Looing Bac

This is the fourth in a series of stories in which a successful businesswoman, Kate, looking back on her life from the vantage point of sixty years recounts some of her more interesting sexual exploits to her husband Henry. Here Kate continues her tale of debauchery with her much older college English professor and his young bi-sexual Kenyan wife. As with the other chapters, the shift to Italics connotes the beginning of Kate's story from her past.

*

It was Tuesday morning in New York, and my husband, Henry, and I were having breakfast at a little café near our loft in Tribeca. We had been up late the night before screwing, so it was a late breakfast. Neither of us had any commitments for the day so we could afford a late start. It is our practice when we're together in New York to clear our schedules as best we can. When you live half a planet apart, you need to schedule some "us time" on those occasions when you are going to be in the same city.

"That was quite a story you told me last night," he said.

"That was quite a screwing you gave me last night," I responded, looking at him over my coffee cup with a smile that showed in the way my eyes looked.

"Liked that, did you?"

"Mmmm, very much."

"So tell me," he asked, "Did you ever see the lovely black Amazon who seduced you again?"

"Oh yes," I replied. "More than once. She became my lover for a while."

"What did the Professor think of that?"

"It was fine, as far as I know. Sometimes he watched us or made it a threesome. Other times, he just wasn't around. Do you want to hear more?"

"Oh yes."

"Now?"

"Yes."

I looked around and satisfied myself that we were close enough to being alone to tell Henry the story about my second meeting with the Professor and Halili. By mid-morning in Tribeca most people had gone off to work, and the lunch crowd was still an hour or more from showing up.

The first of our regular Monday meetings was, compared to the prior two times I had been with the Professor, something of a letdown. There was no sex involved. I came to his office in Wheeler Hall expecting, at a minimum, to give him a blowjob and hoping I could see how good he was with that long skinny cock he had displayed to me. It's not that I found him attractive. Actually it was quite the contrary. I hadn't really developed a taste for dirty old men then. That came later. But he and Halili were just such an unusual combination of intellectualism and kinky sex that I had to see more of them. Saving my grade had become secondary to curiosity at this point.

Instead of sex we spent another hour discussing the literary merits of the book he had loaned me on my first visit. Our conversation focused on the emotional stresses suffered by the lead character in the novel as he delved deeper and deeper into the depraved world of underground Victorian London. The Professor was intrigued by my suggestion that the underlying structure of the novel, i.e.,

the psychological deterioration of the lead character, was borrowed from the then novel study of the internal psychology of Raskolnikov in Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment. I thought I was pretty much just slinging bullshit, but he seemed to be impressed, at least that I had thought that deeply about the non-prurient aspects of the novel.

In any case, he made no effort to seduce me or demand a blowjob, and no mention was made of my activities with Halili during my visit to their home. He just gave me two more books to read before our meeting on the following Monday. They were, as I expected, more Victorian porn. This time they focused on sado-masochistic relationships, but again there was an underlying focus on the psychology of the participants—not simply who was whipping who with what.

As I approached Wheeler Hall for my third meeting with the Professor, I was expecting, as had occurred in our last session, another intellectual discussion of the lurid reading materials, with no physical sex involved. That is not at all what happened.

I knocked on the door and was, as usual, invited to enter by the Professor's deep baritone voice, but when I stepped through the door, I was surprised to see that not only was the Professor present, but so was his much younger Kenyan wife, Halili. She was sitting in one of the armchairs fronting alongside his desk, wearing a periwinkle blue dress that buttoned down the front from the scooped neck all the way to the hem. When she stood and walked forward to greet me, I saw that the dress, though not tight, still revealed the shape of her lovely hips and did nothing to hide the contour of her protruding, and I assume braless, nipples. The dress stopped at mid-thigh, exposing much of her long lean legs. Her stunning stature was accentuated by a pair of tall spiky high heels. She was every bit as beautiful clothed as she had been naked at the Professor's home. Still a black goddess.

