The National Association of Women University Deans Part 2
As he watched Sharon Vinchelle drive away, Race thought that he had finally met a member of NAWUD he wouldn't fuck. While he didn't realize it at the time, he viewed this with relief. Fucking white professors started as a perk of his lectures; it now had become a chore--a duty even. This was intensified by the fact that all of them were rather plain, dowdy even. And definitely beyond their prime. Yet he felt some obligation to fuck them. They did offer themselves freely; they were enthusiastic in promoting his lectures, and thus his career; they made his book required reading, to his financial benefit; the faculty symposia had furnished enough material for a follow-on book, thus another tour; and, while the deans were matronly and not very attractive, the same was not true of some of their grad students. Of course the same could also be said of the undergraduates, but Race drew a line at 25: no impressionable young girls who might actually fall in love with him, or, become pregnant and want to have his love child.
He closed the door and went into the living room. Against one wall was a large fireplace. Perpendicular to it was a wall of glass windows and French doors opening onto an enclosed garden. The wall opposite the fireplace led into the dining area, while the fourth wall had a large bar and serving area. In the corner between the bar wall and the fireplace was a large projection television. The remote was on the bar. Race turned it on as he rummaged behind the bar.
The bar was well-stocked. These sorority sisters enjoyed themselves, he mused. He took out a fifth of Jack Daniels black, remembering the days when it was a truly good whisky, before the Jack Daniels company realized that people were buying the label, not the product, and began slapping its black labels on what was once Jack Daniels green. Even so, Jack Daniels green is better than most other whiskys. The screen of the television blazoned with the logo of Lydia Sampson College. As he surfed the channel, Race saw that the screen could also be used as a computer monitor. He looked around the room and saw a keyboard on one of the end tables. Approaching it, he saw that what he thought was a telephone book was actually the manual for using the television. Placing it in internet mode, he quickly contacted Lucinda Harkin.
"Dear Lucy: "E-mail received while Dean Vinchelle was showing me the computer. She read it with me. She is not a happy camper. "H. Blackmon."
Race had just poured himself a drink when Harkin replied:
"Mr. Blackmon: "For Your Eyes Only. Don't call me Lucy! Sorry about Sharon, the damnest people read your e-mails! Thanks for the heads-up. I got some major fence-mending to do. But I meant everything I said. She is uptight and a prude. And I do want to see you again. Soon!!! "L. (as in Lucinda) Harkin."
Race smiled as he deleted the e-mail. He surfed the channels until he found a Bogart movie. As he listened to Walter Brennan explain what it was like to be stung by a dead bee for the umpteenth time, Race wondered what Brennan had done before the age of 100.
* * *
Jacques Vinchelle finished the last essay, gave it a preliminary grade and placed it on the stack of essays on his desk. He would wait a day then re-read them all again before giving them a final grade. He sighed, then proceeded toward the bedroom, the sound of the vibrator becoming louder with each step. At the door he found an all too familiar sight: his wife lying supine on their bed, the large black dildo modelled on his own cock vibrating firmly in her cunt, one hand massaging her clit, the other rubbing the nipple of a breast. He strode over to her, kissed her, then kissed her nipples, her navel and her clit. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he removed the dildo and ran his tongue along her nether lips. Straightening up, he replaced the dildo.
"So, what is the problem between you and this black man?"
"Just fuck me, froggy," she sneered.
Jacques knew his wife very well. She did not use racial or ethnic or even sexual epithets unless she was extremely aroused or extremely angry. And then they flew with abandon. And she only fucked herself when she was angry. Very angry.
Jacques stood and slowly undressed. He neatly folded his pants, placed his jacket on the clothes-boy, hung his tie on the tie rack, sat on the edge of the bed to remove his undershirt, briefs, socks and shoes, while Sharon continued to thrust the dildo into herself as she watched this slow-motion striptease. Finished, Jacque took Sharon's left wrist and fastened it to the wrist cuff that was part of the headboard. He then straddled her, taking the right wrist and attaching it likewise.
"Get off me you French pervert!" Sharon began shouting, twisting and bucking her body.
Jacques grabbed the back of her head firmly with one hand and his flaccid member with the other and brought the head to Sharon's lips.
"No! Never! Why did I marry you! How can you expect me to do that? I'm not one of your French whores! Get off ..."
Jacques ended this verbal torrent by running the head of his cock around Sharon's lips. By the time he had rimmed her mouth a third time, she opened her mouth and meekly took him in, raising her head to swallow more of him. He held her head in place as she sucked him until he was hard. Releasing her, he slithered down her body until his cock was laying atop her cunt. Reaching between them, he removed his copy and inserted the real thing. Sharon immediately clasped her cunt around him. He pulled out, leaving only the head in, then pulled back a little more as if he was going to stop. Sharon quickly wrapped her legs around him, digging her heels into his ass, forcing him back in. He then began a rhythmic fucking of his wife, slowing down whenever he thought he was about to cum, rubbing his pelvis against hers, stimulating her clit. After nearly twenty minutes, he stroked himself to a climax, releasing his seed deep within her.
He lay on top of her, his head next to hers. "So, mon Sharon cherie, what is the problem between you and this black man?"
Sharon moved her feet from Jacques' ass to the back of his thighs, rubbing her heels up and down them. "Release me."
Jacques reached up and undid the wrist restraints. Her arms free, Sharon immediately wrapped them around her husband, running her hands through his thick hair, kissing him with passion and technique that would do any French whore proud.
"It wasn't him," she said when she came up for air. "It's that bitch Harkin."
Jacques pulled out of her, rolling onto his back beside her. Harkin. Few people could arouse the ire of his wife than the Dean of Humanities of Waverford College. Not that Jacques minded. Sharon's anger always translated into sexual passion, and being her primary sexual partner, Jacques had experienced some spectacular fucks because of Lucinda Harkin. In fact, Jacques looked forward to accompanying his wife to the annual meeting of the NAWUD, knowing that Sharon would be in a white heat by the time the meeting ended.
