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The Sensual Life Ch. 01

By: caramelgirl_2



There is something about the love of two men. They hold you, even when they hold you at a distance, and you always know, if you have given them everything they've ever wanted, you will never have to worry about them leaving. I have two such men. Jay and Adam. 

My name is Mavis Ayilah Clifford. I'm considered an African-American woman, although my mother was from Grenada, and my father was born in the United States of Jamaican parents. If I were to describe myself physically, I'd have to say that I am medium height (about 5'5), medium brown-skinned (somewhere between sienna and the color of caramel). I have dark brown eyes with long dark lashes-- jealous women call them "cow eyes", lustful men call them "fuck me eyes". My hair is dark brown, and, if I wore it natural, it'd be a 1970s blow-out afro. Despite what the present generation thinks, the afro is not my idea of what should ever be be "in" again-- probably showing my Product-of-British-Commonwealth- Parents' influence. So, wearing it as I do now, my hair is straight, and a little longer than shoulder length. 

My features always made me attractive to African American men, but for some reason, I've never felt totally comfortable with African-American men. Maybe it's because my first experience was with the boy from the white family who lived next door to us. 

That boy's name was Perry. Perry and I were the same age. He was on the small side of medium build, and a little lanky. His hair was dirty blonde, and his eyes were an incredible combination of light gray irises that made his pupils look dark gray instead of black.. He was kinda picked on by our classmates, and I stood out as "naturally odd-man-out" in our predominately white neighborhood. As a result, Perry and I gravitated towards each other. 

We were both loners and avid readers, so, one day, we got into this habit of going to the library together.

"Hey 'La," Perry whispered from around the corner of Aa to An, "I found something!"

"What's that?"

"I found something....good."

I put the book I was half-heartedly perusing back in its slot on the shelf and walked around to where he was to see what the fuss was about.

"Look at this!" he hissed. "This is hot! I wonder how this got here?"

It was a small paperback, with kinda cheap dark grey paper and dark black lettering. The edges of outside of the book weren't worn, but not as crisp as they would have been if the book were new.

Perry started quoting a portion of the page he was on, looking nervously over his shoulder to make sure no one else was around. As he went on quoting it, I felt a kind of tingle.

"They call a...a..vagina, a quim!" he said, looking up at me with bright eyes. 

Thus was the beginning of our sexual awakening. From then on, we spent all our spare time in the library, trying to find the most salacious reading we could so we could hide away together and read it.

Even though we were both afforded time and opportunity to "make it" during our teenage years, Perry and I never did anything but fantasize together. That is, until the summer before we each left for college. He was going west, to Indiana. I was staying east, but going further south. We were 18, both working summer jobs, and spent every spare evening we had in common, together. 

My parents would never have taken kindly to me being at Perry's house with his parents gone. They would have been even more upset if they had known how much time I spent in Perry's bedroom in the past without his parents there-- but they never really had a reason to worry until this particular day. I got home from work and my parents were still working. It was late afternoon. Perry's parents were gone for the week and he had the afternoon off too. When he saw my friend drop me off in front of the house, he popped over. 

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Sure. Starved. I didn't even get a lunch today. The trade off for getting out early".

"Cool. Come on over. My parents left me some cash and a fridge full of food to keep me while they're away. We can order pizza and watch a movie."

"Sounds good," I replied, and I dropped my backpack in my room and followed Perry over to his house. 

We ordered pizza and wings, and stuffed ourselves, then retreated to his bedroom. His room was always a fun place. He had tons of books, posters of our favorite bands and writers, and a stereo with a cassette player and a turntable. He put on some music and started going through a bag of books.

"Remember how we used to go to the library to look for books that had the dirtiest parts?" he asked. 

"Sure, I remember," I replied, laughing.

"Did you ever think about any of it after you went home?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know...like think about it." He looked at me, with those striking gray eyes, the bangs from his hair flopping into his face. A book in one hand, his other hand propping him up on the bed. 

I knew what he meant, but I guess I was afraid to admit it. There were moments in the past where I felt like I was-- and wanted to be-- more than a platonic friend and confidant to Perry, but the sense was fleeting. This time, the sensation was stronger. It felt like our relationship was about to change. He waited for my response, and I said nothing. He was the brave one. He broke the silence by saying, 

"Well, I have. I've thought about it. Doing some of those things. With you."

I just stared at him. He laid back on the bed and and opened the book he had been reaching for. 

"I went shopping at the bookstore before I came home," he said. "It's great to be old enough to buy these books from the bookstore without feeling like you're stealing," he laughed.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Something by our favorite author. Anonymous," he laughed. For the first time with him, I giggled, instead of laughing. I put my hand to my mouth and shyly looked downward as if to cover up my amusement.

"God, you have beautiful eyes, 'La." he replied suddenly, looking up at me from his reclined position. "Every woman, black or white, should have your eyes."

"They can't have them. Their MINE!" I said, laughing.

"I'm serious!" he said, sitting up, with his legs still stretched out on the bed. 

I stopped laughing and laid down next to him, staring at the ceiling. I started singing along with the song playing on the stereo. He started singing along with me, first trying to hit each note, and then, just giving up and purposely striking the wrong ones. I poked him in the side, each time his note went really sour, and he laughed and kept going. We kept on with this until the song ended and another one began. It wasn't as fun to try to sing the next song off key. It was too upbeat to make it sound bad.

"You know what, Perry?" I said, looking at him beside me. "What are we going to do being so far away from each other for a whole year?"

"We'll be back for holidays. And the summer."

"Yeah, I know. But what you just said made me think. We're not going to see each other for a long time. Who do I get to read 'Anonymous' books with?" I tried to laugh.

"Your hand?" he replied.

"No," I answered, playfully, but, despite my avoiding his questions a minute ago, I was angry that he wasn't taking me seriously. "You're hand!" I rolled over onto him, tackling him, and sat on him as we wrestled each others' arms in the air, laughing and giggling until we were suddenly still. He was getting hard. The bulge in his crotch was obvious, so obvious that I'm sure all the fastest girls on the football cheerleading team-- you know, all the ones with the long blonde hair, the bluest eyes, and the longest list of sexual partners no one at the age of 18 should be proud of-- would wish they were where I was right now.

Perry instinctively pushed my shirt up at my waist and held his hands there, revealing my belly button. Both of us stared at his hands, the paleness of them smoothing their way up my brown torso, underneath my shirt to my breasts. He reached around and unfastened my bra and let it bunch underneath my tshirt. When I think back on it, he did it as though he'd been practicing it all his life. He squeezed my breasts, as if getting to know them by feel, and then let his arms lift, trying to get the shirt to move higher. I understood what he was trying to do, and I reached down and pulled it and the bra off my arms and over my head. 

I heard the sound of Perry sucking in air, as if he were losing his breath. His eyes rolled backward and he sighed. The crotch of his pants were damp, as if he wet his pants. I watched his face intently, as it seemed as if he were going to faint.

"Ohhh, shit," he said in a voice languid and soft. "That felt good."

"What?"

"I just came."

"Really?"

Perry pressed his head further back into the pillow and looked up at me with a sleepy smile. "Yup". He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down beside him. "And it was gooood."

With everything that was going on, we didn't notice that the music had stopped. It was totally quiet, except for the sound of each of us breathing. If you could hear two people think, I'm sure that would have been heard too. We did nothing but breathe for a few minutes, until Perry looked over at me and realized I was topless. 

"You know. From everything we've read about sex, I should be returning the favor."

"What do you mean?"

"You know," he replied. He turned around towards me and pressed his lips to mine, for the first time. This too, felt like he'd been practicing it all his life, because I felt a shiver go down my back that I've never felt quite the same way with anyone ever again. He pulled off his own t-shirt, maybe to make me more comfortable. I felt just fine, only a little nervous, but he always had a way of deferring to me that was charming. He wrapped his pink lips around my nipple, which was several shades of brown darker than the flesh surrounding it. His hands squeezed my breasts as they moved down my body. He kissed my ribs, then my belly, dipping his tongue in my navel and nuzzling his nose there. He moved his hands down and unfastened the button of my jeans, grabbed the tab of the zipper and pulled it steadily downward. I took his cue, and inched out of my jeans while lying there, my hips moving side to side as he gripped the waistband and pulled downward.

"Turn around," he said, as I lay there in my pink cotton panties. I did as he asked, my cheek to the pillow. He pulled my panties down around to my thighs, then slowly along my legs, savoring the moment. "God," he gasped. "You have the most beautiful...behind." He placed the palm of his hands on my ass cheeks and I felt his lips place little kisses all over them. His breath was hot. I could feel the skin of his face just so close to places no one else had ever seen in quite this way. The thought made me shiver. His hands, which were moving deftly, but gently, held my hips and raised me to my knees. He smoothed his hands along the insides of my thighs and both of us startled when the edge of his forefinger brushed against the hairs of my sex. The shock only lasted for a moment. Instead of staving him off, it gave him courage. He rubbed his forefinger along the slit of my pussy and felt the dampness transfer from it to him. He moved his finger back and forth along the slit until he felt a point that was not as soft as the folds his finger moved along. He wasn't sure what to do with it. 

Instead of pursuing it further, I felt him kneel lower, then he laid down, so that his head was underneath my hips. His fingers probed my private parts gently, looking for where the moisture was coming from. I peeked underneath my arm at him, to see what he was doing. He was totally engrossed. His eyes transfixed. Looking further down, his crotch had begun to swell again. My concentration on what he was doing faded when I felt his tongue tickling the areas he had taken the time to chart out mentally as where he wanted to go. First he let it trail along the dark brown-edged vermilion inner lips, using his fingers to part the outer lips that were the color of my flesh, only covered with a modest amount of shiny, curly black hairs. He dipped his tongue as deep between the folds as he could, particularly when he found the opening. He tried to dart his tongue in and out, like we had read in books, but although it made my knees weak to feel it, he didn't seem to feel as satisfied with it. Then, he found my clitoris. He trailed his tongue around the angular mountain of flesh surrounding it, then let the pebbly surface of his tongue rub against it repeatedly. Unable to resist the thought of penetrating me somehow, he put the tip of his middle finger to the opening of my pussy and rubbed it lightly, then slowly slipped it in. I expected pain when he did this, but before I had time to wince, I realized his finger was inside and, feeling quite good, moving in and out while he licked my clit. I heard myself moaning softly, felt one of Perry's hands move up to my left breast, squeezing it as if he were molding it. I wanted to move my hips and at the same time was afraid to. I felt my body shudder. My stomach felt queasy, but good at the same time. All of a sudden, I let out a moan, one that was louder than all the previous ones. I felt something rushing from between my legs. 

I thought maybe I'd peed my pants-- except I didn't have on any pants. So worst yet, I'd peed on my best friend. Perry didn't seem to care. His pants were unzipped, his cock in his hand, and he buried his face deeper into my pussy, stroking his cock back and forth. I stared at what he held in his hand as much as I could as he stroked it. It was about six inches or so, and seemed about an inch and a half in diameter from the way he held it. Veins roped around it, bulging, like an arm vein gone wild. The tip really was shaped like a mushroom, and it was only a few shades darker pink than his lips. Staring at his cock made me forget about what I incorrectly assumed was pee, and I couldn't resist grinding my pussy against his face intermittent with watching him masturbate. I felt myself let go again, and realized that feeling was coming from somewhere other than my bladder. At about the same time, Perry's cock erupted like Mt. St. Helen's. He let out a groan from his throat that turned into a roar, and then there was cum everywhere. Mostly his thighs and his pale belly, but it had hit my thighs and ass as well. It was glistening as it dribbled down his penis. It was a translucent white, and thick, and sticky. It felt warm the first moments after it hit my skin, then kinda like glue as it cooled off.What was between my legs as a result of his attention felt kind of the same, only it stayed feeling like glue and, when I slipped my hand down there to check, it was clear.

Perry's body went limp, just like it did the first time he came. I fell over to his side, my waist just at the level of his head. His arm was flung over my legs for a while as his eyes blinked open and closed. Then he rolled over and placed his head on my belly.

"I think we just did IT," he mumbled.

"Yeah," I said, running my fingers through his dirty blond hair.

"It felt GOOD." he sighed.

"Yeah. It did. Weird. But good."

We spent the rest of the summer feeling "weird but good" together, up until the day we both left for college. We didn't always have the advantage of doing it in a bed, but we made use of wherever we could find. Now that we knew what we'd been reading about all those times, we couldn't let anything stop us.

The Sensual Life Ch. 02



College Life

Perry and I went off to our separate colleges, him to Indiana University, and me to a small private college in Virginia. We called each other every week, which dropped off to once a month, and then only occasionally. After a while, we only spoke to each other during semester breaks, which was rare, because he was on a four semester schedule and my school was on a tri-mester schedule.

