Cinnamon Girl

As sometimes happens when I'm crafting a story, the characters end up taking over and leading me in a different direction. This work was originally intended for the Interracial Love category as a steamy story about a middle-aged white man who hooks up with a college-aged Blasian (mixed-race Black and Asian) woman and has a night of amazing sex. The characters, Jon and Brooke, wanted more. So now I have a longer story with a HEA, more of a Romance. There is a long sex scene, over 3,000 words, and several shorter ones. I hope you enjoy it. When you reach the end please rate it and let me know what you think.

Cinnamon Girl

Jonathan Tate would

never

say that he's a fan of these things. You get dressed up, are presented to a crowd who feigns to be in awe of you, eat crappy food, and make inane conversations with people you'll thankfully never see again. That's what happens when your alma mater recognizes you as a Distinguished Alumni. He appreciates the recognition but thinks an article in the alumni magazine would be wholly adequate. Instead, here he is, staying in the President's Suite at the Union, about to be held up as a shining example of what you can make of yourself if you have an education from this 'prestigious' university. He'll be featured in the recruiting materials, splashed all over the website, be the subject of press releases, and have several of his works featured in the Art School building.

That doesn't mean that he has to like it.

He could have declined, probably

would

have declined if not for the personal visit from the Dean of the School of Art, a long-time family friend. How can he say no when the person he still calls Aunt Maureen shows up at his studio? She was a college classmate of his mother's and spent so much time with his family when he was growing up that it just seemed natural to give her the title of Aunt.

He wasn't pleased that she invaded his studio, just marched right in! No one visits his studio uninvited. That might be part of his problem, he's a bit of a hermit. Quiet, reclusive, shunning the public eye, that's Jon. Tall with a mop of dark hair and dark-framed glasses. Nerdy Jon has not been laid in over two years.

That's not to say Jon doesn't enjoy sex. It's just been a while unless you count sex with himself. Even he finds his work to be erotic. When he is working on his latest creation it's not uncommon for his cock to become engorged and leak. Sometimes he'll take a break and sit on his stool, gazing at his work while he strokes his erection. He enjoys masturbating, his hand shuttling up and down his shaft, his thumb and forefinger bouncing against the base of his crown, and making a sticky sound where his precum flows. Other than his ultimate release, he mostly enjoys edging himself. Again and again, he pumps himself to the edge and then stops. When release finally comes it is powerful and fast. He considers masturbation to be his muse.

On the day Aunt Maureen makes her appearance he is creating a particularly erotic piece. He's been working on it for three days, and as usual, his cock is hard. It's so hard that he decided that morning to work in the nude. It's not unusual. Nudity amplifies his sense of freedom. It also feels forbidden. He's created some of his most erotic pieces sans clothing.

No one comes to his gallery uninvited.

Except today.

While he's masturbating.

He's been edging himself off and on for a couple of hours and decides to achieve release before he takes lunch. Leaning against the stool, he pumps his cock savagely. When his orgasm hits, he roars. The first pulse of seed splatters onto the canvas, and the remainder throbs onto the floor between his feet. Suddenly he hears footsteps and soft clapping.

"Bravo! Impressive! I've wondered for some time what your creative process looks like."

It's Aunt Maureen walking toward him with a huge smile on her face. She stops next to him, looking down at his spent cock, then at his work in progress. Some of his discharge has slithered down the canvas and dripped to the floor, leaving a thin thread suspended in mid-air, like a strand of webbing from a spider.

"It's amazing to watch an artist put so much of themselves into—or rather onto—their craft," she laughs.

Embarrassed, he grabs a nearby smock and holds it in his lap.

"Aunt Maureen, I—"

"You what? Couldn't help yourself? Can't say I blame you. Is that a vagina there in the corner?"

Jon is too embarrassed to respond. No one has ever caught him masturbating. No one ever comes to his studio uninvited.

Maureen gives him a sad look, shaking her head. "Tsk, tsk. Get dressed. Aunt Maureen is taking you to lunch. We have to talk about this award the University wants to give you."

Jon dresses and follows Maureen out the door, locking it behind himself this time. On the street, they walk in silence for a while. Finally, Maureen speaks.

