotic ointment, Dean?" Sharon nodded, then silently got up and headed for the door. Watching her move, Race decided that he definitely would be fucking her this night. Jacques followed his wife, followed by Race as the trio went up the stairs to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. Race sat on the bed watching as Sharon applied the salve to the wounds she had inflicted. Whatever had led to this contretemps, it was clear these were two people very much in love with each other. "Can you cook?" Race asked Sharon as she came out of the bathroom. She nodded. "I didn't get to finish breakfast. I hope you have French Roast." No sooner had he said this then Race realized the unintended pun. Sharon smiled, nodded, and left the room. Race looked at Jacques. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Vinchelle," not using Jacques' honorific. "I'll be downstairs." The carafe of the coffee maker was nearly full when Race entered the kitchen. He sat at the table, watching Sharon move about the room. He guessed her to be about his age, maybe a year or two younger. In ten years she'd be Harkin, in fifteen Henning. He noted for the second time that morning how the gown clung to her ass, how it moved when she moved. As she poured a cup of coffee for Race, Sharon became aware of his watching her. She approached the table purposefully, letting him assess her body naked under the gown. She placed the cup before him just as her husband entered. Raced sipped the coffee and studied Jacques then Sharon. She returned with a cup for her husband, again walking to make sure Race got a full assessment of her charms. Jacques noticed, a twinge of jealousy in him. If only she would walk that way for him. "Get yourself a cup and sit down," Race said to her. It was not a request. "In fact, bring the pot." Sharon returned with an empty cup and saucer. Setting her place, she filled her cup, then refilled those of her guest and her husband. "Okay. I want to know everything that happened from the time dean here left me until I arrived this morning." Sharon looked at her husband, then at Race, then into her cup. Jacques drained his cup, then looked at Race. "Well, my wife came in, announced she was going to fuck you, then went to our bedroom and began masturbating with her favorite vibrating dildo." Jacques stated matter-of-factly. Sharon was again white as plaster. "I was grading papers. My academic duties completed, I went to the bedroom and fulfilled my marital ones. This morning, Dean Henning called and was explaining how Lydia Sampson College got put on your tour, when my wife sort of lost it. By the way, Dean Henning recommended your lectures highly." "Aiiieee!!!" Sharon screamed. Jacques jumped up, placing his back against the wall and the chair he was sitting in between him and his wife. Race was startled by the scream, instantly recalling Adelie's description: bloodcurdling. From the anger in her eyes and the fear in Jacques,' he quickly guessed what had ended Adelie's call. She turned to Race. "Professor," she stressed the title, "Vinchelle has left out that he has been fucking and sucking that old crone Henning behind my back. He has neglected to say that he has divulged things which should be private between a husband and a wife to her." Race looked at Jacques, trying to remain nonchalant in his standing cower. Looking at Sharon, Race stated, "Adelie is a woman of a certain age, Dean Vinchelle. She is not an 'old crone.' " Sharon sneered. "The broad's older than my mother, and she's an old crone. Froggy here's right. She did speak highly of your lectures. Said you eat pussy as good as Frenchie here, too. That's high praise. Said you fuck like him too. That's not so high praise." She looked at her husband. "Sit down! I'd like to scratch your eyes out, but you'd eat pussy blind!" Race looked at the two of them. He wondered if this happened at historically Black colleges and universities. Sharon looked at him. "You got a thing for old white women, Mr. Blackmon?" Race looked at her quizzically. "Henning. Harkin. Others. Hell, I'm the youngest member of the NAWUD and I'm no spring chicken." "Nope," Race said. "Not for old women. Or for white women. Or educated women. Cunt is cunt. It's just that the members of this National Association of Women University Deans group of yours decided that they had to have a spade before they die, and I was elected. If you read my book, it's the Mandingo Principle. I spend a week at each college. Can't go around picking up co-eds. Not there long enough to find the local spots for whores or townies. You deans want to lay a spade, this spade needs to get laid. Simple as that." "Does the spade need to get laid now?" Sharon asked. "I was thinking about this evening," Race answered. "I could get hit by a car between now and this evening. Hate to be the only dean in the NAWUD to die without having a spade." Race looked at