I didn't cling to him being "my first" as much as other girls seemed to do. Instead, I took advantage of being in a city rife with African-American men and dated frequently-- all the while keeping my grade point average at 3.8. 

My first real boyfriend at college was Marcus Johnson. Marcus was a basketball player, tall and muscular, with languid, dark brown eyes smooth pecan-colored skin. Anyone who looked at us thought we were the perfect couple, and for a while, I thought so too. 

Sometimes you go along with what other people think because you think it's best for you, and usually, it's the best way to avoid any trouble with other people. But "going along" never settles the trouble inside yourself. 

Marcus and I had sex the first time during the off-season. We met during basketball season of our sophomore year. Basketball season was when the coach demanded abstinence of all the players, and Marcus took his B-ball seriously, so it wasn't until the following semester that he even approached the subject--and even then, it was me, not him who mentioned it. Up to that point, we'd only kissed, not even made out. I figured it was because his father was a pastor of a pretty good-sized, black middle-class church back in his hometown that he kept so straight. 

He was an education major and my major was art history. We rarely had the same classes, but we did have a couple of gen-ed classes together. The afternoon we "consummated" our relationship, we were in his dorm room, studying for a math test. 

I hated math. He hated it only a little less than me. Our books and notes were strewn all over the bed. The television and stereo were off, all in the guise of absorbing the material, but it just wasn't working. 

"There has to be something better to do than this," I said, closing my notebook. It was Saturday, and students were running up and down the hallway with their laundry, for their showers, and on their trips to the commissary.

"Yeah?" Marcus said, closing his book and shoving it off the bed he was lying on. I was sitting in the chair at his desk, which was flush against the wall and right next to his bed. "Any ideas?"

"Well, we could go for a walk," I replied.

"We can do that," he said, sitting up, preparing to put his sneaks on over his socks.

"No. I don't feel like it," I said, scratching my head. He was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. I looked at his long legs and the soft brown skin of his arms and thought it would be nice to see him with less clothes on. He didn't have a roommate yet. A transfer student who was also a basketball player was going to be arriving the next semester and, until then, Marcus had a room all to himself. So far, we had never taken advantage of it. Most of our nights consisted of hanging out with other basketball guys and their girlfriends listening to music. Us girls oiled our boyfriends' scalps, or we oiled and braided each others, all the while gossiping about other students and professors in and outside of the African-American community on campus.

"Let's just stay here. And talk," I said. I got up from the chair and set next to him on the bed. I rubbed my hand over his head, his hair shaved short and smooth. 

I felt relaxed, and brave enough to make the first move. I blew warm breath into his ear, and nibbled his ear lobe. His shoulders jumped and then he relaxed and let his arm move around me while it still half rested on the bed.

"We've never talked about sex," I said to him, still nibbling on his ear lobe, then moving down his long neck. "All last season, all I thought about was being with you." 

I wanted to say in more, to list in detail everything I wanted to do to him and with him, but I wasn't sure he could take it. He wasn't that vocal about anything, and sex even less. Maybe it had something to do with being a preacher's kid. 

He chuckled. I could feel his breathing increase, so I kept nibbling, and moved my hand over his chest. He turned towards me and we kissed. He let his breath breathe into me , his lips covering mine, his tongue dipping deep into my mouth. I didn't totally object to his technique, except it left me no control. I tried to take it back by pulling my lips back and flicking my tongue around his, then removing my lips from his altogether and kissing his neck. I pulled his t-shirt up from his body so that it was gathered underneath his armpits. I gently pushed him down to the bed and ran my brown fingers against his brown chest. It wasn't as arousing to me as seeing my dark flesh against Perry's white skin, but the situation was arousing enough. Marcus' nipples were hard, large, gray-brown aureoles surrounding them. I ran my fingers across them, teasing them the way I used to with Perry. It yielded the same effect. I put my mouth to one, then the other, flicking my tongue across them firmly, then sucking softly. Marcus moaned. I moved my hand down his body and let it rest on the rod that was developing into a more solid state. Marcus moaned again, and I ran the palm of my hand up and down on his hardening cock through his sweats. My own juices were beginning to flow. I took off my tank top and lifted my sports bra over my head while sitting on Marcus' reclined body. Holding his hands, I placed them on my breasts and he squeezed while I heaved and humped back and forth on his clothed cock. When he had resigned himself to massaging and squeezing my soft brown breasts, I used my hands to pull down his sweat pants. He still had his boxers on, but his cock was bulging against the opening of them. I lifted the solid length of him out through the front of his boxers and stroked his dick with a firm but tender grip. 

Separating myself gently from his hands on my breasts, I squatted on the bed next to his cock, examining it as I stroked it. The trunk of it was darker than his skin tone, almost purplish, while the head was a glistening lighter brown, with a glint of red in its excitement. It was the second cock I'd ever seen, the first black cock I'd ever seen, and the only cock I'd seen at all in months. My mouth watered as I examined and stroked it until I couldn't wait any longer. I let my mouth slide slowly down the length of him as he gasped, then back up again, repeating the movement slowly at first, then picking up speed according to his moans. 

All too soon, I heard him groan, his cock pulsate, then my mouth filled up with his warm, salty cum. Having acquired the taste with Perry, I sucked and swallowed the warm, white liquid from Marcus' brown cock-head in the rhythm of how it erupted, each pulse giving up less and less.

I smiled looking down at Marcus' satisfied expression and licked up a drop of cum that dotted my lips. It felt good to do more with Marcus than just kiss, and I was rather proud of myself --I had heard on campus that most girls, black or white, thought it "nasty" to swallow. To me, "nasty" was rather nice, in this case. 

I was so happy to have finally shared more than a kiss with him (and proud to have swallowed) that I didn't take it personally when he didn't reciprocate, or decide to take the situation any further than just his cumming. I should have taken his response-- or lack of one-- as a sign.

Because college is its own world and I didn't have much contact with Perry while I was there, I had pretty much resigned myself to not having a giving lover. No one here really knew that my first sexual encounters were with a white person and no one asked. Marcus was black, smart, talented, and a gentleman, and that was hard for a lot of women to find, so, for a brief period, I figured all that was enough. 

About three months into our junior year, the basketball team was gearing up for another season. When I wasn't working in the slide library, I would meet Marcus after his practices at his dorm, sometimes getting there before he did. I had a key, and I just walked in, books in arm, ready to settle in and study for the Survey of Art exam. When I walked in, the desk on the other side of the room was piled with books, a hooded sweatshirt draped over it, and there was someone lying on the bed. 

"You're not my roommate, are you?" a voice asked. 

That someone was tall and muscular like mostly everyone else on the basketball team. His head was shaved like everyone else on the basketball team. Everything about him was the same-- except that he was white. 

His long, broad body lay back on the bed, and his head, gleaming with the trace of reddish-blonde hair, was propped up with a pillow. His legs were bent and swaying apart back and forth and he stretched them, individually, in turn, in the air. He was wearing blue warm-up pants with a green stripe on the side. His t-shirt was white, green, and blue and it had the schools' logo on it. It was the same kind of shirt they give everyone at orientation.

"Uh, no," I answered, flopping my books onto Marcus' bed instead of the new guy's desk, where I usually did. 

"Too bad," he replied. "Dylan," he said, still swinging his legs back and forth.

I smiled a short smile, and told him my name. "Marcus' girlfriend," I added.

"I won't let that bother me," he laughed, raised his golden-brown eyebrows, and winked at me.

By the time practices started for the team that semester, Marcus and I were not getting along. He had told the whole team that I regularly, "sucked him off", and it got me labeled as the team whore. The girls of the players whispered about me and the players would make lewd comments. Everyone of them were having sex, but I guessed that enjoying more than the old in and out was a mistake only I had made. When I asked one of the girls if she'd ever had a guy lick her, she just replied, "Girl, you are nasty." 

More nasty. The truth was, none of the guys would do it no matter how much the girl wanted it. It wasn't considered manly to the guys on the team. It was no surprise to me when another girl was disowned by the clique when one of the players walked in on his girlfriend receiving "oral pleasure" from her female roommate. I thought college life was supposed to be "open-minded"?

Marcus had received the benefit of my "whoredom" for quite a while after he told everyone, because I didn't realize the source of what had been said for weeks. When I found out it was him, I stopped by his dorm to leave a Dear John note and drop off his key. I was too humiliated and hurt to confront him. Here I thought I finally had found a place of acceptance, with people who looked like me, and yet I still wound up an outcast. Just for being myself.

When I walked in the room, Marcus wasn't there, as I expected, but Dylan was. His back was to the door and he was sitting at his desk, book opened, head in one hand, pen in another. I thought I could leave my deposit and go without him noticing, but he turned around, just as I was going to drop the key on top of the note.

"Hey," he said, "Where ya going?" he asked.

"Um, I just came to drop something off for Marcus," I replied. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at practice?"

Dylan laughed, swinging his legs around so that his whole body was facing me. He was wearing a loose pair of gray sweatpants and no shirt. I could see his cock through his pants, resting in his lap, reaching to his thigh. "Coach said I have too much attitude for a white boy. Said I had to sit on the bench. So I walked out."

"Maybe you do have too much attitude..for a white boy," I said, laughing softly, and shaking my head in mock disbelief. I looked around the room. "Well, I see you've settled in," I said. On the walls, Dylan put up one poster of Iverson. Five posters of pin-ups. All of them black.

"Oh, yeah. Like them? Marcus hates 'em. Even Iverson," he chuckled.

"Anybody who knew you would think you have a thing for black women," I replied sarcastically, ignoring his reference to who, in my mind, was now my ex.

"Well, I guess they'd be right," he replied with a sly smile, leaning back in his chair. "Want to find out how much?"

I looked at him. Right. He heard what all the other guys on the team heard. Now he wants a piece. I don't think so. "I just came to drop off my key," I said, slipping the note on Marcus' desk where I thought he would see it.

"A key? That's all. You should be dropping him a swift kick in the ass."

"Why's that?"

"After all the shit he said about you" he replied. I played dumb, but he went on. "I mean, really. He should be glad his woman loved him enough to go down on him. I would. And I wouldn't leave her hanging either. Sometimes I think Marcus is gay." He watched my eyebrows raise. "Not that I have anything against gay people," he added quickly. "Anyway, I told him so, but he didn't have much to say." Dylan scratched his head and looked down at the floor. "He just said, 'if you think so, you fuck her."

At that moment, I didn't know whether I was mad or just frustrated at having thrown my pearls to swine. The adrenaline kicked in and, having seen the elongated lump in Dylan's lap that he had to keep moving to the side, I thought Marcus had come up with a great idea-- for once.

I walked up to Dylan, while he sat in his chair, still with his head down, hands folded. He lifted his head and looked up at me standing right in his face. I was wearing a tight, white jogging top and a pair of loose warm-up pants that hung on my hips. The fact that I had a round ass wouldn't let the pants fall on their own, they would have to be pulled down to fall down. 

Dylan's long arms fell to the side of the chair and I sat down, straddling his lap, facing him. "What Marcus says is right. You should fuck me." I kissed him long and hard, sticking my tongue deep in his mouth. He groaned softly and shifted a bit in his chair, leaning back a bit more. He held my ass cheeks in his hands and then moved me so my crotch was lying along the ridge swelling in his pants.

"You're not wearing underwear under those sweatpants, are you?" I whispered in his ear.

He moved me back and forth along his crotch. "Nooo..." He growled.

"Mmm...you wanna fuck me, Dylan? You want to put that hard white cock in my black pussy?"

"Fuck, yes."

Dylan looked into my eyes, with a sleepy, drugged look. He was feeling it for sure. So was I. I sat up and pulled my warm-ups down over my hips, taking my panties down with them. He grabbed me by the ass and pulled my pussy to his face. He licked and nibbled at the mound and worked his way down to my clit, where he pressed his tongue down firmly and then let the tip of his tongue run over it back and forth, holding my ass with two hands. He moved back for air, just for a moment, long enough to take a finger from one hand and play with my clit, then sliding another finger from the same hand between the lips of my pussy, into the slit. He moved his hand so that while one finger slid in and out, the other finger was rotating back and forth on my clit. I arched my back, groaned loudly, as the juices from my cunt flowed all over his fingers. He immediately put his face in my pussy, rubbing his lips in the juices and licking them up greedily. He had made me cum, just that quickly.

When I felt the sensation subside, I was shaking. I looked down at Dylan, his rosy-cheeked face smeared with my cum. His blue eyes shining. He smiled a devilish smile. He moved me so I was no longer straddling him but standing against the bed. He stood up and pulled his sweatpants down. His cock sprung out, and he stroked it a few times, smoothing the per-cum over the tip. He smiled at my reaction.

"Bigger than Marcus?" he asked. I said nothing, but he was satisfied enough with my expression as an answer. 