I was thrilled to see Halili. The sex I'd had with her during my visit to the Professor's home had been so different from anything I had ever experienced and so spectacular that I had thought of little else since. Not that I was ready to give up men, mind you, but I also wanted more of what Halili had to offer. At the same time, the presence of the Professor instilled a damping emotion—almost fear. I wanted to rush to Halili, pull her clothes off and attack her body to give her the pleasure she had given me, but how could I do that here, with the Professor in the room. What would he do? Yes, I knew that he had been watching us from hiding before, or at least Halili had told me he was watching. But that was far from having him in the same small room with us.

"Come in dear," said the Professor. "You know my wife, Halili, of course, and Halili, I'm sure you remember Miss O'Riley."

What, I thought? Of course I know her. I haven't thought about anyone else for the last ten days. Did he really not know what we had done that afternoon out by the pool? If he did know, why would he act like this? Were they playing with me?

"Oh, of course," I said. "Nice to see you again." I held out my hand for Halili to shake as she approached me.

Her hand was soft and warm. She looked deep into my eyes for a moment and said, "Yes, of course. So nice to see you again." Then she pulled me toward her and bent to kiss my cheeks, but before she drew back she whispered in my ear, "He loved watching us and he wants more." Then she quickly snaked her tongue briefly into my ear. As she withdrew she raised one of her hands so that it just grazed my breast.

"And did we do our reading Miss O'Riley?"

"Ah . . . yes," I said, struggling to reconcile the dramatic conflict between Halili's erotic greeting and the Professor's business-like, almost chilling demeanor. Halili's greeting had certainly unleashed my libido. I wanted to devour her, but the Professor's demeanor continued to intimidate me.

"Well then, let's sit down and discuss it." As he spoke he perched on the edge of his desk, while Halili walked, her hips swinging, to a couch across the room. I took a seat in an armchair near the end of the desk away from the Professor so I was facing both him and Halili. Somehow, I didn't feel comfortable being too close to him.

"And how would you characterize these books?" he asked.

"Dirty," I said without a moment's pause.

The Professor smiled—almost a chuckle. "Yes, yes. That's obvious. But you must have something more to say about them than just that they were dirty books?" As he spoke I noticed that Halili had, when she sat down on the couch, allowed (caused?) her dress to ride much higher on her long firm thighs than it had been when she was seated in another chair as I came in. Her legs were crossed, and she was flexing the foot of the top leg, a pump dangling from her toe, as she looked intently at me. I could see it was going to be much more difficult to maintain my concentration this week than it had the week before when only the Professor and I were in the room.

"Well, yes. They were both about sado-masochism." Halili winked at me.

"Hmm, and did you notice any difference between the two books." Halili was toying with the top button on her dress.

I tried to pull my concentration back to the Professor and his questions, but as I did so I saw Halili had released the first button on her dress and was now languidly sucking on a finger. God this was going to be hard. I could feel my pussy beginning to weep. Halili could see my discomfort and smiled, communicating her enjoyment of the situation .

"Oh . . . I see," I said with a super-human effort to devote my attention to the Professor. "The sado-masochistic scenarios in the books were very similar. No real difference there. But the book titled, "Descent into Depravity", had an underlying focus on the psychological stress of the protagonist who couldn't reconcile his enjoyment of being a practicing masochist with his strict religious upbringing. Rather like the other book you had me read, except the depravity in that book wasn't focused solely on sado-masochism as was the case here."

"I see. And was he able to reconcile this conflict in the end?" As the Professor spoke I could see that Halili was toying with the second button on her dress, while she watched with apparent satisfaction my struggle to remain on task with the Professor.

"Ahh . . . no, . . . I guess I would have to say he didn't." As I spoke Halili released the second button on her dress and smiled devilishly at me. This was really fucking hard. She was doing her best to seduce me, and there was nothing I could do in response. I needed to think about the books, and my mind wanted to think about eating her pussy.

"And why would you say he didn't reconcile his conflict?"

Halili slid a hand into her dress and pulled it aside so I could see her twist one of her dark engorged nipples. As she did so she closed her eyes and leaned back in the couch. The contrast between her dark, almost black nipples and large aureoles and her creamy chocolate colored skin was stunning.

