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.