Dylan moved toward me, his cock in my face, hitting my cheek. I moved my hand to grab it, but he stopped me. "Uh uh," he said. "Let's save that for the next time."

He laid me back on the bed, moved me to the side that was against the wall, so that I was laying on my side. He laid opposite me-- so if anyone fell out of the bed, it would be him...but we managed not to fall.

He raised my leg so it was over his hip, rubbing his hands along my thighs. The tip of his cock was pink, the rest of it a lighter shade, the veins trailing through the entire length. "We're gonna make this make up for what he hasn't been giving you," he whispered. I felt the tip of him at my slit push its way in and I caught my breath, whispered his name, and he pushed further in. He stood still for a bit, feeling my juices flow over his cock. He breathed in stiffly, holding himself back. When whatever he was feeling passed, he started thrusting, burying his face in the pillow beside my head then raising his head to look at me. His eyes were so blue. His face flushed. He pumped in and out of me with a slow, methodical rhythm, gazing into my face and burying his face in the pillow again. His hips moved up and down and around. His torso was so long, my arms short in comparison, that my arms only reached down his back as I held him. His legs, long and thick, straddled mine. I felt filled. The tip of his cock reached further into me with every thrust, and his pelvis rubbed against my clit again and again until I gasped and came again, this time, all over his cock. Sweat poured off of him onto me and pasted our bodies together. He raised himself over me and quickened his thrusts, holding my legs under the knees, watching his white cock slide in and out of my black pussy, sometimes looking away as if he couldn't bear the sight. He just kept thrusting, harder, and harder until he felt me cum again, then he let go, pumping a few more times, his cock almost scraping the walls of my cunt. He yelled out, and I felt the rush of warmth filling me. Then he collapsed on top of me, arching his large body so as not to crush me. 

We laid there wrapped around each other for a while, then I decided I should probably get dressed. Marcus would be getting back from practice, and although I began the situation with the idea of revenge, it had become something else for me. Dylan was mostly too tired to think. I put on my clothes as he lay back on his bed, his cock lying across his pelvis, just touching his thigh.

"You're leaving?" he asked me.

"Yes. I think I should, for now," I answered.

"Hey," he said, "Don't get rid of that key."



The Sensual Life Ch. 03



Chapter 3: College Life- Mason Riley

By the middle of the semester, Dylan and I made a regular habit of getting together. Marcus was still his roommate, but most of the time, we had the room to ourselves-- Marcus was spending most of his time with his new, asexual, (aka, boring) girlfriend at her dorm. While I couldn't help but wonder what Marcus would find to do with his new girlfriend to stay at her place, Dylan and I made good use of the privacy and Dylan left me little time-- or breath-- to think of past loves lost. 

I suppose you could say Dylan and I were dating-- we did spend time going to the movies, going out to eat, and things like that. Maybe we weren't any little less conventional than most boyfriend/girlfriends, but a lot of our time together surrounded one subject: Sex--thinking, talking, and doing. That was probably why I felt so comfortable with Dylan. My relationship with him was the first of its kind since Perry. 

To make better use of our obsession, we took Marcus' bed and put it together with Dylan's by double tying the adjacent inner legs of each bed together with bungie-cords. I would strip the bed, stuff a thick blanket lengthwise between them, then put the fitted sheet over it to help hold them together. We thought it was rather ingenious, if not fool-proof, and we tested the limits of our invention vigorously.

There was one particular afternoon, at Dylan's dorm that marked a turning point in my life. It wasn't very dramatic. It wasn't about what happened. It was all about the thought process it began.

It was a Sunday evening, we had our books out, all over the conjoined beds. Dylan had an exam for his Criminal Justice class and I had one coming up for 19th Century Art. Dylan was a bit anxious about his, but I wasn't too worried about mine. I had a 4.0 average in all of the subjects I'd taken in my major and was chosen to work in the slide library as a side advantage of this achievement. I knew my painters, sculptors, works and eras well beyond what we'd studied in class. So I was trying to help Dylan study for his exam instead of my own. 

While he was read the highlighted sections in his textbook, I read through his syllabus to see what I should quiz him on, I looked up to see if he was ready to start, when I noticed he had a very distinct hard on.

"What the hell are you reading?" I asked Dylan. He looked up at me with those sleepy green eyes, the way they got when his mind is wandering.

"Your cock is hard. I knew you liked law, but I didn't think police codes were all that arousing."

"Restraints," he said, in one word, throwing the book aside, getting up to look in the little refrigerator across from his bed. His dick angled up and out from his crotch making a respectable tent under his sweatpants.

"Restraints?" I said, asking him to get a chocolate milk for me. "What about 'restraints'," I added.

He threw me a milk, and got one for himself, opening it up and chugging it down before I even got the lid off of mine. "I think you'd like them."

"Restraints? Is that all you got out of your reading?"

"Yeah. Restraints." he replied. "Have you ever thought about getting tied up? To the bed? Or even a chair," he said, winking at me. 

"Not really," I said, taking a sip of my milk. 

"The thought of having your naked body tied to my bed, helpless and no way for you to get away from me...no way for you to stop me from doing whatever I want to you.... THAT made me hard."

"What's the big deal about it," I asked, not quite understanding the attractiveness of the idea. "I give you what you want anyway," I chuckled, shifting my book on my lap. 

"Yeah," he answered, laughing. "Marcus was right, you little slut," he said jokingly. I giggled, but I wasn't sure I liked being called that, even in jest.

"So that turns you on?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, tilting his head to one side and nodding. "I never thought about it until now. But, yeah. It does."

I shrugged my shoulders and took another sip of my milk, then set the container on the floor. "Doesn't do a thing for me," I replied. "But your hard cock sure does," I smiled. He smiled back and moved towards me, his crotch a little above my eye level. He held the back of my head gently and I placed my hands on his ass cheeks, then nuzzled my nose in his crotch, letting his cock, straining against the cotton jersey of his pants, thump against my cheek. I looked up at him with my brown eyes wide and wicked.

"Damn," he said with a sigh. He looked down at me with a sleepy look in his eyes, "You are so fucking hot," Study session was over.

******

Now this little comment of Dylan's about "restraints" wouldn't have meant very much if I didn't have an encounter with someone else who had the same interests. 

As I mentioned before, I was awarded a part-time job in the slide library of the art department as a result of my GPA. This required a lot of late hours and some fraternizing with the faculty. One of the professors with whom this fraternizing went a bit further than normal was Professor Mason Riley. Mason was one of the younger professors, in his mid thirties, and well on his way to being tenured. He was a big brain. It was well known that he was something of a prodigy--he entered his first juried show before he was 19 years old. 

Perhaps these factors accounted for his being a bit more avant-guarde than any other art professor. Like how he wore his hair. For class, he would put all that mass of shiny black hair up into a bun-- yes, a bun-- looking something like a trimmer version of a Samurai. There was even a name for the male art students who emulated Professor Riley. They were known as "The Bun Men". 

So the Tuesday after Dylan and I had our "study session", I had to do a late shift in the slide library. No one else was around, but I had a key to the building and the room. It was easier to get my work done, in solitude, without interruptions. 

Sometimes, if it was past 9:00 p.m., a guard or two would pop in, making their rounds, but usually, I was alone. That night, while filing and amusing myself-- singing off key to the tunes on the college radio station-- I felt a presence at my side. I almost jumped out of my skin. It was Professor Riley. His hair was down, out of the bun, and it was long, gleaming under the florescent lights, and falling in thick locks that curled down to his shoulders like snakes. No man should have hair that beautiful.

"Excuse me," he said, "I didn't mean to startle you, but can I bother you for a minute?"

"Sure," I replied, catching my breath.

"I was wondering if you could take a look at something for me?" He was wearing a smock which looked incredibly dorky, but it must have done the job because his jeans and shirt were spotless. The only things splattered with paint were his boots, and his smock. "I'm working on something and I just need an objective eye. Just for a moment."

I followed him down the corridor to the room he was working and there was a painting of a woman reclined on a chaise, satin draped around and across her naked body. Her arms were above and over her head, slung backward and her hands were together, bound by something I couldn't quite decipher.

"How does this look to you,?" he asked, hovering his finger in a circle over the lower arm and hands. "Does it look natural, to you?"

"Um," I said, cautiously, "I'm not sure,"

He watched my face. "Come on," he said good-naturedly. "Don't be afraid to tell me the truth. I can take it."

I tilted my head to one side, then to the other, and when he stepped aside from the painting to let me get a closer look, I went closer, and looked, then stepped back when I thought it polite enough to do so.

"What do you think?" he asked eagerly.

"Well," I replied, "To be honest, I don't know what it should look like. I mean, how exactly are hands positioned when they're tied together?

His eyebrows scrunched together and I thought I had done myself in with that response. "I suppose that's a fair answer," he said, standing back from the painting again. "I think you hit on something, though," he added, moving to where he was standing next to me. "You mention 'tied hands'," he said, and he looked me in the face, holding his chin with his hands. He stood with one leg stretched out in front of him a bit, bearing most of his weight on the opposite leg. There was space between us, but there was the feeling of something there, something full and electric, even though there was only air. "I want the impression to be 'bound hands'. There's a difference." He looked at the painting and back at me. He seemed to be taking in my entire face and whatever was behind it. It wasn't disconcerting , but it made me feel something I couldn't really describe. Maybe it was a feeling of being known without knowing. 

"Do you know what I mean?" he asked. I shook my head. He smiled and laughed a short, quiet laugh that was endearing, if a bit condescending. "I'm sorry. I'm talking too much. And keeping you from your work."

I shrugged. "That's okay."

"No, it really isn't. I should probably make up for it by helping you, since you helped me."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," I replied, not seeing where I helped at all.

"Yes, I definitely do. It's exam week anyway. We can work on the slides and get you out of here at a decent hour so you can study."

With that, Professor Riley actually led the way back to the slide library. We sorted through the piles of returns and new orders and my work was done in only an hour. Since he was an artist, and I loved art, he couldn't get through the process without commenting on one slide or another, holding it up to the light and talking about it. He'd seen many of the works in person, whether they were in Europe or the US, which was fascinating for me. It was like my own personal lecture with benefits.

"There," he said when the bin was finally empty and the last slide filed. "Finished."

"Great. Thank you. I really appreciate your helping me," I said, happy to get out a bit earlier. Dylan wouldn't be too disappointed either.

"Not a problem. Now we should probably get you home. I can drop you off. It's not safe walking around campus in the dark."

"No, that's okay. I can call my boyfriend to meet me."

"And then, you have to wait for him to get here, and then you have to walk all the way back. That takes time."

"He won't mind," I replied, shrugging my shoulders as I gathered my things from beside the secretaries desk.

"Ah, but we have to make sure you get your rest. I want to make sure you ace your exams," he said, with one hand running his long fingers through his hair. "How else can I be sure you'll be working in the slide library the next time I need my inspiration unclogged?" he said, jokingly. His eyes were sparkling. Dark, intense eyes with the light seeming to pooling within them instead of reflecting off of them.

After grabbing our belongings and locking up everything in the building, We walked to the edge of the faculty parking lot where his car was parked. He opened door of his vehicle for me just as he had opened the doors of the building for me-- being only twenty-one, I found that particularly new and charming. 

As he drove out of the parking lot, he asked, "So who's your favorite artist?"

"You are," I said, with a sly smile.

"That'll get you points, I can't deny it," he replied, laughing. "Seriously, though."

"Miro," I replied, and proceeded to tell him why. It was getting late, and when it gets late, I fall to one of two extremes, gabby or silent. This time I was favoring the gabby side. After my long discourse on why Joan Miro was my favorite artist, Professor Riley nodded his head. 

"My," he said, "You really do have the eye of an art critic. Promise to be kind to me when you're out in the real world."

"This isn't the real world?" I asked.

He shifted the gear of the vehicle and turned to look at me. "For me it is. For you it isn't."

"I think I want to know more about the real world," I said, glad that I had given directions to my dorm instead of Dylan's.

Professor Riley smiled. "I'd be happy to show you," he replied, turning into the entrance to Kepler Hall, where the room I was supposed to sleep in every night was. 

He walked with me up the pathway to the door, standing a respectable distance away from me.

"I feel better now," he said, "knowing you're home safe." Looking up at the building, most of the lights were off in the windows, but a few still glowed a warmer glow than the one of the moon against the evening sky. "I should probably stop here though, or people will talk." 

"I understand," I said. We were both silent for a moment, until he turned to walk back to his car. "Thanks Professor Riley."

"Not a problem," he replied. "And please, call me Mason. I only make people I hate call me Professor Riley," he said. Then he took my hand and squeezed it. "See you soon."

When I climbed into my bed that night, I forgot all about Dylan expecting my call. My roommates were asleep in their own beds, but I was lying there thinking about the evening, wondering what had just happened. 

