National Association of Women...Ch. 03

"Wait," Race told the cab driver as he opened the cab door. The Vinchelle residence was a two-story Georgian colonial, with a straight flagstone walkway leading to the door. Race walked it like a last mile. He pressed the doorbell with trepidation. He was somewhat relieved when the door opened, and a bearded white man, maybe an inch or two taller than him, appeared. The man was wearing a bathrobe, quite an expensive one Race noted, and was evidently wearing nothing else. The man stared at him, then pass him at the cabbie, now standing outside his cab.

The man looked at Race again. "You must be Mr. Blackmon."

Race nodded. "And you're Mr. Vinchelle?"

"Professor Vinchelle," Jacques replied with Gallic haughtiness.

"Is Dean Vinchelle here," Race asked, ignoring Jacques' attitude.

"Yes."

"May I see her?"

"She is ... indisposed."

"Look, Prof. Vinchelle. I have just received a very frightening call from Dean Henning. If I do not see Dean Vinchelle right now, I'm going to the police."

Jacques looked intently at Race, then relented, opening the door. "I'll be right back," Race said. He returned to the cab, spoke to the cabbie, then returned to the house, following the Frenchman up the stairs.

Jacques led the way into the bedroom, where Race found a naked Sharon on the bed, her wrists back in the wrist restraints. Race looked at her, then at Jacques, then back at Sharon. In explanation, Jacques removed his robe and turned his back to Race. It was covered with several welts, some bleeding. From the pattern of four parallel scratches per welt, Race surmised that they had been inflicted by Sharon.

"Look, you two," Race said. "I don't know what's going on here, and I don't care. But I told the cabbie that if Dean Vinchelle is not at that doorway in five minutes, to call the cops."

The two Vinchelles looked at Race, then each other. Jacques pulled his robe up, then went to the bed and released his wife. She grabbed a satin kimono style nightgown from one of the chairs and stepped into a pair of open-toed slides with pom-pom puffs. The three then headed downstairs, Sharon leading. As they reached the foot of the stairs, they saw two uniformed officers and the cabbie standing just inside the doorway. Both Race and Jacques mentally noted that five minutes had not elapsed.

Jacques spoke first. "Samuel, David, is there a problem?"

The two officers looked at each other, then at the Vinchelles, then at Race, then at the cabbie, then each other again. Samuel spoke for them. "George called," indicating the cabbie. "Said that there was trouble here, that a nig ... a colored gentlemen had told him to call the police if Dean Vinchelle didn't show up at the door."

Sam, Dave, George, and Jacques all stole glances at Race when the racial epithet was sounded. Race gave the cops a standard I-won't-forget-what-you-nearly-said-and-you- will-pay-I-am-somebody look. Instantly Samuel knew he was in trouble. Race then looked at the cabbie. "I thought I said to give Dean Vinchelle five minutes."

"I know, sir," George blurted, "but things just didn't look right. And I didn't use that word, sir."

Race stared at Samuel again. Samuel stared back, belligerently.

"Well, gentlemen," Sharon intervened, "we can all see that I'm all right." She pranced over to Race, placing his hand on his arm. "I really appreciate your concern, Mr. Blackmon. Makes me feel like some princess being rescued by her knight." She sneered at Jacques then exited into the kitchen.

The men watched her go, all except Jacques noting how the nightgown clung to her hips, revealing the dimples and globes of her ass, and how the skirt of the nightgown swished back and forth as she walked. As the door between the two rooms closed, the men looked at each other awkwardly. Samuel again spoke.

"Well, Prof. Vinchelle, I guess this was a false alarm."

"No, Samuel, no." Jacques replied. "George here did the right thing. Better to err on the side of caution. Very grateful, George. Very grateful."

The police officers backed out of the doorway, leaving the three of them standing there. Race looked at George, realizing the cabbie was waiting to be paid.

"Prof. Vinchelle," he said firmly, "I think you owe this man money."

Jacques looked at Race in confusion, as did George. Since Race had called him, he thought that Race would pay him. Jacques understood. Race had come on a mission of mercy, a mission he did not like, and had not liked what he found. He wasn't going to pay for the experience. He also wasn't about to leave.

Jacques looked at himself. Barefoot. Naked beneath the robe. "George, could your father just send me the bill?"

George Brubaker looked at the professor, then at the African-American, then back to Vinchelle. The sole cab company was a family affair: his father, uncle, himself and his cousin. Two cabs. Most of their fares never paid direct. The Brubakers kept a log of their fares and sent a bill to the appropriate home, sorority, or dean. If there was any dispute, which only occurred with freshmen, the college settled the bill. By the time the freshmen were sophomores, they realized that being able to have a cab pick them up and drop them off any time of the day or night, including weekends, was a convenience well worth the fare. And the Brubakers were reasonable in their fares. George nodded and backed out of the door, closing it.

As soon as the door closed, Race turned on Jacques. "Get your wife out here!"

The tone and sharpness of Race's command caught Jacques by surprise. He looked at Race, instantly realizing the Black man was very, very angry. "Sharon, mon cherie, I think you better come here," he called.

