This story is a submission to the sixth Friendly Anonymous Writing Challenge (FAWC) and a tribute to the founder of FAWC, slyc_willie, who we lost unexpectedly in October 2015. The true author of this story is kept anonymous until the end of the competition. Authors base their story on a list of four items. Their choices included the following letters: S L Y C. Each item was used in the story. There are no prizes given in this challenge; this is simply a friendly competition.
The list for this story includes: lecturer, licorice, laundry room, lech
* * * *
"Dawkins is such an asshole," Jim grumbled.
Chloe made an affirmative consolatory noise as she continued to take clean dishes out of the dishwasher, wipe them dry and put them away. Her husband hung around, leaning on the kitchen counter, pushing his finger round his plate to collect toast crumbs off it.
"How did the interviews go?" Chloe asked obligingly as she stacked mugs on their shelf.
Jim snorted. "That fucking idiot. He tried to get us to take some wet behind the ears kid for the lectureship, some protégé of his from his previous institution. There was another candidate who was head and shoulders above the rest, already got a couple of papers published -- and in my field, someone I can do good work with. Dawkins just couldn't see it, kept driveling on about her teaching experience not being up to par -- like anyone cares about teaching for a lectureship. He's got it in for me, jealous because of the research grants I'm pulling in."
"More likely, he's being so dumb because she's a woman!" Chloe's attention had been caught now. She turned from the cutlery holder full of sparkling spoons and put her hands on her comely plump hips, jutted her large breasts up at Jim. Her dark eyes flashed indignantly.
"Yeah, like an attractive young woman can't have a brain," Jim conceded.
"Oh!" Chloe started laughing. "An attractive young woman."
"Well, sure, I suppose," Jim felt suddenly embarrassed. He tried to suppress a flush of color rising in his cheeks, stiffen his frowning gaze, ignore a different stiffness in the crotch of his pants. He shuffled, turning his eyes from the small plump woman who was laughing as she continued to put away the clean cutlery. "My point is, what's that got to do with the appointment?"
"I hope you and the other fuddy-duddies won't find her hash tag distractingly sexy," Chloe sniggered.
"For God's sake," Jim said angrily. "It's a professional working environment. Nobody gives a fuck what she looks like." He thought about Dr. Helen Buchan. She was a natural redhead with curving hips and a slim waist apparent even in a somber gray skirt suit. She had answered all their questions with an engaging grave intelligence then suddenly, at the end of her interview, she cracked a joke. Her eyes -- were they gray or green? -- sparkled. A mouth nude of lipstick but so moist and succulent that makeup might even have made it less attractive, puckered in a kiss of a laugh.
He suspected that he was not the only one of the panel of senior academics distracted from her presentation by her legs as she walked up and down in front of them, speaking to her PowerPoint slides. Fortunately she had prepared handouts with sufficient information in them for himself and the other panel members to argue down the Department Head's asinine objections to her appointment.
"Oh yeah?" Chloe said. "None of you fuddy-duddies give a fuck for an attractive woman?" There was an uncomfortable pause. "Here are your sandwiches, honey," Chloe's rich dark voice deepened with affection, she came and gave him a kiss on the cheek, handing him a lunch box. She put her own lunch in the bag she had prepared much earlier, even before she had fed the two kids and got them out of the door to school.
"Would you like me to drop you at the shelter?" Jim offered.
"Awwww, thank you," Chloe said. "I need to be back early this afternoon, for the delivery of that new set of golf clubs you ordered. I better take my car."
Technically Dr. Buchan's appointment came under the aegis of the Head of Teaching: Matt Carver. However it was generally understood that Helen Buchan had been appointed because her research interests were close to those of Jim's team so it fell to Jim to meet her on her first day: show her her office, introduce her to the department administrators.
Normally he just wore an open-necked shirt to work. In honor of the occasion he picked out a gray silk tie the kids had given him one Christmas. (He would have done the same if the appointee had been male, of course.)
Helen Buchan was clad in a figure-hugging warm red dress that flattered curves which needed no enhancement of their sexy appeal. Jim managed with difficulty to keep his eyes out of a plunging neckline above which danced a golden pendant in a shape he could not concentrate sufficiently to make out. Thankfully once they got seriously down to it ... down to work, she would be in a white lab coat. It wouldn't matter a toss what she wore underneath. Well, one or two of the team might toss off thinking about it but that would be nothing to do with the job in hand ... the collective tasks of the project team.
Helen looked suitably impressed by the large office she'd been given -- as well she might. Its late occupant had been an emeritus Professor of some eminence.
"You may have to share the space," Jim warned her. "We got you this room so you could be close to the team, not down with the other lecturers."
"Thank you," Helen was tall but by dint of lowering her head she managed to look through her lashes at Prof. Hunter when she smiled. He felt like a favorite uncle. He dashed off a grin at her and suggested they go down to the lab. His less senior colleague was working from home that day, because of yet another childcare crisis, but the two research assistants would be setting up the next stage of the experiment. Oh, and there was Davey the technician too.
"That would be great!" Helen enthused. "Nice tie," she murmured as he showed her out of the door.
"Uh ... thanks," Jim stammered. He wished later he had murmured back: "Nice dress." On further reflection he was glad he hadn't.
In a burst of generosity, Jim took the team out to lunch and treated them to a couple of bottles of wine. To his annoyance, Davey sat himself next to Helen and spent the meal staring down her cleavage. Distracted by this, Jim lost the chance to get the junior team members talking about the project and was obliged to listen to them grumbling about the lack of affordable accommodation in the city.