I thought about the professor's voice, his hair, where he had been, and the touch of his hand over mine. With all that thinking, it wasn't long before I had an overwhelming desire to cum. I moved my hand down my body, but stopped short when I heard one of my roommates stirring. It was impossible. After months of being able to be as loud and wild as I wanted to be in Dylan's bed, I didn't know how to cum quietly. Still gloating in Professor Riley's presence and touch, feeling he'd left the imprint of his hand on mine, I rolled over and fell asleep. 

That night I had a dream, one of those vivid dreams that you try to hold on to for as long as you can, but eventually have to wake up from. I was lying down somewhere, my fingers parting the lips of my pussy. I let my fingers run along side the island of the inner lips and rubbed the dark pink flesh until the thick juices oozed out and over, onto my fingers. I could feel them trickling down out of my slit, crawling slowly down to my ass and onto the surface I was lying on. I moved my fingers so that one rested at the opening of my pussy, the other resting at the hooded head covering my clit. I began grinding my hips slowly, rubbing with just enough pressure to make my body quiver. I closed my eyes, and imagined I was being taken. I was the woman in that painting, my body gyrating under the long trail of satin, letting the fabric rub between my legs without making it wet, letting it glide over my breasts, teasing my dark brown nipples to hardness. Then, like a sudden invasion of light, my hands were hers, perfectly painted this time, the color of my caramel skin instead of fleshtone. They were in the process of being bound-- not tied-- and thrust behind me. Someone was blowing the tips of my fingers, making the juices from my cunt evaporate and cool in the air. In contrast, my pussy felt like it was on fire. I looked down and there were flames in place of my pubic hairs. 

I felt the winding and tugging of the rope tighter around my wrists, then felt fingers parting the lips of my pussy, cooling the fire as the breath on my finger tips did. When I looked up to see who was performing this service, I saw no face at all, then, it came in clearer focus. It was Mason Riley. The ends of the hair on his head actually were snakes, wriggling and darting their tongues. Mason moved in closer, resting his head on my smooth brown thigh. As he head was positioned close to my crotch, one of the snakes from his hair thrust its head inside me and squirmed its way inside me. My belly bulged with the movement of that snake inside me. My pelvic muscles tightened, and my belly felt overwhelmed by a wonderful sensation that made me feel light and heavy at the same time, a sickly swirl in my stomach,, until a flood of juices rushed from my body, and everything faded to black.

In the morning, I looked up and saw all my roommates were gone. I reached under the t-shirt while lying under the covers and pressed my fingers to the lips of my pussy. Not only was I soaking wet, but I'd actually left a bit of a wet spot underneath me, as if I had wet the bed. I sat up to get out of the dampness and looked around the room. There was a message on my desk that said, "Call Dylan!" written with a big black marker that still sat next to the note.

I picked up the phone and dialed his number, but there was no answer. Just then, there was a knock on my door.

"Lah! It's me, Dylan!"

I opened the door and let him in. 

"Where the hell have you been?" he asked. "Where were you last night. I waited all night for when to come get you?"

"I got a ride home. It was late. I was tired," I said, scratching my head. I was still tired. I felt like I was hungover. That dream wore me out.

"Who from?" Dylan asked, shutting the door and sitting down in the chair at my desk.

"Professor Riley," I replied. 

"The 'Bun Man'?"

"Yeah."

"He's a freak," Dylan grumbled, staring at me. He was tapping his foot on the floor. He wasn't too happy with me.

"He's a nice guy," I said, answering and ignoring his comment at the same time while pinning up my hair, getting ready to go to the showers. " He helped me get my work done."

"Well, next time, call me...instead of riding with the Bun Man," he said, grabbing his crotch to adjust himself and tipping the chair back. 

I stood in the shower and let the water run over me for a while to wake myself up. I watched the water pool at my feet. I thought about graduation being just a semester away. I thought about Dylan. I thought about Professor Riley. Maybe I did need to know more about the real world. And maybe it was time to give up the key to Dylan's dorm.

********

Every Tuesday evening for two months went similar to the previous one. I was alone in the slide room for only a few minutes when Professor Riley would stop by. He asked for my "critical eye" on his "woman with bound hands" painting and then he helped me file slides. Each time he dropped me off at my dorm. It became the only night of the week I didn't spend with Dylan, and I made no excuses for not doing so.

Then one particular Tuesday evening, the professor walked in the room and immediately started helping me file.

"Hey, this is out of order," I said, jokingly. "We're supposed to check out your 'bound woman' first."

"She's home," he replied. "I took her home to work on for a while."

We filed slides in silence, which was rather unusual for what I was used to. I wondered if something was wrong. Then, once the last batch of slides were filed away, Professor Riley spoke up.

"Ayilah," he said, shutting the file cabinet, "How about going for coffee before we call it a night? My treat."

"Sure," I replied, hoping to clear up any problems there might be between us. His silence had been a little disconcerting.

We drove all the way to the opposite side of town, and it was dark by the time we arrived at our destination. It was a small cafe, with drop-down lights and fabric strewn along rafters, hanging down like curtains.

I ordered a vanilla chai and Professor Riley ordered an espresso. I made a face when he ordered, and he noticed.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "How can he order espresso and go to sleep at night?" he smiled. 

"No, I'm thinking how can you order espresso at all," I replied, smiling back. He was begining to act like his usual self.

"Ahh. I'll show you," he said. When the waitress arrived, the professor thanked her, then dipped the tip of his index finger in the demitasse cup. He then held it to my lips. "Taste." I scrunched up my face again in distaste. "No, really-- taste it." 

I put my lips to the tip of his finger, where the brown liquid stuck there with a bit of a gleam. I let the tastes settle in my mouth on my taste buds, to see if I could get a sensation from it other than just bitter.




The Sensual Life Ch. 03



"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.

"Well...I..."

"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.



The Sensual Life Ch. 04



Chapter 4: Ayilah's

The next morning, I woke up to sunshine streaming in through the tall, curtain-less windows. The cross of the panes were making shadows that stretched in diagonal lurches onto the hard wood floor. Things appeared to be the same places they had been when Mason and I arrived the night before. There were only two differences I could see in the room: A quilt was draped over me, and Mason's boots and saddlebag were no longer sitting by the table and chair.

When I rolled my head over the pillows, I heard crackling, and something hard, but flexible cutting into my cheek. A piece of paper, lying on the side Mason had been on, now I had rolled over to it. The note read: 

"Didn't want to wake you. Will be back to take you to campus."

I got dressed and walked down the flight of stairs to the first floor. It smelled of fresh coffee. I let the scent lead me to where it was, the kitchen. Searching the cabinets for a cup, I poured coffee from the pot, and sat at the little table that was set against a wall. I looked at my watch. It was still morning. I should have been concerned-- about getting back to campus, studying, Dylan...any number of things. Instead, all I could think of was last night. At a moment of extreme pleasure, I had cried.

Why the hell did I cry? I replayed the scene in my mind not as it was, but imagining the worst possible aspects that could have been a part of it: A snotty nose, puffy eyes, running mascara. 

None of these actually happened. It wasn't exactly that kind of crying. And I always made a point of wearing waterproof mascara, even when I did expect to cry-- like at a chick flick I found stupid but endearing. 

How embarrassing. Did I ever cry like that before? In front of someone else? During sex? Odd. What bothered me most was the feeling I had, at the very moment the tears started to fall. I felt like I had lost something that I couldn't get back, and if I couldn't get it back, I at least wanted to know what it was I'd lost. Sitting there, sipping coffee in the solitude of Mason's kitchen, I was getting angry. He'd made me cry.

I went back upstairs, with the cup of coffee, and looked around the studio. There were painted canvases stacked against each other on one side of the room, blank ones at another. Cans of paint were stacked in a corner, next to a metal filing cabinet. I walked over to the cabinet and pulled the middle drawer open. Inside were several tubes of pigment, along with a few small bottles of varnishes and glazes. When I pulled the drawer above it open, it contained more of the same, except there were more thinners and varnishes, and less tubes of pigment. 

The top of the file cabinet was covered with old coffee cans, without their lids, so full of paint brushes that the the brushes all stood up straight rather than leaning. Their bristles were stained, but they were soft when I ran my fingers over them. 

I looked over at the bed, then to the bookcase beyond it, then walked over to the bookcase. Pulling out one book, then two, my fingers flipped through them, anxiously perusing the contents. Color theory, Abstract Expressionism, Foucault. There was nothing on the titles or the contents that gave a hint to who Mason was beyond what I already knew.

I heard the front door shut. I looked at the way the sun streaked through the windows. When I looked over at the doorway, Mason was standing there, a paper sack in his hand.

"You're up," he said cheerfully, setting the bag on the table that was near the bed and the bookcase. "I brought you breakfast. I see you found the coffee," he said, pulling out the contents of the bag and setting it on the table, beginning with two small jars of jam, then placing a croissant in a napkin. "These are hot. The bakery makes them fresh every morning." He opened a jar and slathered the croissant he set it the napkin with jam, and handed it to me, all wrapped up and steaming. 

"I'm not really hungry," I replied, putting the book back in its place on the shelf.

He stared at me, blankly. I stood up, my arms folded, then tried to relax them, slipping my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

He twisted his lips in an funny way, and nodded. He stood there for a moment, with the croissant held at a distance from himself in his hand, as if whether to bite into it or not was a huge decision. Then he set it down on the table, letting the jam ooze off of the pastry onto the napkin and table.

"What's wrong?" he asked. 

"I don't know," I said, feeling a certain sense of satisfaction. "I just want to go. I have classes."

"You don't have classes until this afternoon. You have a couple of hours."

"I have things to do," I replied curtly.

He reordered his stance, shifting a foot forward, looking at the floor, then at me. "I thought you might want to talk about last night," he said. His eyes were a lighter brown in the sunlight. They were soft and calm. He didn't look like anyone to be feared. Yet I had a trepidation inside me that made my legs weak, and not from pleasure.

"No, I just need to go," I said, gathering the courage to walk by him, but I didn't make it all the way passed him. He grabbed my arm gently.

"This isn't what I expected from you."

That made me angry-- the coffee must've kicked in, and, what I perceived as logic at the time, woke up. 

Most of the time Mason's air of condescension seemed merely incidental, a result of him being naturally older than me, and very intelligent. But at that moment-- maybe because I felt bested in an area I'd never been before-- it felt like purposeful, patronizing behavior. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked. I snatched my arm back, almost hitting him in the face in the process. He was about to say something, when I did it. I made the bumbling blunder. "What? Are you afraid I'm going to tell someone what happened?"

Mason was standing, his one leg forward, looking a little startled. With one hand, as if to calm himself, he hooked his thumb through the belt loop of his jeans. With the other, he held the back of his head, towards the nape of his neck. "This, isn't about me," he said calmly, looking pensively down at the floor, then up at me again, staring me straight in the eye. It was then that I noticed how bushy his eyebrows were, how the distance between them and his eyelids made his eyes look bigger.

"Oh, yeah, right. Like you didn't tell me you masturbated in your office so you could fuck me?"

"Jesus," Mason tipped his head to the side, letting his thick hair fall forward, scratching the scalp absent-mindedly with his finger tips. Then he lifted his head, so his hair swept out of his face a bit. He held a hand to his chin, then held his hand out, as if presenting the issue on its surface. "I didn't fuck you. And if all I wanted was to fuck you, I would've done that last night, no?"

In a voice that sounded more hurt than I wanted it to, I asked, "So why didn't you?"

Mason was quiet for a moment, then laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. He took a bite of the croissant that he had set on the table, and rolled up the top opening of the paper sack, leaving it there on the table as he walked towards the door. "Come on. I'll take you back to the dorm."

"You didn't answer me," I replied.

"I'm taking you back to the dorm," he said firmly, but-- surprising to me-- rather calmly, and headed down the stairs, leaving breakfast on the table.

I didn't see Mason for almost three weeks. For me, it was the roughest three weeks I'd had in my four years at university. Midterms, finals, and papers are what's supposed to give students the most stress. Not me. Sex. Sex gave me the most stress. 

Not seeing Mason could have been a relief. I wasn't forced to choose between him and Dylan, and more importantly, I didn't have to deal with what being with Mason had caused me to feel. But what should've been a relief wasn't, because, in keeping with the winds of karma, Dylan picked these same three weeks to make his exit from our relationship.

All of a sudden, I was around-- every day, including Tuesday-- and Dylan wasn't. I called his dorm: No answer. If he did answer, the conversation was shorter than if I had dialed a wrong number. 

He'd been somewhere, the times he didn't answer the phone, but he didn't volunteer the information. And I didn't ask. Wasn't I the one who pulled away first, intentionally or not? It's not a familiar quip, but it should be: He who pulls away last wins.