Sharon had been sitting in the kitchen, fuming. She had only began to claw Jacques' back when he managed to throw her off, overpower her, drag her to the bed and restrain her. The arrival of Race and the others forced her to revert to the persona of a dean, but a wronged wife sat there seething. She would not answer the beck and call of her philandering spouse.

Race waited for several minutes, then went into the kitchen, followed by Jacques. He looked at Sharon, then around the kitchen until he spied the telephone. "Dean Vinchelle, call Dean Henning," he ordered. She didn't move. "Now, woman!" he shouted.

For the first time in their relationship, Jacques saw fear in his wife's eyes as she practically jumped out of her seat, grabbed the phone and dialed.

"Hello. Adelie? Sharon Vinchelle here. ... Yes, yes, everything's all right. I think Mr. Blackmon wants to speak to you." She held the handset to Race.

"Hello, Adelie. ... No, things are not all right. Nothing deadly. At least not yet. I'll call you tonight. Bye." He hung up the phone, and turned to the errant couple.

Sharon and Jacques now began to comprehend the enormity of their actions. The first dean of a prestigious academic organization, a dean at the state's largest public university, had called the visiting scholar at their college to rush to their home to see if a deadly act had occurred between them, followed by police, witnessed by one of the few people who readily moves between townies and academia, and who would surely gossip about it, to his father, uncle and cousin, if not to others. And that visiting scholar was standing in their kitchen at that very moment, a scowl on his face, a sneer on his lips, and evidently very, very angry.

Race looked at Sharon, his glare withering her anger at her husband. She looked down at her lap, very much the chastened woman. Looking at Jacques, he said. "Mr. Vinchelle, I think you better have that back attended to." He then looked at Sharon, "Do you have any antibiotic ointment, Dean?"

Sharon nodded, then silently got up and headed for the door. Watching her move, Race decided that he definitely would be fucking her this night. Jacques followed his wife, followed by Race as the trio went up the stairs to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. Race sat on the bed watching as Sharon applied the salve to the wounds she had inflicted. Whatever had led to this contretemps, it was clear these were two people very much in love with each other.

"Can you cook?" Race asked Sharon as she came out of the bathroom. She nodded. "I didn't get to finish breakfast. I hope you have French Roast." No sooner had he said this then Race realized the unintended pun. Sharon smiled, nodded, and left the room. Race looked at Jacques. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Vinchelle," not using Jacques' honorific. "I'll be downstairs."

The carafe of the coffee maker was nearly full when Race entered the kitchen. He sat at the table, watching Sharon move about the room. He guessed her to be about his age, maybe a year or two younger. In ten years she'd be Harkin, in fifteen Henning. He noted for the second time that morning how the gown clung to her ass, how it moved when she moved. As she poured a cup of coffee for Race, Sharon became aware of his watching her. She approached the table purposefully, letting him assess her body naked under the gown. She placed the cup before him just as her husband entered.

Raced sipped the coffee and studied Jacques then Sharon. She returned with a cup for her husband, again walking to make sure Race got a full assessment of her charms. Jacques noticed, a twinge of jealousy in him. If only she would walk that way for him.

"Get yourself a cup and sit down," Race said to her. It was not a request. "In fact, bring the pot." Sharon returned with an empty cup and saucer. Setting her place, she filled her cup, then refilled those of her guest and her husband.

"Okay. I want to know everything that happened from the time dean here left me until I arrived this morning."

Sharon looked at her husband, then at Race, then into her cup. Jacques drained his cup, then looked at Race.

"Well, my wife came in, announced she was going to fuck you, then went to our bedroom and began masturbating with her favorite vibrating dildo." Jacques stated matter-of-factly. Sharon was again white as plaster. "I was grading papers. My academic duties completed, I went to the bedroom and fulfilled my marital ones. This morning, Dean Henning called and was explaining how Lydia Sampson College got put on your tour, when my wife sort of lost it. By the way, Dean Henning recommended your lectures highly."

"Aiiieee!!!" Sharon screamed. Jacques jumped up, placing his back against the wall and the chair he was sitting in between him and his wife. Race was startled by the scream, instantly recalling Adelie's description: bloodcurdling. From the anger in her eyes and the fear in Jacques,' he quickly guessed what had ended Adelie's call.

She turned to Race. "Professor," she stressed the title, "Vinchelle has left out that he has been fucking and sucking that old crone Henning behind my back. He has neglected to say that he has divulged things which should be private between a husband and a wife to her."

Race looked at Jacques, trying to remain nonchalant in his standing cower. Looking at Sharon, Race stated, "Adelie is a woman of a certain age, Dean Vinchelle. She is not an 'old crone.' "

Sharon sneered. "The broad's older than my mother, and she's an old crone. Froggy here's right. She did speak highly of your lectures. Said you eat pussy as good as Frenchie here, too. That's high praise. Said you fuck like him too. That's not so high praise." She looked at her husband. "Sit down! I'd like to scratch your eyes out, but you'd eat pussy blind!"

