The National Association of Women University Deans Part I
"I'm going to fuck the nigger," Prof. Sharon Vinchelle announced to her husband as she stood at the door of their study. Her husband, Jacques, looked up from the stack of essays he was grading, nodded imperceptibly, and returned to his work. His wife turned and repaired to their bedroom, where the telltale buzz of her vibrator informed the male professor that he would be spending as much time that evening with his face buried in his wife's pussy as he was now buried in his students' papers.
***
The "nigger" Prof. Vinchelle intended to fuck, Horatio Blackmon, known to his friends and lovers as Race, was surfing the internet holdings of Lydia Sampson College from his suite at Sampson Hall, the guest house for visiting scholars, as his host was announcing her intentions to her husband. If he had been present at the Vinchelle home, he would not have been surprised at either the announcement or the reaction. Six months into his book tour, he was now well aware that academia's sexual passions were second only to its academic pettiness. And at small colleges like Lydia Sampson, both reached their peak. Every professor seemed to make it a point to have a liaison with one of their students each semester/quarter/term, as well as having an ongoing affair with the spouse or significant other of his/her academic rival. Bedding the visiting professor or artist or writer was another coup, lessened somewhat by the fact that such visitors, well acquainted with the sexual mores of academia themselves, fully expected sex to be provided with the honorarium.
Race had been more than surprised six months earlier to find the dean of the humanities department at the first college he spoke at waiting for him in his room afterwards. He was shocked when she attacked him as soon as the door was closed, unfastening his pants, pulling out his member and engulfing it as if she had not been fed for days--no, weeks. Race experienced a myriad of emotions simultaneously and in seriatim: fear that he would be accused of attacking the dean; shock that such a prim and matronly white woman of such position was now positioned on her knees with his very black cock stuck in her pasty face; pleasure, for a blow job is a blow job. And the dean's enthusiasm was due to lust not deprivation. She sampled a different dick each day of the week--her husband, her graduate assistant, two seniors for whom she was faculty advisor, the husband of the dean of the arts department, and several of the townies. However, all of them were white, and Dean Harkin had promised herself she'd lose her racial virginity before her fiftieth birthday. That was her primary reason for suggesting the college invite Mr. Blackmon to give a convocation on his book "
The Niggerization of America
."
As his climax approached, he did not know what to do. Race was no stranger to blow jobs, or to having his black cock being sucked into some white female's face. And Dean Harkin was not the oldest white woman to bestow this beneficence on him. But this was a college professor! And the dean of one of the more prestigious departments of this college! He couldn't just grab the sides of her head and fuck her mouth, could he? He couldn't run his fingers through her eloquently coif, making her his bitch, could he? But she was already on her knees, his cock in her mouth, her tongue laving its head. If Race knew anything about white women--and he knew a lot--he knew they all wanted to be treated as the bitch slut of some Black stud. The Mandingo Factor he had called it. A full chapter in his book. Besides, he really needed to cum.
He dropped his briefcase and his keys, which he had held onto throughout the dean's ministrations, ran his hands through her hair, loosening some of the hairpins holding it in place, pulling her back until only the head was in her mouth. Tilting her head back, he looked down at her sternly as his seed began to spurt into her mouth. She returned his gaze, locking her smeared lips just back of the crown of his cock. They remained like that for several minutes, until he had cum completely and she had swallowed it all.
When he was finished, she licked him clean and started to rise. He pressed her shoulders, keeping her in position. "I need to fuck you," he said.
The word "need" was crucial. Dean Harkin had not known what she was going to do when she entered Race's room. She knew she wanted to be fucked by a Black man--this Black man. She knew that no man could resist a blow job--especially one of her blow jobs. Not wanting to face rejection and humiliation, yet not knowing how to seduced a Black man, she had used the same approach she used with her students--introduce them to her skill as a fellatrice then use her position to both silence them and engage them further. Only with Mr. Blackmon, she had no such position. Three days from now he would be gone, probably never to see her again. What if he did not enjoy her attentions. What if he didn't find her attractive. After all, she would be fifty in a week. And not a Cybil Shepard, Cher, or Raquel Welch fifty. No, she was short--really average for a woman--full-hipped with almost no waist. While not ugly, she had never turned heads. Her marriage, while not devoid of passion, was more of convenience. Her affairs came about because of her position, first as a grad student, then a professor, then a dean. She regretted nothing, but fooled herself neither. she wanted this Black man to fuck her--no, not just fuck her, but want her--need her.
Race held his limp dick to her mouth. She flicked her tongue at it, then wrapped her perfectly manicured fingers around the shaft, pulling the head back into her mouth. Gently sucking it, like a baby nursing, she brought him to full randiness. Race pulled his cock from her mouth, pulling her up with him. He half-guided, half-pushed her into the bedroom, pushing her onto the bed. He unbottoned the top of his pants, pushing the pants and his boxers to his ankles. Dean Harkin began unbuttoning the jacket of her suit.
"Leave it," Race nearly barked. She looked at him confused. "Just hike up your skirt."
She complied. Race spread her legs and stepped between them, looking at the pantyhose veiling his destination. He reached for the waistband and pulled them roughly down her legs, taking off one of her pumps, and peeling the nylon skin off that leg. He placed his hands at the back of her knees and forced her legs back, nearly doubling her over. Kneeling on the bed, he pulled the crotch of her panties aside, and slid into her easily. He knew as soon as he was fully into her that he was her first Black man.
He lay still, letting his cock twitch inside her as her cunt adjusted to him. From her labored breathing he knew she was experiencing that psychological orgasm women have when they have crossed some psychological frontier. First fuck, first orgasm, first cunnilingus, first sex outside of marriage, first fuck with someone significantly older or younger, first fuck with someone of the same sex, first fuck with someone of a different race, or social class, or educational level. First fuck with your clothes on. First fuck after the first divorce. First fuck just to be fucked. So many firsts, so few men.
He placed his forearms on either side of her head, shifting his weight to them and his knees as he began pistoning in and out of her. She lay there, letting him have his way with her, not realizing that her cunt was contracting and releasing him in rhythm with his thrusting. After several minutes, he buried himself inside her and stiffened. She realized he had cum. He continued to lay on top of her until he became soft, then rolled off of her. He sat on the bed and removed his pants, boxers, shoes and socks.
Dean Harkin didn't know what to do next. She had come to Race's room to be fucked by a Black man. And fucked she had been. It wasn't what she'd expected, but she really didn't know what she'd expected. Race wasn't any bigger than all of the white men she'd had. He didn't taste any different, not that cocks taste good in the first place. He wasn't a better fuck, or a worst one, although doing it fully clothed was a new wrinkle. She realized that her expectations were racist, yet felt cheated that they weren't realized. Sort of the same experience she had fucking townies or working-class types. A cock is a cock, and race doesn't make for a better fuck any more than class.
Race stood, grabbed her arm, and pulled her out of the bed, practically dragging her to the bathroom. He pulled her panties below her knees and sat her on the basin. He wiped her clean, then looked at her.