I was hurt. And I was alone. So for three weeks, I pretended. I pretended I hadn't stiffed a boyfriend for a new possibility. I pretended I hadn't had a clandestine relationship with a member of faculty. I pretended I hadn't had a monumental orgasm with that member of faculty who knew more than I did about art and wasn't hard to look at either. 

I worked on papers, did my job in the slide library, and met with my advisor. That gave me the shock of reality I needed. Although she didn't know what I was experiencing personally, she was quick to give me every reason not to be dwelling on sex and men as my senior year was coming to an end. After leaving her office, I had three post-graduation job interviews to prepare for, in addition to the final papers, projects, and exams I already knew were coming. Graduation was only a two months away.

All that work didn't give me much time to think, but the moments that I did, I thought about Perry. Everything was so simple and innocent back then. I wondered if he'd lined up as much baggage as I had in four years?

By the end of those three weeks, I had given Dylan his key back and was a regular resident in my own dorm. My roommates weren't too happy because they had found other uses for my designated space, but they retreated to their own areas without a fuss.

I was getting used to the living the normal life of a single collegiate female until the following Thursday, when I saw Mason. It was in the hallway, while I was on my way to a class. I was walking to the line of rooms he was coming from. The hallway was a bit crowded with students making their way to and from classes. Our eyes met, and while I'm sure they lit up, something real heavy sunk into my belly. We were about three people apart and without a word said, we both stopped in the middle. 

"My office, 2:30" he said to me in a calm voice, as someone walked through the large space between us. I wanted to turn around, wanted to see him walk away. I wondered if he noticed I was breathing faster, even in those few seconds. I felt foolish, and a little ill, afraid I looked too eager, afraid he already knew how eager I was to see him again.

When I got to class, I chose a seat against the wall, towards the back of the room, instead of my usual near front and center. The wall felt cool against my cheek. It was little consolation. My stomach gurgled all through class, my mind clouded with wondering just what would happen at 2:30. 

What should I do? Should I apologize for being an ass? Should I just quietly walk out before he dumped me? Wait a minute. Dump me? Were we dating? 

Too many questions, not enough answers. The "critical thinking" they impressed upon us so much in university wasn't working here.

When my class was over, my body couldn't decide whether to run out of the room or wait to be the last one out the door. I chose a pace that was somewhere in between.

I arrived at Mason's office, walking the squared corridors, around a few corners, to a room with notes and clippings pasted to the door. The door was closed, so I knocked. 

"Hey," he said, opening the door, his hair in the requisite bun. A few stray hairs were falling out of it. "How are you?" he asked, taking me in, smiling. I was wearing a short plaid skirt, black tights and army boots, a light pullover sweater, and a jean jacket. It was spring, but it was still a little chilly for the season. I looked around his office. 

"Fine," I replied with a nod, tucking my hands in my jacket. 

"Busy time of year," he said. "Probably for you more than me, with graduation around the corner."

"Yeah," I said. "Pretty busy." 

"I was out-of-town," he said, taking notebooks and textbooks out of his saddlebag. "A conference in Connecticut." He placed the items from his bag to the places he had assigned for them on his desk and the little book shelf next to his desk . "Bad time of year for a conference. But it was a good one." 

We were both still standing, me just barely on the inside of the door. He reached behind my waist to grab the door knob and I felt his arm brush against me. I shuddered. 

"I like what you're wearing," he said quietly, pushing the door so that it was still slightly opened, then quickly added, "Are you free this evening?" 

We stood in the corner where the inner edge of the door and the wall met. I looked up at him, with wide eyes, relieved that he even asked, not realizing he was backing me up against the wall. 

Before I could answer, I felt his hand go up my skirt, rubbing one, rounded, black tight-covered ass cheek. Stray hairs fell out of his bun, into my face, and along my neck, tickling it as he let the top of his head rest against the wall I leaned against. I felt his breath and mine, warm, filling up the space between us, his hand, moving from my ass to my crotch. A finger weaseled its way through a tiny rip in the crotch of my tights. It was insistent, widening the hole, then inching around the elastic leg of my panties until it found the lips of my pussy. I gasped, audibly, as my pussy tingled. I felt myself getting wet.

"You," he whispered to me, "Are a very bad girl." 

He foraged against the resistance the elastic and nylon of my clothing posed until his finger was successfully inside my pussy. He let it rest there for a moment, his hot breath on my bare neck, then he began moving his finger, slowly, in and out of my moist, dark hole. 

"You made me think of you-- that beautiful dark skin, those lovely brown eyes... that lovely round ass--every night while I was away."

'I made him?' I didn't get that. I also didn't care that I didn't, but just whimpered softly, feeling my juices moistening his slim, pale finger as he squeezed my other ass cheek with his hand. 

"I could've fucked you that night, just like I'd like to fuck you now," he continued in a low voice, and I knew I hadn't been the only one regretting the morning after our last meeting. He was using his thumb-- which rested on the outside of my tights-- to balance the finger that was slowly moving in and out of my pussy; But that thumb was also resting strategically on my clit, which it softly massaged, just from opposing movement. I shuddered, then moaned softly as I felt myself on the verge of cumming.

"I could've fucked you then, and I could fuck you now," he repeated. "But I won't," he said, and he abruptly lifted his head from leaning against the wall behind me and stood so he was looking me full in the face, with searing dark brown eyes. 

He pulled his finger out of my cunt and rubbed his slim, pale finger on my lower lip, leaving a damp trace of my own juices there. Then he put that same finger in his mouth, slid it out again, and quietly sucked off whatever taste of me was left on it. Then, he kissed me, alternately sucking on my tongue, gently, then letting his tongue lick the roof of my mouth. I could taste the smooth, tangy flavor of my pussy juices in the mingling of our saliva.

"I will have to make you ask for it properly," he said. 

Then he pulled away from me, leaving me dazed. Except for an absent-minded rub of the front of his jeans, he appeared to recover quickly. 'Ask for it properly'. What did that mean? 

"Meet me at the shuttle stop behind your dorm," he said, very business-like. "At 9 p.m."

And that was it. He opened the door quickly, as if we had merely been discussing a grade on a paper. He would've squashed me behind it if I hadn't gathered my wits quickly and shuffled to the side. 

As I walked out of his office, down the hallway, I looked down to see my skirt was still flipped up in the front. Thank god no one else was around. I hurriedly flipped it down, smoothing it down self-consciously over the top of my thighs. I felt how the fabric stuck to my tights and my mind clicked. The tights. There's a hole in my tights that wasn't there before.



The Sensual Life Ch. 05



Around 8:00 that evening, I showered-- at my own dorm-- and decided what to wear. It was a daunting decision, considering what I figured was going to happen. I decided to wear pretty much the same thing I did that day, except I chose a black sweater to replace the ivory, a fresh pair of black tights, and I left the panties behind. I wore the same skirt. He seemed to like it enough earlier, that afternoon.

His car was there, in the parking lot, the only one there. He got out, opened the door for me, and got back in on his side. 

He looked over at me occasionally as we drove across town to his house. "You look very nice," he said. "I do like that skirt." He smiled, but kept his hands on the steering wheel, gripping the vinyl like a new driver. 

We passed the coffee shop, the infamous one. The lights were bright inside and I could see people in there, like miniature figures, so much like an Ed Hopper painting. 

When we got to his house, he opened the door for me. At the bottom of the stairs leading to his studio, I waited for him to go first, but he waved me ahead. "Please," he said. 

As I got closer to the landing of the second floor, there was a warm glow easing into the darkness, the opposite of the way the light shone through the windows of the studio that fated morning. Finally standing at the door way, I was able to figure out why. 

The fabric that was draped along the top ledges of the windows had been dropped down, flowing in smooth, curving lines, calming the linear strain of the windows. They lilted as I entered the room. He had lit candles, sometime before he came to get me. They were standing in various post-modern designed metal contraptions, in plates on the tables where the paint cans and brushes had been. A small, old fashioned lamp with a tasseled shade sat atop the bookcase and gave off a dull glow that reminded me of a scene in a movie from the 1940s. So much light given off by such a simple things, gathered en masse. It was a gorgeous thick, dull luminance that lingered somewhere between darkness and light. 

The big red velvet air mattress was in the same place, the pillows neatly arranged, fabric folded in neat rectangles at the foot of it, and scattered on the mattress and all around it were flower petals, what I assumed were roses, but they were actually petals of magnolias. Mason stood behind me, and asked, "You like?"

"Yes," I replied. 

"Like the lady before me," he said.

I thought I was dreaming, and stood in the haze of candlelight, swooning with the lilt of the fabric streaming from the windows. I stood there for quite some time until Mason said, with a quiet, musical chuckle, "It's not a still life arrangement. We are meant to go in."

We walked in and I didn't know quite where to stand. I felt incredibly underdressed for the display--although I think the intent was that I feel overdressed. 

He sat in the plush armchair and unlaced his boots. I started to do the same, but he blurted out, "No, don't."

He walked up to me in his stocking feet. He was still taller than me, about 5'8, with his boots off and my boots on. "I love your skin," he said, while looking into my face, his eyes glazed over. He was holding my face with both hands. "I've never been with a black woman before," he said, smoothing his fingers over my forehead, my cheeks, and chin. "To be honest, I didn't think race mattered until I met you."

He brushed his fingers against the back of my neck and put his arm around my waist, pulling me closer until were pressed against each other. We kissed. He moved his hand under my skirt, rubbing the palm of his hand along my ass cheeks. 

"Ah," he blurted out, noticing that I was wearing tights, but no panties. "Just how they were meant to be worn," he added with another soft chuckle. He reached inside my tights and continued rubbing my ass. I felt his breath quicken against my ear. He groaned softly as his hands began squeezing my ass, hard, until It almost hurt. 

I felt the rigidness of his cock against me, through our clothes and I thought about it -- the moderate length, the thickness of it...the way it bent upward slightly...all things I'd caught quick glimpses of when we were first together. I felt the nerves tingling in my pussy, and felt the pores beginning to release fluid. Mason continued squeezing my ass in that way that hurt and stimulated me at the same time. I wasn't sure what excited me about it-- the urgency, or the absent-minded of his touch; That lack of presence that made him not realize it almost hurt me, or the soft ache that pulsed through my ass cheek and my inner thighs once he released. Either way, it provoked me to grind against him, as much as I could manage. But my moving against him that way took him out of his reverie. 

He stepped away from me, and shook his head. His eyebrows furrowed, and he said, in a voice that was stern but quiet, "Not yet. Go lie over there," he said, pointing to the mattress. "Lie on your stomach."

I went to the air mattress and laid on my belly as he'd asked, with my boots still on my feet. I tried to position my feet so the soles wouldn't touch the mattress. 

Lying on my stomach, with my head on the pillows, kept me from seeing him at all. I heard him walk over to me, his feet brushing the hardwood floor. I felt his hands on my waist and he pulled me up so that I was kneeling, with my head facing the pillows. He lifted my skirt, and again, his hands moved over my ass. His fingers bent under the elastic band at the waist of my tights and pulled them down so that my ass was totally bare, and the elastic stretched and retracted, cinching the middle of my thighs. I gasped.

He moved his body so it was hunched over mine, in a position of a doggy-style fuck. His clothing felt scratchy against my bare ass and thighs. His hair was falling over my head, dangling on either side of my face and tickling it. He whispered in my ear. "You're a good girl...but you can be such a naughty girl." 

There it was again, just like in his office earlier that day. For the second time, he referred to me with that voice, and that strange way of speaking. It puzzled me and it aroused me. It made me think of those Victorian erotic novels Perry and I used to read.

The denim of his jeans felt rough against my skin as he leaned into me. The metal button at the waist of his jeans was cold against my skin. The combination of that and his voice made me shiver.

"Are you my naughty black girl?" he asked, whispering in my ear, again in that voice. I didn't answer, not knowing what to say.

He moved up from over my body and I felt a sudden slap on my ass. Then another. Then another. He paused for a moment, and I understood he was waiting for a response.

"Yes," I replied, moving my head to the side, so he could hear my voice, un-muffled from the pillows.

"Yes?" he replied, in an almost fake, mocking tone. "Yes, what?" He slapped my ass again, harder this time, and four times in succession, with a slight pause between them.  

I winced. The strength of each spank was increasing. 

"Yes, I am your naughty black girl," I replied. I could feel the skin on my ass burning slightly. 

"There's a good girl," Mason cooed, as he rubbed my ass soothingly. 

He got up from behind me, and I heard him move not that far away from me. Then I saw his legs walking around the head of the mattress. The scent of the magnolia petals emanated from the floor where his feet crushed them.

"I have a surprise for you," he said. I was still kneeling. He hadn't told me I shouldn't be. I wanted to look up, but wasn't sure if I should. He must've noticed this because he said to me, "You may look." 