"It's the bloody students," laughed Liam (he was in the second year of his PhD), oozing Irish charm at Helen Buchan. "They price us out of everything, so they do."
"I've got a list of realtors who have places to rent," even Brian, the shy steady one who had nearly finished his PhD, was coming out of his shell for the new colleague.
"Thanks," Helen said, leaning over the table to place a hand on Brian's. This brought her cleavage with the golden ... thing dangling in it right into Jim's eyeline. "I've got a place, though. I've taken up a position in one of the dormitories. I keep an eye on the girls and get a little apartment to myself. Even get paid for it so I can save up for a deposit on a place of my own."
"Sounds grand," Liam enthused.
"I have to do my laundry in the communal laundry room," Helen said, leaning back again and flashing her gray-green eyes round at the table of men. Everyone was flushed and excited -- with the wine -- by this time. "The machines get up enough angular velocity to give you quite a ride," her lovely long lashes dropped over one sparkling eye in a wink.
Davey choked on his wine and spluttered into his pasta puttanesca.
The Hunters had a regular weekend fixture as a family. They would nearly always spend Sundays with Jim's colleague and his family and with neighbors they were friends with. Jim Hunter and Les Bryant had been squash partners as well as longstanding colleagues but Les had never quite been a match for Jim's aggression on the court. Fortunately Chloe had found out that her neighbor-friend's surgeon husband was a keen squash player in need of a partner. The three families all had kids of the same age; Chloe's willingness in an emergency to take the kids when they were younger (the two other mothers worked full time) drew them closer together. Most Sundays the men, and perhaps Rita Bryant who was an amateur champion, played golf in the morning then everyone repaired to one of the houses for lunch.
They were at the Mendozas' house that Sunday, gathered up in the kitchen as usual sipping wine and chatting while the kids played all over the house. Frank Mendoza was ribbing Jim for skipping on their match the previous Tuesday.
"I had to go through exam papers with our new lecturer," Jim protested. "She's not familiar with our system."
"Oh-h-h," Rita Bryant giggled. "From the sound of it, anyone could be excused missing a mere squash match to spend one-on-one time with her instead."
Jim felt the irritating blush rising in his cheeks. He frowned and managed to keep from fingering his open collar. He simply smiled in a pitying way, like Rita had no business to make insinuations about another working woman.
He repressed the memory of Helen Buchan, scooting her chair in close beside his at his desk, leaning in to look at the suggestion he had written on her draft exam paper. Her finely manicured finger with the glossy polished nail had come to rest so close to his finger that they were almost touching. That way she had of tilting her head down so that in spite of her height she was looking up at you through her lashes with a cunning smile. She was so close, her perfume came in hazy warm alluring wafts up his nostrils. He sat back in his chair, moving his finger from hers, from the question he was indicating. She sat back too, the golden pendant flashing back to bounce above the deep cleft of her cleavage. He sat forward to hide the tenting erection in the crotch of his pants.
"...expand the team," he had missed what Les was saying but he knew it must be about their hopes to get funding for a third research assistant.
"You need to expand to four," Chloe remarked. "With the university regulations, you could ask for some of Dr. Buchan's teaching time to be allocated to PhD supervision then. That way, she would have more time for the project rather than non-specific undergraduate teaching."
"God, you're right!" Les laughed. "You're always so on the ball with these things, Chloe."
Jim grinned and slipped an arm around the familiar curve of her shoulders. She was so much smaller than him so it was natural for her to look up at him when she smiled. He used to call her his pocket rocket. What kids he and she had been, he thought wistfully.
"How are things at the shelter?" Rita asked.
"We're like you guys," Chloe joked, "always chasing funding." There was no real comparison between the shelter for battered wives where Chloe volunteered two mornings per week, and the prestigious well-funded research team Jim headed up. The women and children at the shelter survived on chicken-feed handouts.
"We've got a big funding application for some new money through a crime prevention grant program," Chloe said. "Trouble is, we're not really prevention -- we're picking up the pieces afterwards. The money will probably go to some asshat bunch of guys who put up posters saying: 'Get so drunk you can't hit her properly then you won't leave a mark'."
The men laughed uneasily. Rita said she wished she could do more and offered to take the kids after school one day so Chloe could work on the application. "You have my kids often enough when Les and I both have to work," she said. "I'll look it through and make some recommendations about legal aspects too." Rita was a family lawyer and often represented the women from the shelter.
"That would really help!" Chloe said. "Hey, one of the women at the shelter told me the funniest story. She saw this kid's picture on Facebook of a stick figure woman holding what looks like a pole, with a group of men applauding her. Under the picture is a note to the kid's teacher saying: Dear Miss Jones. I would like to explain that I am not a pole dancer. Last winter I shoveled the snow from our sidewalk before any of the guys got around to it, and all my neighbors came out to applaud me for it. The picture is of me holding the handle of my snow shovel."
The group broke up with laughter. Karen Mendoza was shouting from the oven: "What's so funny? What is it?"
"Let me give you a hand. Ben! Sarah! Come and lay the table," Frank went to help Karen with the food, still laughing.
After lunch, the men loaded the dishwasher and made coffee. The women cozied up in the living room, expelling a couple of recalcitrant kids who tried to sneak in to watch YouTube videos on the TV.
"So," Rita turned to Karen with a snigger. "How was the show?"
Karen was still cradling half a glass of red wine. She looked up from it, sniggering in reply. "Oh my God," she said. "I was a bit ... when Frank said his team wanted to go to the burlesque! I thought that was stripping. One of the nurses has been going to classes, they do a group act at the show, and she asked the team to come and support her. Well! I like Cindy. She insisted it would be fun, not sleazy, so I agreed.