"So, is what I saw typical?"

Mortified at her question, Jon visibly cringes and sighs. "It's not atypical."

"Have you considered finding a woman to help with that?"

Jon laughed. "Have you seen me? Tall, dark, and dorky?"

"Don't forget well-hung. From what I saw you have a real lady-pleaser between your legs!"

"Oh, god, Maureen," he groans.

"Hey, if I wasn't old enough to be your mother, I'd volunteer to be your muse."

She stops walking and looks at him.

"On the other hand, an older woman could make a perfect muse!"

"Maureen! No!"

"Meh," she shrugs her shoulders, "your loss."

Over lunch, she convinces him to accept the award and attend the ceremony. They leave the restaurant, she hails a cab and they hug goodbye.

"You need to stop abusing yourself, Jon. You create amazing art, but now I'll worry about you, dear. All alone in that studio, beating your meat."

On the drive to the train station, Maureen's mind is back on the award. Now that Jon has agreed to accept it and attend the ceremony, she needs to assign an escort. Someone who can help keep him on track—and fend off anyone who might upset the artist. Preferably a Senior art student. The cab drops her at the train station and before she boards, she calls her Executive Assistant and tasks him with putting together a list of candidates.

Back in the office a few hours later, Maureen looks over the information her EA has gathered. One student in particular stands out, a Senior by the name of Brooke Windsor. For some reason, her name is already familiar, but Maureen can't remember why. She logs into the computer system and pulls up Brooke's record. Attractive young woman, mixed race. She scans the information, most of it was in the sheets given to her by her EA. Straight A student, Sorority member, Art Club President, already accepted in the Masters program, gifted sculptor, Spirit Squad Captain. Just reading it exhausts her. But at the bottom of the record is what catches Maureen's eye. There are the reasons why she recognizes the name. It's a part of the record that her EA does not have access to. Ms. Windsor has been flirting with some of the professors, sometimes outrageously. Nothing that raises to the level of a disciplinary offense, but a handful of professors have put notes in her record about her behavior. Trying to cover their asses no doubt, in the event they give into her charms and something happens between them.

Maureen decides that Ms. Windsor is the perfect escort for Jon. She asks her EA to schedule a meeting in her office with the student.

A few days later, Brooke sits in the Dean's outer office, soaked by a nervous sweat. The only thing she knows is that the Dean has an offer to make her. The door to the inner office opens and there she stands, a tall, imposing woman, made even more so by the heels she wears.

"Ms. Windsor, please come in," she smiles.

Brooke takes a deep, cleansing breath, rises, and enters the office. Her pulse is pounding in her ears.

"Please, have a seat. You seem to be nervous, but please rest assured, you are not in trouble. In fact, I have an opportunity for you that few students are offered. You are familiar with our Distinguished Alumni program?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"The University is naming a new DA, a man who happens to be close to me. When we hold the award ceremony it's a big deal. Dinner, dancing, speeches, that kind of thing. We always assign a student to our honoree, someone to be their escort, by their side all evening to help ensure things go as planned. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Brooke is calming down a bit now, relieved that the 'offer' wasn't just a pretense to get her before the Dean for discipline.

"I'm offering you the opportunity, but I need to understand something about you that is noted in your file."

"What's that, ma'am?"

"Well, a few professors have noted that you seem to be particularly flirtatious toward them. You're obviously not doing it to improve your grades, so I need to know why."

"Ma'am?"

"Why are you flirting with my professors? What's your game?"

"I just—," Brooke pauses and squirms in her chair, unsure whether to share this particular detail of her personal life. "I'm attracted to older men."

"I see. What about this man?" Maureen asks as she slides a photo of Jon across the desk. "Do you know who this is?"

Brooke looks at the photo. It's Jon Tate.

What art student doesn't know Jon Tate? Mr. Eroctica. Some of his works are banned from galleries!

He's handsome, a bit nerdy looking, just the way she likes them.

"Yes," she answers, nodding her head. "Jon Tate. What self-respecting art student at this University doesn't know who he is?"

"Do you find him attractive? He looks rather like a professor."

Fuck! Do I answer honestly? What happens if I do?

Brooke's hesitation tells Maureen everything she needs to know.