Race looked at the two of them. He wondered if this happened at historically Black colleges and universities. Sharon looked at him. "You got a thing for old white women, Mr. Blackmon?" Race looked at her quizzically. "Henning. Harkin. Others. Hell, I'm the youngest member of the NAWUD and I'm no spring chicken."

"Nope," Race said. "Not for old women. Or for white women. Or educated women. Cunt is cunt. It's just that the members of this National Association of Women University Deans group of yours decided that they had to have a spade before they die, and I was elected. If you read my book, it's the Mandingo Principle. I spend a week at each college. Can't go around picking up co-eds. Not there long enough to find the local spots for whores or townies. You deans want to lay a spade, this spade needs to get laid. Simple as that."

"Does the spade need to get laid now?" Sharon asked.

"I was thinking about this evening," Race answered.

"I could get hit by a car between now and this evening. Hate to be the only dean in the NAWUD to die without having a spade."

Race looked at Jacques, then at Sharon. She answered for both of them. "He can watch if he wants. He's into that. Or else he can cook breakfast. He's a better cook than me. Being a Frenchman, you know."

"My wife, the bigot," Jacques sighed. "You two enjoy yourselves. I think I better get professional treatment of my back. I'll call Dr. Ortiz."

Sharon's eyes momentarily lit with anger. Dr. Marta Ortiz, director of the health clinic, made a specialty at faculty orgies of eating a woman while the woman was being fucked doggy-style. Made her real popular with the older faculty wives. Except Sharon never let her. So the good Dr. Ortiz made it a point of sucking Jacques whenever she could, savoring the taste of Sharon on Jacques' cock. And letting Sharon know that the doctor preferred to acquire the taste directly. Sharon knew that any treatment Jacques received at the clinic would involve Marta's mouth on his cock. What the hell, she was going to have nigger cock in her mouth and pussy for the first time, let her husband have his fun.

Sharon looked at Race, pleading in her eyes. Race sighed and stood, unzipping his pants. He really didn't need to fuck, and the circumstances of that morning were not exactly sexually arousing. He pulled his limp dick out. "If you can do something with this, okay. Otherwise, this evening."

Sharon looked at the dark dick before her. With its foreskin, it looked like the trunk of an elephant. A small elephant. She recalled that Adelie had said Race was about the same size as her husband. Soft as well as hard, Sharon noted. She leaned forward and swallowed it whole, only to have to back away as it grew firm. Firm, but not hard. She sucked on the head, ran her fingernails along the underside, did all the things she did with Jacques, and with any white man. Firm, but not hard.

Race pulled his dick from her mouth. "Sorry, dean. You'll just have to wait until this evening. Try not to get hit by a car."

Jacques smirked, to his wife's chagrin. "I better get dressed. My back is really hurting." He rose and looked at his wife. "Will you be having dinner with Mr. Blackmon?"

Sharon had not thought that far. She knew the question was more for him to make arrangements for himself. French professor, Columbian doctor. White wife, Black lover.

"Dean Vinchelle will be spending the next two days with me," Race announced. Both Vinchelles looked at him. "That includes dinners, breakfasts, lunches," he said as if stating the itinerary of his tour. Which he was. "I have three days of lectures here, and I don't need a repeat of this morning. I don't know what games you two are playing, but since you've involved me, we play according to my rules." He looked at Sharon. "Go pack enough for today and tomorrow. No pantyhose. No panties. Skirts and dresses. No pants or slacks."

Sharon looked at him momentarily, then quickly rose and left. Race looked at Jacques. "The house is yours for two days."

Jacques nodded, more of a Gallic tilt of the head. He was beginning to really, really like this colored fellow. He picked up the phone. "Dr. Ortiz, Prof. Vinchelle. There's been an accident. Could you come over. ... No nothing requiring an ambulance or anyone other than yourself. ... No, Dean Vinchelle will not be here. For a day or two. ... Yes, it is I who need medical attention. ... No, Marta, I really need medical attention!"

Returning the handset to its cradle, he looked at Race. "Mr. Blackmon. ... Do you have a first name?"

"Horatio."

"Horatio. Interesting. Horatio, we have shared several women, and will be sharing my wife, more or less. I have only dealt with these college types, but you, I surmise, have had more variety, eh?"

Now it was Race's turn to give the Gallic nod.

"In your experience, do all American women believe that you mean something other than what you have plainly stated to them, or is it just this way with these college women?"

Race leaned back in his chair. "I thought you Frenchmen were experts on women."

Jacques smiled. "Oui, and you Blacks are hung like horses."

Both men chuckled. Sharon came in at this moment, and quickly assumed that she was the butt of some sexist joke between the two men. Race looked at her. She was wearing a white button-front blouse, the collar open, and a tan A-line skirt that reached a few inches below her knees, hose and heels, and a single-strand gold necklace. She had applied make-up, just the right amount for a woman professional. She had a suitcase and an overnight travel case. Race stood, took her into his arms and kissed her, feeling the garter straps running down her ass. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes as he rubbed his cock, now getting hard. Taking her luggage, he said "You can give me the tour of the campus on the way back."

Sharon looked at Jacques, who shrugged, then Race. Wordlessly she turned and headed for the front door.

To be continued