"It was just so funny! She was right, it's not a bit sleazy," Rita made a mock face of regret. "No no, it is sexy. In a good way. They have these lovely costumes, the women are all shapes and sizes. They're enjoying themselves, the audience is enjoying themselves. I was hoarse with screaming the next day! and not just from whooping and hollering at the show." Karen sniggered and confessed: "By the time we got home, Frank was so worked up from seeing all those fabulous women in their garters, he hustled me out of the cab and straight upstairs -- that's the best sex I've had in years."
Rita fell about laughing. Chloe made a polite smile.
"That's not all. He had already got me what I'd asked for Christmas: a casserole dish. The next day we went online, before you brought the kids back, Chloe. He ordered me the most beautiful corset: rosettes, ribbons, garters. I can't wait for Christmas Day this year! although I'll have to open that one with Frank in private."
"We should go to a show together," Rita suggested eagerly.
"Definitely," Karen exclaimed. "It's more of a women's thing. We girls should make a night out of it."
"I'm not sure it's for me," Chloe said.
"Honestly, Chloe," Karen said. "It's all about celebrating women's bodies. Feminist. It's not a strip tease. Come on, give it a go at least. There's a show on in January, we can have a post-Christmas night out. You'll have worked hard enough for it."
Chloe rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out. The other women would go back to parents who did most of the cooking at Christmas. Chloe would not only have her parents to stay, Jim's difficult mother and his sister's family would all come over to be cooked for and to pick fights with each other which Chloe would have to mediate.
"Come on, Chloe," Rita urged.
"I'll see," Chloe temporised.
"That's not like you," Karen said. "You were quiet at lunch, too. Are you OK? Everything alright with Jim?"
"I know he's spending more time at work with the new lecturer," Rita added. "But that's normal, she's new and quite young, isn't she? She needs supervision."
"Oh gosh, it's not that!" Chloe exclaimed. "Awww ... it's, I found a lump in my boob." To her alarm tears started to well up in her eyes as she confessed this. It must be the wine, she thought. "It's nothing, even the doctor said it's probably just fatty tissue. But you can't help wondering."
"Oh my goodness!" Rita came straight over to sit by her and put an arm around her. "Why didn't you tell us? Have you been fretting about that all this time on your own?"
"No! of course not," Chloe managed to brush the tear away from her lashes, but she sat back gratefully into Rita's embrace. "I'm way too busy with the kids and the shelter and whatever to fret about anything. The doctor's sending me for a breast exam next week, it'll be fine."
"Do you want someone to come with you?" Karen asked. "Is Jim going with you?"
Chloe laughed. "What, take a day off work?" she scoffed. "No way. I haven't even told him. No sense in worrying him. He has enough on his plate at work. It will all be fine -- I'll tell him afterwards, so he doesn't have to worry about it."
"I'll come with you," Rita offered.
"I'll be fine!" Chloe protested. "You two have to work too. It's just a half hour appointment, and I mean to go to the mall afterwards, since I'll have to be that way. God, it's nothing, I'll be fine." She sat up and smiled at her friends.
In the kitchen, the coffee was being neglected as Frank regaled the other men with his version of the night out at the burlesque.
"Not only that," he laughed. "Karen's chosen this totally sweet corset from an online store as her Christmas present from me."
"Man, that's a present for you, not from you!" Les exclaimed.
Jim thought of Chloe's matronly body in a corset. He felt strangely embarrassed. What did a corset look like? He had a vague unpleasant image of some white restrictive Victorian thing with ... whalebone? Like a straitjacket. Maybe if he searched online at work. Or would the university filters block the images out?
Would that be the kind of thing a young woman like Helen Buchan wore? Something ... in red and black with garters? He pretended to laugh heartily along with the other men at Frank's good luck and skill in persuading Karen to let him buy her a corset.
He had a whiskey while Chloe got the kids to bed that night. When she came down and looked in the living-room, he said: "Hey! Sounds like the Mendozas had fun on their night out."
"Yeah, I was glad I could take the kids for them," Chloe said, coming a little way into the room.
"Frank said he's going to get Karen a corset for Christmas!" Jim laughed.
"Oh God," a look of distaste came over Chloe's face. "At our ages. Like she's some object for him to ogle over."
"Yeah," Jim said. "Do you want to watch a show?"
"I must finish the ironing," Chloe said.
Later he lay next to Chloe's compact small curvy body in bed, passing his eyes unseeing over the pages of a prize-winning novel on his Kindle. As usual, Chloe was buried deep in a paperback romance. She could get them in bundles of three or ten at a time from the thrift stores: wrapped like candy in lurid shimmering covers, usually with a doe-eyed woman draped against a firm-lipped strong man.
When she turned out her light, he mechanically did likewise. He tried to think of Chloe in some nice underwear. Once there had been a red set with spots that he had liked. His pocket rocket! It was a long time since she had sprung on him, saying: "The pocket rocket is ready to get on the launching mechanism!" When had they last even ... done it? Six months ago? Did he get a birthday fuck this year? No, they went out to dinner with their friends and were both too tired when they got back in.
His mind relaxing as he drifted to sleep, he was jolted into consciousness by the thought of Helen Buchan in something flimsy like the women wore on the covers of Chloe's books. The idea stalked sneering through his mind, kicking aside the mundane images of his wife in red spotted panties.