In his hands was a long piece of corded line, like the kind my mother would hang clothes on when I was little. "Only your hands," he said, to assure me. As he looked at me, I noticed the candlelight mellowed the strong features of his face. At the same time, it added a fierceness, making the sparkle of his eyes and the highlights of his hair stand out more. It excited me.

I held my hands forward, balancing my kneeling body by propping my arms up on the pillows. "First we have to take off your top," he said. He left the rope on the pillows next to me and I stretched my arm for him to pull off my sweater. "...and your bra," he added, unfastening the back hooks, letting it fall underneath me, then pulling the shoulder straps over my arms. He let the bra fall to the floor at his feet. "There."

From then on, it was like I went into a trance. I felt him winding the cord around my wrists, as methodically as he had unlaced his boots, around, and around, knotting, tying, until the task was complete. He gently placed my bound wrists on pillows he propped up to support them, leaving my arms stretched before me. The way he had tied my wrists and positioned my arms forced my head up. He squatted in front of me, gazed at me with sleepy eyes. He touched his lips to mine, opened them slightly, breathing in and out through my mouth. Then he kissed me, long and hard, his tongue reaching into my mouth. 

He knelt behind me, and caressed my back, running his hands along my shoulder blades, then the space between them, rubbing a hand around my neck, then reaching underneath me to cup my breasts as his still clothed body rubbed against me. He let his fingertips tease my nipples, run along my belly and circle my navel, then ran them up to my breasts again and began squeezing them softly. He let his pelvis bump against me, so I could feel the hardness of his cock swelling underneath his jeans. 

My tights were still pulled down around my thighs, and I felt him he parting my ass cheeks, squeezing them in his hands before he did. I felt the cool air on my asshole, and shuddered, wondering what he was about to do. He allowed my ass cheeks to close and slapped my ass again playfully, then ran his hands around my naked thighs, squeezing and rubbing them, starting at the point where my tights held them together, and ending just below my pussy. 

He moved his head down and underneath me, pulling my hips down toward him, and let his tongue touch my clit. I shuddered. He parted my pussy lips with his fingers and moved the wetness that had been building there around with his fingers, then placed his whole mouth on my cunt. I felt his tongue dart around my cunt, from the dark hooded clit to crimson inner slit, and I groaned, trying not to move, and not being able to move much at all, because of the pulled-down tights binding my legs and the rope binding my wrists. Cunt juices drooled out of me in increasing amounts, and I heard him slurping and swallowing greedily, felt him licking up everything I was giving up. 

I shuddered and cried out, oozing juices onto his face, my thighs trembling. I thought he would stop once I came, but he didn't, and, I came again, this time a flood over his face. I heard him moan, felt his hands on my ass, his tongue still probing into my slit, his mouth sucking and slurping. 

He didn't wait for my second orgasm to subside, but instead, took my clit between his lips and sucked, long and hard. It felt swollen and engorged with a million nerves erect like pins and feathers all at once. "Noooo," I groaned. I wanted him to stop. I was feeling that aching sensation of being over stimulated. But he wouldn't stop. I cried out in agony, he pinched my nipples, and I felt my stomach tighten along with every other muscle in my body, the tension built up until they all released at once, in unison, and I yelled out, a thin guttural scream from the depth of my throat. My body shook. The rope ached on my wrists, and hurt my shoulders as my body writhed in pleasure. The ache went through my entire body and I groaned and shook until I collapsed, as well as I could, my partially clothed body awkwardly bent, propped up by my bound hands on the pillow. I was panting. I was trembling. Mason, still fully clothed, moved over to the side of me, adjusted my arms and legs so they were a bit more comfortable, and looked into my face, then kissed me, long and hard.

"Sometimes," he said, "You can go further than you think you can." He smiled at me. I looked up at him, exhausted, blinking, still feeling the affect of cumming. "Now," he whispered, "What would you like next?"

I looked at him blankly. I didn't think I had a choice. Wasn't that the purpose of his positioning me this way? 

"Tell me. Go on," he said.

"I...I want you inside me," I replied tentatively.

"I'm sure you do. And how is it you should let me know?" he asked.

It was nothing I knew, not in my head, but I spoke with the encouragement of the sparkle in his eyes. "I'd like for you to...fuck me." 

"Just because you'd like it, doesn't mean I should give it to." His voice was stern, but playful. His hand was caressing my back and my neck. 

I only responded to the sternness in his voice., and I felt frustration and anger replacing pleasure. He must've seen it in my eyes because he reached underneath me and rubbed my clit, then, once my eyes glazed over, he slapped my ass hard.

"Ask me for what you want, Ayilah. Nicely."

He was rubbing my ass again, looking into my face, waiting. His eyes, his hair wild and loose, the warm tone the candlelight gave his skin, having my movement restricted...it all aroused something in me I couldn't describe. I heard myself speak, in a soft whisper, "Mason...would you fuck me...please." 

He kissed my full lips, leaving them wet, and moved behind me. With my tights still cinching my thighs, my skirt hiked up at my waist, I felt his pale hands on my naked brown hips, then only one hand, and the tip of his cock at my pussy. 

He pushed the head of his cock in. I could feel my pussy lips resisting and then closing tightly over it just below the rim. I heard Mason groan. He was totally still for a moment. His hands smoothed along my back between my shoulder blades. I felt him pushing his way deeper into me, with only a forward thrust. I could feel my juices flowing out of the pores of my cunt, surrounding his hard cock, and he was still again. I wasn't feeling the scratch of his jeans against me. Just his bare skin. 

The veins of his dick pulsed between my tight walls. My warm juices continued flooding all over it. He thrust forward, gasped, and pushed until he was in all the way, to the root of his cock, his balls pressing against me.

I moaned, felt my legs quivering a bit. Mason leaned over my body, along my back and whispered in my ear, with a voice that betrayed his own pleasure, "Is that what you want, Ayilah? Professor's hard white cock in your dark pussy?"

"Yes-s-sss," I moaned, feeling my cunt walls grip him even tighter.

"You naughty, naughty girl," He said, nibbling my ear. "Wanting your professor's cock." He gave a little pump of his dick inside me, just a tease, then asked me, "Now, do you want your white professor to fuck your naughty black cunt?"

His words had a dizzying effect on me. I felt my pussy tingling around his dick. I felt incredibly full with him inside me. I thought I would cum right then. He gave another teasing pump, that didn't move his cock out of me at all, and I groaned, flooding his cock with more of my juices.

"Ohhhhhhh...fuck...," he groaned, and without waiting for a response from me. He held my hips and began thrusting into my cum juice, in and out, slowly, firmly, banging hard against my ass with every thrust, making certain his cock sunk deep inside me. I was so wet, that I could hear the squirting, farting and squishing as he pumped, knowing that as he pushed in between my dark pussy lips, his white cock was coming out slick and gleaming with my cum.

He moved inside me like that for several minutes, his hands on my hips, angling his cock in various ways so that it rubbed the walls and various depths of my cunt. My tights were still banded around my thighs and I couldn't move the way I wanted, so my ass wriggled and quivered in response to his thrusts. I pushed against his cock in backward and circular movements, causing his dick to rub all the right places, until I came again, twice more, and my thighs were coated with my own cum.

After I came the third time, Mason allowed me time to recover, letting his dick rest inside me. He was totally buried in me to the root. His cock throbbed even as it stood still, and the veins pulsed against my pussy walls. Mason grabbed my shoulders to brace me so that my hips were firmly in place against his, and, as he tightened his grip on my shoulders, he pounded my pussy from behind, barely retracting his cock at first, then taking longer more vigorous thrusts that threw my body forward, even with him holding me in place. I was about to cum again when I heard him groan loudly, and felt myself being filled with warmth. Once his cum spurted into me, I came, less intensely than it initially seemed it was going to be. My cunt gripped his cock tightly, as if refusing to let it go. He thrust spasmodically, spurting his cum into me, then fell, with his stomach warm and sweaty on my back, squeezing my breasts and groaning. 

He rolled over on his side and brought me with him, and I held my cunt muscles tight, to keep his cock inside me. We laid there for a while, me holding him inside me until his cock slipped out of me of its own will. He prompted me to lay on my back. Moving his hands down my body, he stopped at my thighs and parted my legs. He held them open, and, with his hair falling around his face onto my thighs, he put his mouth to my cunt. I could feel his cum and mine still oozing out of my slit. His tongue lapped it up greedily, dipping between the lips, licking his cum off of the part of my ass that was closest to my pussy. Then he moved up my body and kissed me, his lips covered in both our juices. I sucked on his mouth, tasting the salty, milky mix of our cum. 

"I'm not through with you," he said as he ran his fingers over my thighs, and I felt his fingers, more than one, penetrating my pussy. I groaned softly, looking up at him, my eyes glazing over. He watched my face intently. "I want to see my cum all over your brown body. Would you like that?" he asked.

"Yesss," I moaned in response.

"I'd also like to slide my cock between those beautiful breasts. Would you like that also?" he asked again. He was rubbing my clit while he talked to me, watching my face, listening to me groan, all while speaking in a controlled voice. "I'd love to do it now, but while I have you like this, there's something else I'd like from you." 

He rose from my side and knelt at the side of the mattress, kissed me, then moved towards the end of it. He pulled off my tights, then my skirt, and dropped them on floor at the end of the mattress. Then he stood up, and walked to the other side of the room, slowly. He took something out of the cabinet, the walked back over to where I was, but not before placing the object he had gone for onto the table which stood a few feet away from the mattress.

He knelt beside me again, and ran his fingers over my face and down my breasts. "You look so beautiful like that," he said, pausing for a moment and just staring. He reached up to my arms, his limp cock dangling above me. I thought perhaps he was going to untie me, but instead, he was positioning my arms and then the rest of my body. I let my body go limp and let him move me, and he gave me a little smile of gratitude, but continued with his self-assigned task. When he was through, my arms were over my head, hanging beyond the pillows. He tucked the pillows so they propped my torso up a bit, and allowed the rest of my body to slope down gracefully. 

"How do you feel?" he asked, squatting next to me. 

Between the setting, the sex, and what I assumed he was about to do, I was so relaxed now that nothing was the slightest bit uncomfortable. My body fell into the position he had created for me quite naturally, as if it were a normal way to rest. 




The Sensual Life Ch. 05



"Fine," I replied.

Mason took a piece of fabric from the stack that had been folded neatly, but had been shoved onto the floor in our excitement. It was red. Satin. He draped it over my body, so that it flowed over my breasts, across my belly, between my legs and then over my thigh. He took care as to where it fell, but kept meeting my eyes and working slowly, but very certainly.

"I guess you know what I'm getting at," he said, with a quiet laugh.

"Yes. I do," I replied, with a lazy smile.

"You have the look on your face that I want. And, what better way to paint bound hands than to have a pair in front of me?"

He moved back from me, about a foot or two, looked through a square he made with his hands, then adjusted my arm slightly. He smiled. He picked up the object he had put on the table which was a foot or so from the bed. It was a camera. He moved in close, focused the lens, then clicked the button.

"No one uses real models all the time, you know. I paint from photographs quite a bit, although she started out in my imagination," he said, looking for another angle and clicking the button again. Then he gave me a look of worry, perhaps thinking I might object. "I promise I will keep these safe," he added. "For my eyes only."

"That's okay," I replied. "I understand."

"Now. If only I can finish the painting without jacking off every time I start working on it," he said, as if he were talking to himself and I couldn't hear him. He said it with a soft chuckle, one that I was growing used to hearing.

Mason set the camera back on the table and walked over to me, kneeling at my side. He reached up to my arm, untying the rope, working diligently as he continued talking. 

"Did you enjoy your moderate version of being 'bound'?" he asked as he worked on the knots.

"Yes," I answered, not sure if it was true. It could've been the act, or it could've been the company I was in that excited me. I wasn't sure which. 

"I don't do that all the time. I just thought it was something you needed...and might enjoy," he replied. He undid the knots successfully and started unwinding the rope from around my wrists then worked on another knot. My wrists felt cold against the air. They also burned from the tightness they were freed from. "You seem like you would enjoy many things," he added. "Do you know how incredibly wet you get when you're excited?" he asked.

"Do I?" I replied.

"Yes. You do. It's an incredible turn on," he said, letting the rope fall to the floor. "Almost as much as your skin. You make it very hard to maintain control," he said looking down at me and giving that soft chuckle. 

He laid down beside me. I nuzzled into his neck, pressing my pussy against his leg and he held my hand on his chest, rubbing my wrists, feeling where the rope had creased the skin.

We laid in silence, and I could smell the magnolia petals that were crushed underneath us mixing with the scent melting wax, sweat, and sex. I was about to fall asleep when Mason broke the silence.