I was silent for too long as I watched Halili continue to pull and twist on her nipple. Finally, I realized the Professor was expecting an answer.

"He killed himself in the end," I said. "Used a pistol issued to him by his military regiment to blow his brains out."

My answer apparently shocked Halili, who to my surprise must have been following the conversation. Her head snapped forward off the couch and she removed her hand from her nipple. She had a somewhat shocked look on her face, as if to ask, why would someone kill himself over an addictive deviant sex practice?

"Yes," I continued without waiting for a response from the Professor. "He left a suicide note saying that he couldn't continue to live in a society that demanded he deny a lifestyle that gave him his only real pleasure." I was speaking as much to Halilli now as I was to the Professor.

"So would you classify this story as a tragedy?" Halili was watching me attentively now.

"You mean like Hamlet?" I asked.

"Well, yes that's an example of a tragedy," he responded.

"But in Hamlet they all died by the acts of others. Not their own hands."

"Not quite true. There was Ophelia, who apparently drowned herself when Hamlet denied her."

"I would argue that her suicide was a direct result of the way Hamlet treated her. If he hadn't been such a neurotic shit, she would have lived."

Halili had apparently lost interest in our conversation, for as I thought (or tried to think) about a further response, she released one more button and was now pulling and twisting on both her nipples hard enough so that her face was twisted in a grimace. I was so focused on her that I was at a loss for a follow-up to my argument.

"Tut, tut my dear," said the Professor, ignoring my response. "Think about the Greek tragedies. Frequently the death of the protagonist is not by his own hand but by an act of the Gods, whose actions cannot be anticipated or avoided by the protagonist." The Professor launched into a relatively lengthy discussion of a number of classical Greek tragedies that he felt supported his point. While he spoke, Halili released the buttons on the lower part of her dress and moved the leg formerly crossed over a knee so that her spike heel was hooked into the edge of the couch, fully exposing her sex. I was not surprised that she wasn't wearing underwear. Her lustful smile had returned. She clearly knew she was driving me crazy. I wanted so badly to touch my breasts or my pussy. Even better, her breasts and pussy. Fuck!

Finally, when he wound down, which I almost missed because I was so focused on Halili, who was now casually stroking the inside of her thighs and whose tits were fully exposed to me, I said, "I see your point. I guess 'Descent into Depravity' is a classic tragedy."

"Exactly. So you see that even though most would characterize it as pornographic, it actually conforms to a classic literary form that any educated 19

th

century reader would have recognized. Now what about the second book, "Life of a Courtesan." How did you find it?"

"Dirty," I said. Halili was now openly stroking herself with her legs spread obscenely. One hand held her labia wide apart while two fingers of the other hand stroked the sensitive tissue below them. She was being dirty too, I thought. Delightfully dirty.

"Now there must have been more to the book than just the sex?" the Professor said. Fuck, I wanted to stop this and rip the last couple of buttons off Halili's dress so I could plant my face in her pussy.

"Did the protagonist die?" he asked.

"Uhh . . . No," I said. It was then that I noticed that the professor clearly had an erection beneath his tweed suit trousers. How could he get that horny based on this conversation? It was then that I remembered that there was a mirror behind me. Those two perverts had set me up. He and Halili had agreed on this from the beginning and he had been watching Halili's seduction from the outset, enjoying my struggle.

Suddenly it became much easier to concentrate and enjoy Halili's show at the same time.

"So it wasn't a tragedy?" he asked.

"Oh hardly," I said. "It was more like a pornographic Horatio Alger story."

"Really?" the Professor said, looking mildly surprised. "I wouldn't have thought of that. How so?"

"Here's how I get there," I said, my focus now restored. "Our protagonist is a young girl, early twenties as near as I could tell, raised in a rich family. She is seduced by a madam in a London house of ill repute who teaches her the skills of a high-class English courtesan. Unlike the protagonist in the first book, she not only enjoys the sex, but feels no guilt about it whatsoever."