He stole a sideways peek at Chloe. Was it wrong to have sex with your wife while excited by thoughts of another woman? Chloe appeared to be asleep.
By concentrating on his report to the university research council, he managed to reduce his erection, although the problem of how to frame his request for two, not one, extra PhD students stressed him out so much that he didn't get to sleep for another three hours.
The Department hosted a Christmas Dinner each year. ('Hosted' was a misnomer since you had to pay for your meal yourself, but if you didn't show your face people assumed it was because of a grudge and said you weren't a team player.) The Project had got into the habit of having a special seminar a couple of weeks earlier, to present their latest findings, followed by a drinks party in the Faculty Dining Room.
Jim had encouraged Brian to take the lead in presenting out of some work Les had been doing with him. This would prep him for post-doctoral conference presentations. He had let Helen off lightly, suggesting she just run over the main points of a paper she had already published.
He was looking at his notes for his introductory speech when the phone rang. To his surprise it was Chloe. She never rang him at work, not like Rita who was always having to get Les to cover with their three kids when one of her cases ran late at court.
He glanced at his watch with a frown, seeing that it was four-thirty. He wanted to get to the seminar for four-forty to meet and greet, and make sure Davey had put out water for the speakers.
"... further tests," Chloe said.
"Further tests?" he said. "You've been for a test?"
"I went for a mammogram today," Chloe's voice was unusually high and sharp. Normally she had such a soothing rich deep timbre in her voice that telemarketers tried to keep her on the line chatting to them. "They want me to go back for a biopsy on the fourteenth."
"A ... what?!" his own voice was squeaking to his alarm.
"It's nothing, it's probably just fatty tissue," Chloe's voice dropped to become smoother, sweeter. "Today's test was just like ... a kind of x-ray but the biopsy is more invasive. They say I should take things easy for a couple of days afterwards. I'm just asking if you could leave work early for a couple of days, pick up the kids and get some take-out food for us so I don't have to cook."
"The fourteenth is the Department Christmas Dinner," Jim said.
"Well ... can't you skip it this once?" Chloe asked.
"Are you joking?! With our application for two extra PhD students pending! We put in for Helen Buchan to be relieved of some of her teaching duties so she can help supervise them. It's going to take all I've got to get that through."
There was a pause at the other end of the phone. When Chloe started to talk again, her voice was sharp and accusatory. She sounded like his mother (... ungrateful ... all I've sacrificed for you two ... see you twice a year if I'm lucky ...).
"I've never asked before, Jim," Chloe said angrily. "These are your kids! I'm going for a minor medical procedure ..."
"It's a minor procedure," Jim seized on this point. "Can't you get them to do it on another date?"
"No!" For fuck's sake, he could hear she was going to start crying. He looked at his watch again. It was twenty-five to already. "If I ask, I won't get an appointment till after Christmas. I don't want to do Christmas with this hanging over me! You seriously want me to tell the breast clinic to find me another urgent appointment because my husband wants to go to his work Christmas Dinner and refuses to take our kids for once in fifteen years ...."
"For God's sake!" he shouted. "It's not like that. If I don't show my face at the dinner, you know what they'll say."
"What will they say?!" she cried. "You're a tenured Professor! Head of the project! What are they going to do to you if you don't go to the fucking Christmas Dinner?!"
"Look ... you could pay Frank and Karen's au pair to help out?" Jim was delighted to have come up with such a practical solution.
"We agreed we wouldn't do that this year, that we'd save for a good ho-ho-holiday. The kids and I are sick of going and staying with your sister, we want to get away somewhere by ourselves this year!" Jesus, she was crying. Jim felt frozen.
"I'm sure we can sort this out ...," he started to say. Fuck, fuck, it was twenty to four.
"Like our sex life!" she shouted.
"For Christ's sake don't start that again," he snarled. "You were the one who was too tired on my birthday."
"If you helped me more, I wouldn't be so tired," she sobbed.
"I haven't got time for this," he said.
She hung up on him!
Jim stared in amazement at the phone. What the Hell? Stupid woman. Surely she could get something sorted to cover for a couple of days? Picking up kids from school, throwing some food on the table for them; it wasn't rocket science. And as for going from that onto their sex life .... It wasn't his fault, anyway, it was her. If he wanted it, she said No, then came crawling all over him on nights when he was tired out from work.
He was appalled to see that the phone was shaking in his hand. He had this hideous impulse to pick it up, tear its wire out of the wall and dash the phone to pieces on the floor. Fifteen ... no, ten minutes before the seminar was due to start!
He took some deep breaths and managed to compose himself. Cursing under his breath, he went along the corridor to the seminar room, dragging his mind back from the seething cauldron of emotions Chloe had poured into his brain, to the clear simplicity of his notes on the Project's progress that year.
After the seminar, he felt better. It had gone well. Dawkins had made an appearance and even seemed inclined to come back to the Faculty Dining Room for a drink. They chatted while following Les, Liam and Davey who had run on ahead to set up the drinks and snacks.
Glass of Montepulciano in hand (Les would say Chloe's excellent yet thrifty choices of booze and nibbles was why they always got a good crowd to the seminar), Jim started chatting with Brian about his paper.
Helen Buchan came over to them. She was wearing her figure-hugging red dress, her curves were so spectacularly outlined in it that Jim doubted anyone had taken in what her paper covered, too busy uncovering her body in their minds. In honor of the special occasion, she wore make-up too: her gray-green eyes glistening from under sparkling lids, her sandy lashes mascara-ed black so that her eyes stood out in a pale powdered face. She had of course chosen vivid red lipstick and nail polish to go with her dress. Her red curls of hair bounced clean and shining around her red-clad shoulders.