Jacques, then at Sharon. She answered for both of them. "He can watch if he wants. He's into that. Or else he can cook breakfast. He's a better cook than me. Being a Frenchman, you know." "My wife, the bigot," Jacques sighed. "You two enjoy yourselves. I think I better get professional treatment of my back. I'll call Dr. Ortiz." Sharon's eyes momentarily lit with anger. Dr. Marta Ortiz, director of the health clinic, made a specialty at faculty orgies of eating a woman while the woman was being fucked doggy-style. Made her real popular with the older faculty wives. Except Sharon never let her. So the good Dr. Ortiz made it a point of sucking Jacques whenever she could, savoring the taste of Sharon on Jacques' cock. And letting Sharon know that the doctor preferred to acquire the taste directly. Sharon knew that any treatment Jacques received at the clinic would involve Marta's mouth on his cock. What the hell, she was going to have nigger cock in her mouth and pussy for the first time, let her husband have his fun. Sharon looked at Race, pleading in her eyes. Race sighed and stood, unzipping his pants. He really didn't need to fuck, and the circumstances of that morning were not exactly sexually arousing. He pulled his limp dick out. "If you can do something with this, okay. Otherwise, this evening." Sharon looked at the dark dick before her. With its foreskin, it looked like the trunk of an elephant. A small elephant. She recalled that Adelie had said Race was about the same size as her husband. Soft as well as hard, Sharon noted. She leaned forward and swallowed it whole, only to have to back away as it grew firm. Firm, but not hard. She sucked on the head, ran her fingernails along the underside, did all the things she did with Jacques, and with any white man. Firm, but not hard. Race pulled his dick from her mouth. "Sorry, dean. You'll just have to wait until this evening. Try not to get hit by a car." Jacques smirked, to his wife's chagrin. "I better get dressed. My back is really hurting." He rose and looked at his wife. "Will you be having dinner with Mr. Blackmon?" Sharon had not thought that far. She knew the question was more for him to make arrangements for himself. French professor, Columbian doctor. White wife, Black lover. "Dean Vinchelle will be spending the next two days with me," Race announced. Both Vinchelles looked at him. "That includes dinners, breakfasts, lunches," he said as if stating the itinerary of his tour. Which he was. "I have three days of lectures here, and I don't need a repeat of this morning. I don't know what games you two are playing, but since you've involved me, we play according to my rules." He looked at Sharon. "Go pack enough for today and tomorrow. No pantyhose. No panties. Skirts and dresses. No pants or slacks." Sharon looked at him momentarily, then quickly rose and left. Race looked at Jacques. "The house is yours for two days." Jacques nodded, more of a Gallic tilt of the head. He was beginning to really, really like this colored fellow. He picked up the phone. "Dr. Ortiz, Prof. Vinchelle. There's been an accident. Could you come over. ... No nothing requiring an ambulance or anyone other than yourself. ... No, Dean Vinchelle will not be here. For a day or two. ... Yes, it is I who need medical attention. ... No, Marta, I really need medical attention!" Returning the handset to its cradle, he looked at Race. "Mr. Blackmon. ... Do you have a first name?" "Horatio." "Horatio. Interesting. Horatio, we have shared several women, and will be sharing my wife, more or less. I have only dealt with these college types, but you, I surmise, have had more variety, eh?" Now it was Race's turn to give the Gallic nod. "In your experience, do all American women believe that you mean something other than what you have plainly stated to them, or is it just this way with these college women?" Race leaned back in his chair. "I thought you Frenchmen were experts on women." Jacques smiled. "Oui, and you Blacks are hung like horses." Both men chuckled. Sharon came in at this moment, and quickly assumed that she was the butt of some sexist joke between the two men. Race looked at her. She was wearing a white button-front blouse, the collar open, and a tan A-line skirt that reached a few inches below her knees, hose and heels, and a single-strand gold necklace. She had applied make-up, just the right amount for a woman professional. She had a suitcase and an overnight travel case. Race stood, took her into his arms and kissed her, feeling the garter straps running down her ass. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes as he rubbed his cock, now getting hard. Taking her luggage, he said "You can give me the tour of the campus on the way back." Sharon looked at Jacques, who shrugged, then Race. Wordlessly she turned and headed for the front door. To be continued 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...