"Early on in the story her family learns of her new 'hobby,' and her father throws her out of the family home. When her father disowns her, she feels no regrets about that either, viewing it as a convenient exit from a sexless arranged marriage that she disliked intensely (she and her 'husband' were living in a wing of the family mansion)."

"Subsequently her husband turns up as a customer at the whorehouse she has taken refuge in and makes a scene. She arranges for a pair of street toughs to beat him to death, thereby ending any connection she might have with her prior life. Again she feels no guilt."

"The Madam takes her under her wing as her protégé, and she becomes a very successful dominatrix. Eventually she inherits the house and becomes one of the leading courtesans of Victorian London and a very rich madam. No regrets, no guilt, and lots of money. She becomes an advisor to members of parliament and ministers of the government (and even their wives on occasion), but only in very private sessions."

"And so what do we learn from a contrast of the two works?" he asked

"It's better to be a dom than a sub?" I asked. As I spoke I began massaging my tits with my hands through the T-shirt and bra I had on.

The Professor winced a bit, and Halili struggled to avoid bursting out laughing.

Now the room was silent. Halili had shed her dress completely and was slowly sliding a couple of fingers in and out of her dripping pussy as she watched me massage my tits. The Professor was silently watching me (and I assume Halili in the mirror) and stroking his engorged cock through his pants. As the silence continued I pulled the T-shirt I was wearing over my head and dropped it on the floor along with my bra. I also hiked the short skirt I was wearing up around my waist and began to massage my squishy pussy through my soaked panties.

Finally Halili spoke up, "It looks like the lesson is about over for the day. I think we would all be a good deal more comfortable if we removed the rest of our clothing, don't you agree, Richard."

"Yes, I think we've covered enough literature for today," he said. As he spoke, he pulled his zipper down and released his fully erect cock from its imprisonment. He gave it a couple of strokes and then used his fingers to smear the drop of pre-cum that had appeared at the tip over the angry looking head. "Remind me though, when we finish, to give you another book to read in preparation for our session for next week."

"When we finish?" I asked. "Finish what?" As I spoke I had pushed my soggy panties aside and was now openly finger fucking myself.

The Professor stroked his cock silently for a moment finally responding, "Why, when you finish eating Halili, and I finish fucking you."

I certainly wanted to eat Halili, but I hadn't really given much thought to fucking the Professor. But as I watched him stroke his dick, I decided that his proposal was starting to sound better all the time. I stood up and shed the remainder of my clothes and then walked naked to Halili. As I passed the Professor, I reached down and firmly stroked his erect dick. There was no pause in my stride and I didn't look at him; just one quick stroke of his rigid dick. I heard him gasp.

Halili was reclining against the back of the couch waiting for me, one leg splayed to the side and the other hooked by the spike heel she was still wearing on the edge of the couch. I stood between her legs and bent over until I neared her face. I pulled her to me by her shoulders and kissed her full open lips. As I kissed her I pushed my tongue as far into her mouth as I could get it. We held the kiss for a long time, tongues dueling. I let my hands slide down off her shoulders and began to toy with her nipples. They were hard as rocks.

Eventually she reached up with her arms to my shoulders and pulled me down and sideways so I was sitting next to her on the couch. Now she was using her hands to massage my tits and pull on my nipples. Oh God! She was so good at that. It was just like the way she had done it at their home a couple of weeks earlier; but the kiss continued through all of these motions. So fucking erotic!

Eventually we broke off the kiss, and I leaned back against the couch, my legs spread lewdly, and looked up to see what the Professor was doing. He was now sitting naked in the chair I had been in. His erection was standing tall and straight and he was slowly stroking it as he watched Halili and me. As I watched him stroke, I slid my hand slowly up the inside of Halili's thigh until it reached her pussy. She gasped and spread her legs farther apart allowing me to slide a finger between her outer lips and up towards her clit. Then I bent my head forward and took one of her nipples between my lips and began to suck on it. She cried out softly. I alternated between nipples and each time she cried out. At the same time I slipped two fingers into her cunt. It was sloppy wet, and warm, almost hot.