As usual, she stood slightly too close to Jim. Her perfume drifted in alluring wafts over the warm dry tones of his glass of Montepulciano. She looked over her own glass with her head dipped so that her cunning smile came up at Jim through her black lashes. Jim flashed her a grin.
"I think that section on titania nanotubes would definitely merit expansion," Jim said casually to Brian, his eyes drifting down towards the golden pendant in Helen's cleavage then moving hurriedly up to her face. "In fact ... come and see me tomorrow," he frowned and tried to switch his gaze to Brian. "Maybe we can write something together."
"Oh!" Brian said. "That ... would be great." He slid a look at Helen.
Suddenly Jim remembered that the functionalising of titania nanotubes was Helen's particular field -- the reason she had been recruited to the team. In fact, Brian had been citing her work in the passage Jim had picked out.
Helen's cunning foxy smile seemed to freeze on her white face. Her gray-green eyes narrowed and she shot a chilled icy dagger of a look at Jim. She turned her head with a careless flick that made her red curls bounce as she walked away. She gave an extra sashay with her hips so her buttocks rolled like apples in a bag as she went to the drinks table.
She stood staring over the drinks table at the venetian blinds covering the window. Fiercely she blinked back tears in her eyes. She bit her lip to force them down, scraping the creamy layer of lipstick with her teeth.
Screw him. Screw Prof. Hunter. She took a big gulp at her wine.
She would've been willing to screw him, for the chance to write with him. That was why she'd come here. My God, when she got the interview she was thrilled enough. A chance to meet Prof. J.D. Hunter, to showcase her ideas to him. How many times had she rehearsed her presentation to Gemma, her PhD supervisor, to make sure she got it down pat. ("Don't joke, don't shake your boobs -- let your ideas speak for you, darlin'. We're the same size; I'll lend you my conference suit for the gig.")
When she got the actual job she literally screamed for joy. Now she was spending all her time writing new courses to teach. Prof. J.D. Hunter was making her do tired re-runs of work she had already published and offering some scrubby doctoral student the chance to write off the back of her work. She gulped rapidly at her wine again.
She would've been willing to screw him for his own sake. He was so Alpha: heading up the project, going out there with those brilliantly phrased proposals which won the funding for them all. He was fit with playing squash and golf with other guys. He always wore a freshly laundered, crisply ironed shirt, not like Les who would turn up with some breakfast cereal on his sleeve, a little late from dropping his kids at school.
Prof. Jim Hunter had these darling touches about him. Every day he brought in home-made sandwiches. How could you not love a man who was so important and made himself sandwiches for lunch? He would have a salad and an apple too -- so healthy. Every Friday he had a treat in his lunch-box: some chocolates or a biscuit. He laughed once when he caught her checking out his lunch-box, said: "catch," and threw her a foil-wrapped chocolate.
She sucked on the unwrapped chocolate like it was the contents of the package in his pants. Slowly, taking five, ten minutes to roll the confection round her hot mouth. It melted sweetly over her tongue like she wished his cockhead would melt and spurt juice into her throat.
She turned her head to find Davey beside her. He was holding out a bowl of potato chips. He looked up at her and gave a sudden appealing grin.
Liam was over with his girlfriend and some of the other PhD students, chatting and laughing. Brian was still talking to Prof. J.D. fucking Hunter.
She had never really looked at Davey before other than to ask him to sort out some technical issue in the lab. Of course he ogled her, but then what man didn't? Over her glass of wine, she noticed for the first time what a soft wet mouth he had. Suddenly he ran a red flexible tongue over his wet mouth and gave her that appealing grin again.
Screw Prof. Hunter. She would fucking show him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see Helen was laughing and chatting with Davey. Clearly she wasn't too bothered about his offering to write the paper with Brian. A wave of relief washed through him, so intense after the emotional maelstrom of the last couple of hours that his muscles seemed to unwind like limp washing on the line.
He extricated himself from the conversation with Brian by pretending he had to schmoozle Dawkins. He would figure out how to get out of writing the paper with Brian somehow. Chloe would think of something.
At the thought of Chloe, his stomach churned. He noticed that Helen was putting her hand on Davey's shoulder, in fact her arm around him. He scowled. She must be drunk to encourage that young lech Davey that way. Dawkins had come bumbling over so he couldn't go to break up this potentially problematic scenario.
Jesus! -- women. Nothing but fucking trouble. Maybe he should've listened to Dawkins and appointed his snot-nosed protégé!
The night air was so cold that their laughter drifted in warm vapor up from their mouths to the dark star-spangled skies. Snuggled into her winter coat, with her hand tucked in Davey's arm, Helen felt gleefully content. She knew Jim Hunter had seen them leaving the party early. His face was like thunder as he looked over at her, from the corner of the room where he was trapped with Prof. Dawkins and the Dean of Research.
Screw Hunter. Helen focused on the here and now. She looked down at Davey -- who was half a head shorter than her. He looked shyly up at her through his lashes, a kind of look that evoked a wave of tenderness in her. He licked his lips with that promisingly wet red tongue and grinned. She felt a surge in her cunt.
The wine was starting to wear off, though. She felt tired after the effort of presenting her paper. As they came up to the entryway for the student block, she suddenly decided she didn't want Davey in her cozy little apartment.