"I have a job for you this summer, if you decide to stay in town after graduation," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "It would involve some travel. And you'd meet some influential people." He rolled around so he could see my face. "It won't pay much, but I can feed you, pay your travel expenses," he said, then raised his eyebrows mischievously and smiled. "And I can keep you well-fucked," 

His eyes were gleaming. This man, ten years older to me, didn't seem like he was. Or I didn't feel ten years younger than him. Somehow, we'd leveled out in the middle. It felt very natural to be with him. 

"Yes," I replied. 

It felt like I was giving up more than just a few moments tied up with a rope, but it felt good.

Instead of rolling over to sleep, Mason kissed me, then moved down to suck on my breasts. That led to another bout of fucking, as if it sealed the deal. The rest of the night, we alternated between fucking, talking, and resting, and didn't stop until the sun came through the windows in the morning.



The Sensual Life Ch. 06



I spent graduation weekend with my parents, having told them before they arrived that I wouldn't be coming home for the summer and probably not after that either. They weren't really happy about it, thinking that they would have their little girl home. But although I was their little girl, I definitely wasn't a kid anymore. 

At the ceremony, Mason walked over. He hadn't bothered to pull his hair back or up, but it flowed over his shoulders and stayed obediently in place. He put his hand on my shoulder, in an "I'm her teacher" kind of way, and introduced himself.

"You must be Ayilah's parents," he said, extending his hand to my father, then my mother. "You must be very proud of your daughter. She's quite an intelligent young woman. The faculty is really going to miss her." My parents were beaming. 

They talked back and forth for a few minutes-- a few minutes too long, in my opinion. My stomach gurgled as we stood there. I looked around the room while they talked, looking for a way out, as if I could just walk away and leave, but Mason's hand stayed on my shoulder. When I tuned into the conversation again, I heard him say,

"She'll be working for me this summer, as I guess she already told you. You don't have to worry. She's going to have quite a future in the art world."

He went on and on. He sounded like a pro. When I said good-bye to my parents Sunday afternoon, they were still talking about "the nice professor" and everything he had to say.

Monday morning, Mason and I went to his office in the art building to pack up the rest of his things. The front door was locked, but he had a key.

"I'll leave the door unlocked," he said as we walked in. "Make it easier to go back and forth from the car."

We walked up the stairs to his office. Despite the fact that we would be doing a bit of physical labor, and it was too warm for wool, I wore the infamous skirt again, the short plaid one. Mason didn't seem to notice, that is until we were walking up the stairs. 

He slipped his hand underneath and whispered, "You naughty girl". He kept his hand there, under my skirt, rubbing the palm of his hand on my ass, all the way to the top of the last flight of stairs. 

Unlocking his office door, Mason motioned for me to enter first. Looking around the small room, there really wasn't much work to do. Most of his things were already in boxes, and just a few last minute objects needed to be packed. 

"Why don't we carry these down first, then pack up what's left?" Mason said, after scanning the room. We stacked and un-stacked boxes looking for the most likely candidates to leave on the first, second, and third trips.

We made our way down the stairs to Mason's car. Outside, the sun was moving up towards the center of the sky. That damned wool skirt was feeling more inappropriate every time we walked outside. By the second trip to the car, I was angry with myself for wearing it. It scratched against my naked legs, and the clogs—which were the only footwear that looked good with the skirt other than my army boots—were not the greatest for trudging up and down the stairs.

I stood at the trunk of the car as Mason moved things around to fit the boxes inside. The campus was deserted. Not even a security guard around. I was relieved that there wasn't anyone to gawk at me if my skirt flew up with the wind.

"One more trip and we'll be finished. Just a little packing left," I said, propping myself up onto his desk. I swung my brown legs back and forth and leaned back. The door was wide open. Mason was standing in the doorway, hands in his pocket, dark eyes staring at me. "Is something wrong?" I asked. 

"Just thinking," he replied. 

"Thinking?"

"Yes." he moved towards me. "The first time I thought of fucking you, I was in this room, sitting in that chair. I imagined I had you right where you are now."

I looked at him, wondering what was coming next, but hoping I had it all figured out. "And this is the chair you tossed yourself off in," I said, with a little laugh, putting my foot on the swivel chair and swinging it around, back and forth. "I would've liked to see that."

"I'm sure you would have," he replied. He pushed the chair further away from the desk. Without much force, it banged into the shelf behind it. "You are way too naughty for your own good, young lady," he said playfully, then put his hands on my thighs, smoothing his palms along my dark skin. The tone of his voice changed, and he muttered, "I don't think I will ever get over seeing the way your skin looks against mine." 

He reached under my skirt and slipped his fingers under the elastic of my panties. "You're wet already," Mason said, a little surprised, although I don't know why he would be-- just the sight of him made me wet. 

As he stood in front of the desk and I sat on it, Mason leaned forward so that our heads leaned on each other. He slid two fingers into my pussy and rubbed my clit with his thumb until I moaned. After I came on his fingers, he raised them to his mouth and sucked, then ran his tongue over his lips. 

"I guess my wish is going to come true," he whispered, giving me a long lewd look as he unzipped his jeans. "I get to fuck my 'little black slut' in my office." 

He pulled his jeans over his hips and leaned one leg on the desk, then pulled me to the very edge. The desk's metal trim was cool against my ass, but I didn't have much time to contemplate it. He thrust the entire length of his cock into me in one forceful push and I gasped. I felt the tip of his dick pressing at my cervix and shivered. 

He was too eager to hold back and he thrust his cock into my pussy, barely exiting, but pumping into me with hard, insistent strokes. To support the strength of his thrusts, he pressed his hand against the middle of my back at the waist with one hand, and pulled my head back by my hair with the other.

"You're my little slut, aren't you-- my little black slut," he groaned, murmuring those words over and over, in that voice that turned me on and scared me too.

I felt the walls of my cunt pulsing, aching with the friction of his cock. I moaned and felt my juices rush all over his dick. He didn't stop for me, but kept thrusting, my cunt juices running down his balls. The wetness of them pressed against my ass, and when there was even the slightest bit of space between us, the air rushed in with a cool tickle of evaporation. 

I nibbled on his ear lobe, moaned in his ear. "Fuck me....Mason...fuck me...ahh...yeah...harder..." My belly tightened and I cried out, as I my pussy tightened over his hard white cock and then relaxed, letting more juices through the pores of my cunt. 

I leaned forward, in that way of mock resistance that happens in the middle of a fuck—and happened to look over Mason's shoulder. I blinked my eyes. I couldn't tell what I was seeing. Was there a man standing in the doorway? 

I tried to prompt Mason with one leg, bending inward on his, trying to get his attention by creating some discomfort. It didn't work. He was lost. 

"My slut, my naughty little slut," he kept mumbling in between the groans. He took me under with him. I closed my eyes so as not to see anything, imaginary or real. 

I gripped Mason's cock tightly with my cunt, and I could feel him throbbing inside me. It fueled Mason's desire. "

"You want this cock, don't you," Mason growled. "You want this hard white cock in that tight black cunt..." He pumped with longer strokes, making sure his pelvis rubbed against my clit. I held him tighter inside me, not letting the head escape, but tightening my cunt-muscles over the rim whenever it neared the opening, feeling a little "thud" when he pushed back in. 

"Excuse me," was the voice I thought heard creeping into the air, tinged with the echo of the almost empty hallway. I ignored it as Mason increased the pace. No longer lost in the luxury of feeling me grip the rim of his dick, Mason was held me up in his arms, his cock still inside me, and backed up so that we were both sitting in his chair, with me on top. He sucked on my breast and held my ass tight, raising his hips as I lowered mine, staring sightlessly into the bookshelf behind us as I fucked him. 

I leaned my arms against the back of the chair and worked my dark pussy over his cock even after I felt him shudder. I felt the warmth of his cum filling me and tried to squeeze every last bit out of his cock. He groaned and shuddered again, whispering, "Oh fuck".

He was weakly squeezing my ass when I looked over at the door. 

Leaning against the doorway was a man, almost as tall as the doorway itself, with short, dark blond hair and a smirk on his face.

"Sorry," he said. "I tried to get your attention, but you were quite busy."

I'm not much of a screamer, but at that time, I did scream. I jumped up and tried to put my skirt down, but it was a little resistant due to the sweat and weight of all the activity. 

Mason jumped up, awakened by the cool air rushing over his glistening cock. "Oh fuck!" he yelled, looking up at the doorway, then at the floor where his jeans were crumpled around his ankles. He pulled them up and got up all in one motion. He was in the process of zipping them up when he finally was able to focus on who was at the door. 

"Jesus, Adam!" he shook his head. Mason didn't bother to fasten his jeans but walked up to the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

I was standing as far as I could in the corner between the chair and the wall, trying to figure out where my panties went. They could've been anywhere.

"Guess I can't ask YOU that question," the Adam replied with a chuckle. 

"Jesus," Mason said absent-mindedly. He looked back at me and then tried to stand in front of me to obstruct Adam's view of me. It didn't seem to work. Adam kept staring my way. "Um, can you excuse us a minute?" Mason said, nervously, shutting the door in Adam's face.

We both took deep breaths. I found my panties—on the other side of the desk between—and put them on, I guess as a matter of protocol. At this point, modesty was merely symbolic. Mason ran his fingers through his hair and looked at me before opening the door, as if to make sure I was okay with it. I nodded.

"Thanks," Mason replied.

"No problem. Guess you needed to catch your breath," Adam replied. He was looking around the room and then he looked at me...and smiled.

"Ayilah," Mason said, pulling me forward, "This is Adam Bachmann. He's a professor in the English department."

I nodded acknowledgement. "Nice to meet you," I replied cordially.

"And you," Adam replied, with a sardonic smile. He looked to Mason. "I just came by because I know we're usually the last ones to vacate the premises. Thought you might want to get some lunch." He flashed his green eyes and at me and gave Mason a bit of a smirk. "Hungry?"

Mason gave Adam a look of warning, which I readily caught—although I didn't quite understand the meaning of it. 

"I guess I am a little," I spoke up, not wanting to force Mason to choose between us.

"Well then," Adam replied, "If she's worked up an appetite, I'm sure you have, Mason. Where to?"

"How about Della's," Mason replied. 

"Della's it is," Adam said, turning away and walking into the hallway. 

When we left, Mason made sure he locked his office and the building's main door.



The Sensual Life Ch. 07



--thank you for waiting oh so long and patiently for the 7th chapter. I hope it is worth the wait. If you want to cut to the sex part, go to the last page...but isn't the fun in the "build up?"

We walked to Della's, since it was a nice day. There was only a slight breeze—enough to make my skirt not too warm, not too short that the wind would catch it. Things probably needed a little airing out down there anyway. I couldn't help thinking I smelled of sex. Adam walked on one side of me, and kind of meandered so that he might somehow bump into my area of personal space, but Mason was on the other, and he had his had his hand on the slope of my back, so that I stayed close to him. 

As we walked, Mason and Adam exchanged conversation, professor-type things, administrative-type things, things that I could care less about. While they talked and we all walked, I looked around at the sky, the buildings, and felt Mason's body, so definite, shadowing mine. What was it going to be like once I was officially moved into his house? How exactly did he live? And was it wise for me to go there? What would I find out about him while I was there? Would I wake up one day and find out he didn't want me there anymore, and be stuck out on the street? I stayed relatively quiet, and --despite my thoughts-- very content until we arrived at Della's.

Della's is a nice little place not far from campus which is usually too expensive for the average student. It was where grad students would sometimes hang out, or undergrads would take their dates there if they wanted to impress them. An upscale, yuppyish deli, that's what it was. 

We found seats, in the corner of the room, a booth that could sit five people, with a chair on the other side of it. The waiter came over, wearing simple black pants and a white shirt. His hair was pulled back and swept up into a tiny ponytail. 

"I'll have the "Deep Sea Sushi," Adam said, after Mason and I had given our orders. He gave the menus to the waiter, and then looked back to Mason, "So what's on for the summer, Mason?" 

"Work. Lots of work. Ayilah's going to help me catalog," Mason replied, looking my way with a smile. "Then it's out to show and sell. What about you and Kyon?"

"Kyon and I, we are no longer. We're pretty much less than friends," Adam said sadly.

He then talked about his former girlfriend, Kyon, who happened to be an adjunct professor of English at another college in the city. Adam had met her at a conference and took up with her while he was still married to his wife, Roseanne. When Roseanne came home to find Adam tied to the bedposts, naked, and Kyon prancing around him in totally naked except for a pair of black boots, his marriage swiftly ended. 

"Nothing like getting caught," Adam said with a smirk.

"Well unlike Roseanne, you have the distinct aberration of wanting to linger and watch," Mason replied. 

"I apologize," Adam replied. "You were just having so much fun. I enjoy watching two people in the thick of things, so to speak."

I wanted to say something, but I didn't. With all the words darting so quickly between the two of them, I suddenly felt like the lowly undergrad again.

Caught in the nostalgia, Adam left out the events and reason why Kyon left him. When Mason asked, Adam merely said, "Suffice it to say I'll be working on my book alone."