"It's fine if you're attracted to him. In fact, I'd prefer that you are. He needs a woman to show him that he's more than just an artist. He's a bit of a recluse, as you probably know. A bit of flirting will likely do a lot for his ego. I worry about him."

"Yes, ma'am. I do find him to be attractive."

"Good! He's your assignment then. Aaron, my EA will provide you with the particulars, help you select proper attire, etcetera. But there's one more thing. I've recently come across some information about his, shall we say, manhood. I believe a woman like you could do him some good, and he definitely could do you good. During the event, I expect the utmost in decorum, but afterward? Well, when you're off duty I have no say over your actions, do I? Do you understand me, Ms. Windsor?"

Brooke was shocked.

Is the Dean telling me to seduce Jon Tate? THE Jon Tate!

"Are you saying ...?" Brooke let the question trail off.

Maureen raised her palm toward Brooke. "I'm saying nothing. I'm offering you the opportunity to be his escort for the event. Once your official duties are over, you are free to do as you please."

"Yes, ma'am."

~~~~~~~~

So, here he is, a few weeks later, about to be fêted in the Grand Ballroom. He's just waiting for his escort and hostess for the evening to arrive. They always assign a student to the honoree, someone to make sure they're where they're supposed to be when they're supposed to be there, someone for him to impress and inspire on a personal level. Someone they see potential in.

He sips on a glass of bourbon from a bottle of Woodford Reserve that the university provided as he waits for the Captain of the Spirit Squad to arrive. They've given him her bio. Straight A student, member of Delta Delta Delta, Honor Society, Art Club President.

Does this girl have nothing else to do?

he thinks to himself.

I bet she has no life outside of classwork and extracurriculars.

There's a small grainy photo of her and her parents at the top of the page. You'd think with all the money this place has they could figure out how to not cheap out on this minor detail. Her mother appears to be Chinese, Dad is Black of indiscernible nationality. Little Miss Bi-racial's skin tone is somewhere in between, and she's short.

We're going to look odd together tonight. I'll stand out even more next to her. Fuck my life, is it too late to back out of this?

There's a knock at the door. This is it. It all begins now. He downs the rest of the bourbon and takes a bit of solace in the fact that this will soon be over and he should be back in his room by ten or so. He lays the piece of paper on the table and opens the door. It's her, Little Miss Bi-racial. The grainy photo did little to reveal how attractive she is.

Her dark brown wavy hair flows sensuously over her shoulders, reaching her breasts. There are subtle highlights around her face. Her facial features are Asian, but her face is round and her nose is a bit wider than the Chinese half of her heritage would dictate. Her skin is the color of Vietnamese cinnamon, warm and rich. Spicy. She's dressed in a body-hugging full-length black velvet ball gown with gold embroidery—the school colors, well, two of them at least. The dress has a Sweetheart neckline, nearly placing her generous breasts on a shelf. He wonders how on earth she can manage the balance required to be a cheerleader when she's so front-heavy. He notices that she is not as short as he thought. Probably wearing heels, he can't see her feet.

The sight of the man who opens the door takes her breath away and her heartbeat trips over itself. She's been researching him for weeks, ever since she accepted the assignment. She found many photos online of his artwork, but few of the artist himself. None of them prepared her for this man, the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, mixed with a bit of nerdy. She momentarily forgets to breathe, but quickly snaps out of it. She has an assignment for this evening and fawning over the awardee is not part of her official duties, though she's confident there will be fawning.

Her plush lips part into a smile, revealing perfect white teeth, and she extends a dainty hand. Her nail polish is the third school color.

"Good evening, Mr. Tate. I'm Brooke Windsor, your escort for the evening."

He takes her hand, and the touch causes her body to hum with excitement. She can feel her blood pulsing through her veins. Oh, yes. This might turn out to be a very good evening! There's nothing wrong with a little arm candy at an event like this!

"Good evening, Brooke. Please, call me Jon."

"I'm afraid people might think I am being too familiar with a man of such importance since we've only just met. May I come in? We need to talk over the details of this evening's event."

He steps back and motions her through the doorway.

What's the protocol here? I'm alone with a student in what is effectively my bedroom, although the bedroom is separate from the sitting area where we are now.