The building was quiet. All but one or two of the students were gone for the holidays. Helen had a long-standing fantasy and realized she had a golden opportunity to play it out for real. "Hey, sugar," she bent to breathe into his ear and turn him on even more, making him giggle. "You wanna help me with my chores?" Davey could hardly believe his luck. He watched the gorgeous Dr. Buchan shoving some clothes in the washing machine drum. She had bent over to do this and the vigorous motion of her arms made her ass wiggle right in front of him. He felt like a kid on Halloween by a tub of bobbing apples -- longing to bend his head and try to sink his teeth into one of those bouncing round red globes.
She had straightened up and turned now with a toss of her red curls. She was wearing that figure-hugging red dress with the low neckline which would make them all restless if she wore it in the lab. All day he had been itching to get home and jerk himself off, imagining lifting her dress up to play with the body underneath the clinging cloth. He had cursed the seminar and drinks party, never in his wildest dreams imagining it might lead to this.
Helen Buchan was impatiently dragging the red dress over her head and chucking it into the washing machine with the rest of the clothes. Davey had read online erotic stories in which women had skin like alabaster. He knew that whenever he read that phrase afterwards he would picture Helen Buchan's pale luminescent body -- with a dusting of freckles accentuating the pallor of her skin.
She was wearing a black bra. Black lace and narrow black ribbons made a display such as he had previously only seen when cruising women's lingerie online. Her cream breasts surged out of the cups of the bra like pale muffins.
To his regret, she dragged off her black tights and the black lace panties matching her bra herself. He would have liked to slowly take those down, fingering her naked butt and her legs as they emerged from their delicious encasings.
Although he was not sure he could have handled slowly taking down Dr. Buchan's black lace panties. He started trembling with lust at the sight of the neatly trimmed strip of red hair lining her pussy lips. Dr. Buchan had such a large clit that it was poking out of the folded hair-lined lips of her pussy. His cock was up, hard and throbbing.
With an athletic spring of her long shapely legs, Helen jumped up onto the washing machine. It was already shaking pleasurably under her as the clothes started turning in the water swishing into the drum. She giggled as she felt her buttocks bumping on the cold metal top of the machine casing. Leaning back on her hands, she flung wide her legs.
Davey grasped her thighs in his dexterous capable technician's fingers and dove his tongue straight into her slit. She gave a tittering scream of appreciation. He made a moan as his tongue tasted the fruity warmth of her pussy. He wiggled his tongue between her lips and licked up and down. Helen gasped and bucked her hips up to his face.
He moved his hands from her smooth muscular thighs so he could hold open her pussy lips with his fingers. He began to lick at the nub of her clitoris in earnest. Helen's clit had expanded even larger with the excitement, he suckled it between his lips.
He moved his mouth down and began to lick at her vulva. Helen grunted and moaned. She brought one of her hands round to frig at her clitoris with those beautifully manicured fingers. Davey started to tongue-fuck her, sinking and pushing his tongue into the thrusting muscles of her cunt. He could see a red polished nail moving in the red-haired pale lips to rub at her rosebud of a clitoris. She was using two fingers now, gasping and grunting above him.
He moved his hands back to grip on her alabaster thighs, thrusting his tongue into her cleft, sucking up the fruity cream from her.
She had put the machine on a short rinse and spin cycle. It suddenly juddered and started whining and rocking at top speed -- hard and cold under her buttocks.
"Ah! ah! ah! ahhhhhh!" She flung back her head, her fingers pressed hard and still on her clit. Her legs flung wide then clamped round Davey's head. Davey felt a whirl of pleasure-pain as his head was squeezed and dragged into her cunt. Shaken and stirred in equal measures by the vibration from the washing machine, she dragged his head about with her movements as she hit orgasm.
She gave a long gasp, a laugh. She flung her legs out wide and set him free. Davey pulled his face away from her cunt.
Helen hopped off the machine. She realized she had put her dress in the wash and had nothing to wear now except her panties and tights. She pulled the panties on but left the tights lying on the floor.
She was trembling and laughing. Davey made a movement towards her as if to hug her. She turned away, flicking her bouncing red curls about, then turned back to him.
"Shit, that was fun!" she laughed. "You sure are good at cleaning up, honey." She winked at him.
He giggled, looked away from her, shuffled his feet.
"Do you want me to call you a cab?" she offered.
"Uh ... nah," he said. "I don't live too far away. I'll walk."
She began to shiver standing in the entryway to see him off. The winter air was chill on her hot naked white skin.
"I'll see you on Monday," she said. Then she reached out and pulled him back to her for a kiss. He clutched at her body which stiffened in his embrace. She licked his wet red mouth, tasting her own cream on it, and broke from the kiss in another fit of giggles.
He giggled too and walked off with his pocket full of wet dreams.
Helen ran shivering up the stairs, leaving the wet washing -- she would sort that out in the morning. Laughing, she ran to her flat and to her bed. She leapt in and snuggled down in her covers. Her nerves were still tingling with the excitement of the seminar presentation and the pleasure of Davey's tongue-fuck.
Pushing away thoughts of the demeaning way Hunter was undermining her work, Helen fell asleep to dreams of him fucking her hard on top of the washing machine in the laundry room.
Jim sat pressing his hands to his head at his desk.
In spite of his saying he would pay for the Mendozas' au pair to help Chloe out and try to find the money (and time) for a family holiday, the atmosphere at home was as thick as one of Chloe's nourishing stews. Plus now he had this situation at work to deal with.
There was a knock at his door. He lifted his head and called to Helen Buchan to come in. He tried to make his expression that of a benign uncle rather than an appalled line manager.