"That seems to happen to you a lot," Mason smirked, "you need a new plan."

"Well, your plan looks pretty good to me," Adam said, with a smile, then shifted in his seat to face me. "So you're an art major?" Adam asked, trying not to sound presumptuous.

"Was," I replied. "Art History. And English."

"A double major? Well, then, you must be very gifted student," Adam replied, with an unnerving tone in his voice.

"Graduated," Mason piped in. "She isn't a student."

Mason and Adam's eyes met. "Good thing," Adam chuckled. "...Could've been quite a report to the dean. Not sure if I should've left some things in or out..."

"Out would have been fine," Mason replied, laughing softly, then mockingly whispered an aside, "Don't mind him; he's lecherous, but relatively harmless." "And," he added, giving Adam a stern look, "Just because she majored in English, doesn't mean she'll help you with your book."

"Oh, I wasn't thinking any such thing...but now that you mention it..." 

Mason gave Adam a look that I couldn't tell was seriously reprimanding or lighthearted. There was definitely a history with these two, but I wasn't feeling particularly up to trying to figure out what it was. It seemed Adam just kind of imposed himself. I didn't want to spend time with him. I wanted to spend time with Mason.

When our food arrived, delivered by the waiter with the wispy, meager ponytail, it had arrived just in time. I really didn't know how to participate in the conversation between these two men, and it made me feel like the "odd one out". I could tell they were both dwelling on the afternoon's previous activities between Mason and I and I didn't like Adam's participation in it, even in conversation. A third party just made it...weird-- weird, and a bit sordid.

Fortunately for me and my insecurities, we ate without much conversation at all, but one thing from that meal stood out in particular. All of our entrée's were laid out beautifully, but mine tasted blander than it looked. Maybe I didn't have as much of an appetite as I thought. Adam's must've been incredibly hungry, because he ate with more vigor than I'd ever seen anyone eat. It wasn't that he was sloppy. Just consistent. Eating must've been the one thing that shut him up. 

I must have been watching him eat more than I was eating myself because he caught my eye and asked, with warmth and sincerity, "Would you like to try some?" 

"Oh, no... No. This is fine," I replied, looking down at my plate and rubbing my napkin between my fingertips.

"Really. Try some. It's delicious," he said, and he grabbed one slithery piece of tuna and, before I could object, reached across the table and put it to my lips. It was damp, and didn't smell fishy. Mason had paused from his meal and said to me, "Go ahead, hon. Try it." Maybe it was that Mason had called me "hon". Maybe it was that I felt all eyes were on me—one young black woman with two white men, one a bit older than the other, now with the older one holding a piece of raw fish to her lips, and about to refuse it. 

I parted my lips. It seemed like it was in slow motion. 

"Hold out your tongue," Adam said, in what sounded like a demand, a joke, and common sense all in one. So I did. 

His fingers reached into my mouth, dropped the piece of tuna on my tongue, and I closed my lips, not realizing they were closing around his fingers. But he did. He slid his fingers out slowly, then raised his eyebrows in approval. "There. That wasn't so bad, was it?" He raised his fingers to his lips, which was all I saw of him at that moment, sharply defined upper lip and a slight puffy fullness to the middle of his lower lip, and a taper to the ends of his bottom lip that made his expression always to appear to be that of the Cheshire cat. He sucked on his fingers audibly while looking at me with his gray-green eyes. I felt dizzy. I lowered my eyes. "Eating raw fish can be very satisfying," he said, returning to his food as if nothing were happening.

Later that evening, Adam and "the incident" safely behind us, Mason and I were sitting on the floor of the room that was to be mine, where I could my personal belongings. There was even a bed in there, I guess for if I ever wanted to sleep alone. 

"So what did you think of Adam?" Mason asked. While I was folding clothes and putting them in the drawers of an old dresser, he was taking books out of boxes, setting them up on the shelves—and putting way too much thought into what should go where every time he saw a book about art.

"He's...he's different," I replied. "Actually, he's like an English professor. He looks normal, but he's weird."

"I guess us art professors are much more normal," Mason replied, with noted sarcasm.

"No. Art professors look weird and are weird," I said, laughing. 

"Careful," he said, smiling. He eyed a text book before he put it on the shelf, then changed his mind. "You don't need this one," he said, and threw it back into the box. "It's shit." I didn't bother to see what book he was referring to, but I turned to him. 

"I find it weird that someone would actually watch while other people have sex," I said, taking more clothes out from a rubber bin to fold and put away in the drawer. "I mean it's not like watching a movie. There's just something not right about that."

Mason shrugged as he analyzed another book. "It's his shtick. He's done it for years." 

"Really?"

"Well it's not the first time he's been watching when I've fucked someone," Mason replied.

So that was the history between them-- at least part of it, if not all. 

"No?"

"No," he said, having arrived at the last book in the box, shoving it aside to deal with the next. "He asked me to fuck his wife, Roseanne, while he watched."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. Totally."

"And you did it?"

"Yes...totally," Mason replied, nodding with a little chuckle.

"You liked it?"

"Well..., yes. It had its charm."

I took the rubber bin I had emptied and moved it out of the way, thinking about Mason in that situation. I thought about him standing in front of a class after spending an evening with Adam and his wife. How many people do you look at every day who do all kinds of things when they are out of the element you know them in? What if the old lady at the checkout at the grocery store participated in gang bangs on the weekends? That made having her ring up your condoms a whole new situation.

"Did you ever do it again?" I asked, afraid to look at him.

"I did it several times and again. If Kyon hadn't left him, I'd imagine he'd be ready for another fix," Mason replied. "Last box emptied," he added. "Those over there you can just burn." I was going to comment that I didn't burn books, but Mason returned to the other task at hand. "I think right now, what Adam really wants is to fuck you."

My stomach churned. "I figured that out already," I groaned. 

"I don't think he's ever been with a black girl, not that he's mentioned." Mason was ripping the corrugated boxes apart at the seams, letting them fall in their rectangular angles on the floor, then stepping on them to flatten them out. After deconstructing them all, he said, looking my way, "Anyway, what do you think of that, that he wants to fuck you?"

The way Mason said "fuck", so precisely, struck me. It was harsher than when he said it to me, yet the same clear emphasis was there-- one syllable, curt, the utterance cut short at the end, but echoing in the air so you couldn't forget what was said. I felt like he was redefining the word for me. Or the way he said it caused me to have to redefine it.

"I don't know what I think of that," I replied, feeling like I was being called on in class, back to being a student.

"Well, let's put it this way: Do you want to fuck him?" 

I didn't like his tone, and a spit back, "I just met him. How would I know?"

"Well, if you wanted to," he replied, gathering up the collapsed boxes. His voice was trailing as he walked out the room, stepping outside to put the boxes in the trash. " I wouldn't stop you". His voice trailed back in at the end of those words as he walked back into the room. "But I'd want to be there."

"For what? To watch?"

Mason laughed. He saw the look of consternation on my face. "No, darlin'. To supervise." He was shaking his head, chuckling. "I have a little bit of the voyeur in me, too," he said, looking me in the face. "I'm a painter, aren't I?" 

We stopped talking about it, or rather Mason didn't mention it again. It didn't seem to be his conscious choice, which made me, somehow, feel better. I mean, how much did I know this guy whose house I just moved into? Was four months long enough to know someone before you got out of bed next to them every day—if indeed that was what we would be doing? Even still, waking up and having a particular person's face be the first one you saw-- every day, even if they weren't sleeping in the same room as you-- that put you in touch with all their proclivities. College dorm life had taught me that. I might be finding out more than I ever wanted to know about Mason.

Later that evening, we had ordered in for supper. We were sitting on the floor, downstairs in the living room. While we ate, I was the one to bring the subject up again. 

"You know the thing about Adam? About watching, and him and all that?" I asked. He nodded and shifted his legs that were crossed with his feet tucked underneath. "I'm really not attracted to Adam." I felt a little queasy shudder as I said it, which made me feel my conclusion was indeed correct.

"Fair enough," Mason replied, nonchalantly, and nodding again, although I thought I noticed a bit of relief there, a hint of it, if not the reason for it. "I'll buy that."

He put his emptied food container down and stretched out his legs, and looked at me. "So," he added slowly, "the next man you meet whom you are also attracted to and want to go to bed with, you will? And you'll let me watch?"

That was a weird question. I thought it was about Adam. Obviously it wasn't. Getting a bit defensive again, I said to him "I don't know that many men like to be watched while they have sex."

"Well," Mason replied, looking upward and running his fingers through his hair, then looking back at me. "What if I picked out one that did? And you were attracted to him?"

These hypothetical questions were killing me. "I...I guess I would then," I replied, almost as a question, not a very strong affirmation.

"Hmm," Mason replied. And that was all he said. Hmm.

The next thing I knew, Mason was on all fours in front of me, tugging at the waistband of my running shorts and pulling them down over my hips. The thick, curled ends of his hair were tickling my legs and I let my hand rest on his head, fingertips lightly touching his scalp. 

"I think our thoughtful girl needs a break from thinking," he said, pulling shorts and panties down over my thighs, my knees, and up over my feet. He threw them aside and roughly parted my legs. 

"Fried rice and pussy," he said. "An excellent combination." He parted the lips of my cunt and teased the tip of my clit with his tongue. He was examining every fold of skin around the tiny mound of nerved cartilage and delicately allowing the tip of his tongue to brush against the definition of each as much as he could. I shivered. It was quite an attempt, and although impossible, the affect was good. Very good. I squirmed and felt a twinge up near my cervix. He avoided the actual surface of my clit, but deftly licked around it, as close to it as he could. Then he let his mouth rest on it, allowing the heat from his breath to surround it. The lack of motion was wonderful. I felt juices beginning to ooze from the walls of my slit. I groaned. I knew Mason was smiling, if not physically, inside. He stayed there, his mouth surrounding my clit, without touching me, until I couldn't bear it anymore and he lifted his mouth and dipped his tongue in the wetness oozing from me, then roughly pushed his tongue against the slit as if to fuck me with his tongue. I was moaning and holding the back of his head. I couldn't help but squirm, but decided, instead to make the movement more purposeful. I moved my hips to get his tongue inside me, raising them while pressing his head gently towards me, rhythmically. I was amazed that he was allowing me to do this, but I didn't stop. 

My juices were increasing with this movement, and instead of fucking my slit with his tongue, Mason started sucking, without removing his mouth from my pussy...sucking at the juices, sucking at the swollen skin of my inner lips, sucking my clit and gently rolling his tongue over it to make me shiver. I felt something inside me twinge, a sickly feeling in my belly, and a sudden rush. I shrieked, quite unexpectedly, and Mason pressed his face between my legs even more, pulling my hips to him and applying more pressure to my entire cunt, all the while sucking, his nose and lips and chin getting smeared with my juices. 

Before the wave could subside, Mason pulled at my legs so I fell onto my back. He unzipped his jeans without taking them off, despite the fact that it was very warm. He pulled up my T-shirt so it was asymmetrically exposing one breast and, without a word, shoved his cock into me, violently, but with ease due to my wetness.

He ground into me, shoving his cock deep and hard, with forceful strokes that caused my body to shift on the rug. The walls of my pussy received him readily, feeling his cock throb inside me, massaging the walls with intense force. I was moaning constantly, the metal teeth of his zipper not even enough to make me feel anything other than pleasure. 

Mason held my legs up in the air and literally banged into me, not speaking, only grunting, until he suddenly started spurting out, "My little slut...my little slut giving her cunt away to any cock..."

He repeated those words, again and again, in rhythm to his fucking me, and it was dizzying. His voice changed. He was growling. He didn't sound like himself. I closed my eyes, and, to my surprise, I felt as though it was someone else fucking me. I saw Adam slurping in a piece of eel, and myself, sucking Adam's cock with Mason sitting fully clothed in a corner, watching and smiling. 

"Oh fuck..." I yelled out, and found myself imaging it was Adam fucking me, and not Mason. I raised my hips to give him better access, and the voice said, "Yes, you slut. Nice black cunt...so nice of you to share."

I felt my body shudder again, and the tightening my tummy, and I yelled out, no name, just guttural sounds. I still felt someone slamming into me, harshly, but it was getting difficult to take aim, and stay inside of me, I was so wet. 

I opened my eyes, and Mason was there, pulling out, and kneeling next to my head. He rubbed his cock, slimy and warm from my juices, on my lips. He held my hand under his head, gently, stroked his cock once or twice, and let out a long, strained groan. He pressed the tip of his dick between my lips just as the hot stream of his cum began spurting out. He was silent then, except for very heavy breathing. He lay on the floor next to me. We were a mess. But a very satisfied mess. 

"Fuck, you turn me on," he said, and laid his head between my chest and tummy, his arm draped across me.