The door has an automatic closer, so leaving it open is not an option.

Do I throw the security bar so it doesn't latch?

She turns back toward him and senses his indecisiveness. She finds it adorable, such a gentleman. If he could read her thoughts when he opened the door he would know her thoughts were anything

but

proper.

"It's fine to let it close, people know I'm here," she says, very matter-of-factly. "Please, let's sit," and she motions to the short sofa.

They sit on opposite ends, turned slightly towards each other, their knees nearly touching. She removes a folded piece of paper from her clutch and hands it to him. It is a detailed description of the events planned for tonight, even his bathroom breaks are planned. They discuss each item in detail as he sits there trying to take it all in and keep his eyes out of her cleavage

.

She's aware of his gaze and she flushes at the thought that he finds her attractive. Her voice cracks a few times as they discuss the agenda.

She removes her phone from her clutch and looks at the time. "We need to be leaving."

She stands and starts toward the door and he follows, noticing a light floral scent in the air trailing behind her. It smells like a bouquet of fresh flowers. He likes it, a lot. They walk a short distance to the express elevator. There are only three rooms on this partial floor at the top of the Union building, all suites, and a private elevator serves them. She presses her access card against the small panel next to the door and it immediately opens. They step into the metal box and stand side-by-side. Soon they are underway on the short trip to the Mezzanine Level.

"That's a delightful scent you're wearing," he tells her.

"Oh, no!" she gasps. Her eyes grow large and her hand comes up to partially cover her face. "I'm so sorry. Is it too strong? I hate it when women wear strong scents, particularly to a meal."

"No, no, it's not too strong. I didn't notice it until I was walking behind you. I find it enjoyable."

Now he feels bad, He's made her self-conscious. The elevator reaches the Mezzanine Level and slows to a stop.

"Thank you," she says softly, barely audible.

"You're welcome," he says, "I appreciate it when a woman cares for herself."

The door opens and they're suddenly overwhelmed with the sound. There must be over a hundred people milling about in the space outside the ballroom. Brooke slides her hand between his arm and his body and grasps his bicep. He smiles at her and bends his elbow.

"This is it," she says softly, as she escorts him off the elevator into the cacophony of voices.

People nod in recognition, but there are only a few faces he recognizes. Brooke walks him slowly but steadily toward the ballroom, pausing only for a few people who come forward to shake his hand. She has her mission and she's taking it seriously, letting nothing distract them for very long. Soon she has him in the ballroom at the head table being welcomed by the University President and Maureen. The President smiles at her and nods, recognizing she's performed her task well. Almost immediately there is a member of the staff at their elbows offering them champagne. He hands a glass to Brooke and takes another for himself. She stands attentively next to him, their bodies still linked, sipping champagne, as he makes small talk with the President of the University.

Before long, the official program begins. The woman he calls Aunt Maureen, Dean of the School of Art, is the emcee. She speaks for a few minutes and introduces a video. It's a retrospective of his career and is quite a nice piece. He turns to Brooke to speak and she leans in, placing her ear next to his mouth. He's engulfed in a floral bouquet as the drop of perfume she's dabbed behind her ear tickles his senses. He whispers to her that he'd like to get a copy of it and she assures him she'll see to it. "Anything you need tonight," she whispers, and he notices her hand squeeze his thigh.

How long has she been touching me? Her touch was so light that I didn't notice it until the gentle tension in her hand.

The video ends and the meal is served. The food is quite good, not the rubber chicken he was expecting. During the meal, he takes time to talk to her. They ask questions about each other. He wonders if she's genuinely interested or if it is part of the assignment for tonight. Regardless, he's taken by her beauty, and she's taken by how handsome and confident he is.

As they speak, it's the first time he has focused on her eyes, and they remind him of mahogany obsidian, deep brown, dark, and rich. The perfect foil to her skin tone and hair. Her questions increasingly focus on his personal life. Do you have a family? Divorced with two kids. What occupies your free time? Reading and travel. Things like that, nothing that's too invasive. Without prompting, she offers details about herself. No boyfriend, no time for one. She plans to continue her education after graduation and would love to cheer for the local NFL team while she studies for her Masters degree.