Helen came in with an enquiring look on her face. He asked her to shut the door, then -- looking at her open-necked flame orange shirt with the flash of gold in her cleavage -- he regretted this.
"Well ... hahaha, Helen," he said uneasily as she sat in the chair by his.
She seemed to be about to scoot her chair in closer but paused.
"Uh ... I .... Probably some misunderstanding," he said, fiddling with one of the pens on his desk. "Some ... um, rumors have been circulating so Matt ... you know, Prof. Carver, in his capacity as Head of Teaching, asked if I would get to the bottom of it ... find out what .... So ... er, well."
Helen was looking blankly at him. "Rumors?" she said.
"Uh ... yes, about you and the ... the laundry room in the dorm where you're staying," Jim was looking at the wall, his computer screen, the dis-assembled bits of pen in his hand, anywhere but at her. "You realize, of course, that ... strict code of ethics and ... regarded very unfavorably but I will do all I can to help you," he looked earnestly at her, cleared his throat and said in a too loud voice: "Rumors that you ... might have had relations with students in the laundry room of your dorm."
"Oh my God!" Helen burst out laughing.
Jim felt both embarrassed and relieved. He had a moment of intense pleasure imagining going and telling that fucking asshole Carver what he thought of him for falsely putting Jim in this position.
"It wasn't with a student," Helen scooted her chair in. "Do you mean that someone saw us and ... reported us? How embarrassing." She giggled merrily as she stooped her head to look up at him through her lashes.
"Oh," Jim said. "So you did ... uh."
"Oh God," Helen laughed. "I'm so embarrassed now. I can't believe people thought I'd have sex with a student!"
"Students," Jim mumbled, starting to blush.
"No! Seriously?" Helen was overcome with mirth. "Oh no, Jim. I'm sorry," she reached out and put her warm hand on top of his, over the dis-assembled parts of the pen. "It was Davey. You know, that time after the drinks party."
Jim sat quite still, staring at their hands over each other and the pieces of pen on his desk.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Helen went on penitently. "Well I ... I was a bit mad at you, I guess, and Davey was up for it. I'm sorry, Jim."
"You ... and Davey," Jim said slowly. "Our technician, Davey?"
"Well, yeah, sorry," Helen said. "But it didn't mean anything. It was just a bit of fun."
"That's why his work is off now," Jim said, lifting his head and looking suddenly round into her eyes.
"I ... no, surely not," Helen protested. "It was just a bit of fun. He knows it wasn't serious."
"Helen, how could you!" Jim protested. "Davey's a junior member of the team. That would be like ... me hitting on you."
Helen turned her head, staring at him from narrowed grey-green eyes. "Would that be an issue?" she said softly. She pressed down on his hand with her soft warm hand.
Jim felt a sudden rush of adrenalin through his body. It was as if all his blood surged to his cock. He felt his cock stiffen in his pants, harden against his thigh. He started panting. A picture popped up in his head of Helen Buchan, sitting on a washing machine, with her long legs wide open for him.
"You like me, don't you?" Helen's voice had a pleading tremor in it. "I ... I like you, Jim. I'm sorry I went off with Davey. I only did it to get at you."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stared at her, dumbstruck. His cock throbbed hard in his pants, he felt a wet leak of precum on his leg.
"I know you're a married man," she said, in that trembling pleading voice, looking at him with her gray-green eyes shimmering with tears. "I don't want to get in the way, break up your family or anything." He gave a galvanic shudder. "I just thought you could handle a little bit of fun. A game or two if we go to a conference together? A lunchtime blowjob maybe?" Jim stared speechless at her. "Or a titfuck?"
The situation had gotten completely out of control. He stood abruptly up, pulling his hand away from under Helen's. He walked over to his window and stared out of it.
Suddenly all he could think about were Chloe's big bouncing tits. He thought of shoving his cock between them. He had never imagined such an act and now it ballooned in his mind. Those beautiful big breasts with the large round dark nipples. He had loved to play with them: fingering and squeezing them, turning Chloe on until she was ready to explode on him.
Once in the later days of her pregnancy with their son Peter, he had even suckled at her tit. She had playfully squirted thin sweet milk into his mouth.
Then she became so sensitive. She couldn't bear his rough fondling of her breasts. Breast-feeding Peter was difficult and painful for her. Becky was an easier baby but by then Chloe was bogged down in a morass of nappies and blended food -- exhausted, sleeping with one or both babies cuddled to her. He wasn't the kind of egotistical monster who would demand he too got a turn at the fabulous funbags.
"My God," he said, turning round to the colleague sitting in his office. "What kind of old lech do you think I am?"
Her face crumpled, became narrow and shrewish. "I've seen you looking at me!" she cried. "I just want ... to write with you, but you told me off to present some crappy old stuff and now you're going to write with Brian!" She burst into tears.
This was a nightmare. Tears at home, where Chloe sniffled through the nights by his side in bed. Now tears in his fucking office. What was wrong with these women? Jim seized on the one thing she was saying that made any sense to him.
"You just want to write with me?" he repeated. "What do you think we're working towards, in the lab? You don't have to sleep with every member of the team for us to write with you!"
Helen sobbed bitterly at this.
Jim crossed back over to her and sat down in his chair, trembling with adrenalin and emotion. He conceded to himself that perhaps he had been a bit harsh there. He found one of the paper napkins which Chloe would put in with his sandwiches on his desk and offered it to Helen. She took it with a little claw of a hand and sniffled into the rag of paper.
"Of course I look at you," he said, conscious of his swollen cock throbbing against his thigh. "You're a very attractive woman. That doesn't mean I'm going to act on it."
"Why not?" she whimpered. "What's wrong with a bit of fun?"
"It wouldn't be just a bit of fun," he said intently. "We're colleagues, part of a team. I'm your line manager."
She stared at him over the rag of paper napkin with her gray-green eyes still awash with tears.
"OK," he said. "I was wrong to give you an easy ride ... time of it at the seminars. I just thought you were so loaded with teaching, and new in the department ... maybe I wouldn't have done the same for a guy, though, maybe I would have pushed him harder. But you can't react to that by coming on to me, Helen. You should've come to tell me how you felt about it, then we could have made some plans for what you might write in the spring.
"Well," he said. "At least we can tell that asshole Carver where to stuff it, with his crap about sex with students. He'll still rant about improper behavior on the university premises. I can handle that though. I'll tell him, like Chloe says, people ramp up any story about you because you're an attractive young woman and they're jealous.
"But, Helen, I can't have you playing fast and loose with the team members. This isn't a James Bond movie set. We may be a bunch of old fuddy-duddies whom you can take out one by one because you are hash tag distractingly sexy, but if you want to work with us you better take us seriously as colleagues."
"I'm s-s-sorry," she sniffled.
"Yeah, well, let's put it behind us," he said bracingly. "Davey's young, he'll get over it and stop leching at you instead of paying attention to the algorithms in Nanomodeler. Hey, let's get some lunch -- we can go to the faculty dining hall and pick something up," Jim suggested, desperate to get out of the one-on-one.
Helen looked at his desk and said: "Haven't you got your sandwich today?"
"Oh ... uh, my wife's been busy," Jim said. "She didn't get time to make a packed lunch today."
"Oh," Helen said. "Your wife ... makes your packed lunch."
"Oh yeah," Jim laughed. "You don't imagine I get up every morning and cut myself a sandwich!" He laughed heartily, mainly with relief that the embarrassing discussion was over. "Never mind the dining hall, it will be full of those gossiping assholes. They'll be talking about us next! You don't want your reputation tarnished by people saying you'd bother with an old lech like me, ha ha. I'll drive us to the mall and buy you lunch," he got up and fetched his coat before she could disagree.
In a public place, ordering a meal, he felt more relaxed. He avoided wine, suggesting in a decisive manner to Helen Buchan that they should have some mineral water with their meal.
She went off to powder her nose -- he hoped. It was quite red with her crying.
He was checking out the menu when he heard his name and looked up to see the manager of the shelter, Dora, coming towards him.
"Oh Jim!" she said, sitting down beside him. "I'm so very sorry." She looked earnestly deep into his eyes.
"Oh ... yeah," Jim said vaguely.
"We're all hoping it will be good news. For you and Chloe and the kids' sakes. Although truth be told, I don't know what we'll do if Chloe has to take too much time off," her voice quivered with emotion. "She's our rock, Jim. You will take care of her for us, won't you?"
Helen was coming back and Dora lifted her head, assessed Helen with a considering look, then just smiled a greeting.
"I'm so particularly sorry, Jim," she said, getting up to go. "I know how hard you must find it, what with having lost your father to cancer. Chloe told me how tough that was on you, how you had to hold it together for your mother and sister at the time. You're a good man, Jim. Take care of her, won't you."
And she was gone.
Jim stared after Dora. Helen was looking curiously after her, and then at him. He stared at the table, the cutlery lined up in front of him.
Suddenly, embarrassingly, he burst into tears. Great sobs surged up from deep inside him. The tears poured down his face. Dad! His Dad! Flashes of memory flickered through his brain. His first bike. Trips out with the scouts when his Dad taught them all woodcraft. He remembered having to stand at the graveside with his mother and sister clinging to him, howling with grief. Later Chloe tried to hold him, saying: "You can cry with me," but he couldn't.
Now this tidal force of sorrow came surging up from the depths to carry him away on a flood of tears. Helen Buchan was sitting by him desperately patting his arm and saying: "Jim! What's wrong? What's happened?"
Luckily they had a corner table and Helen drove off the concerned waiters, ineffectually patting his arm while he sobbed into his hands. Finally he was just sitting, his face wet with tears. He felt a curious sense of peace. He felt so much clearer about so many things.
He couldn't tell Helen Buchan he was weeping over the death of his father ten years previously. He said: "It's Chloe. It's my wife. She has a lump in her b-b-breast."
Suddenly he broke into a fresh fit of sobs. It was true! It was about Chloe. "What will I do if it's cancer?" he sobbed. "I couldn't live without her!"
His pocket rocket, his playmate and soulmate. The little energetic bundle with the rich dark sweet voice like licorice and the glorious gorgeous big tits. He was horrified at the realization that she might lose a breast. Those beautiful round boobs he had played with, with which she had suckled and nourished their children.
"Oh my God!" Helen put her arm around him and hugged him. "I'm so sorry, Jim. That's awful."
This second bout of grief was less intense and it wasn't long before he was able to wipe his face and sit up, heaving a big sigh. He ordered them some lunch and sat eating thoughtfully opposite a now rather guilt-stricken Helen Buchan.
"I'm going to take a couple of weeks down time," he said. "It's probably just fatty tissue but I need to be there for Chloe. I'll work from home and plan to come back after Christmas."
"I ... I can run the new set of experiments with Liam," Helen offered. "And ... uh, Davey," she gave an embarrassed smirk.
"Of course you can," Jim said. "Les will be able to take on most of the management of the project, you must step up to help him. He hasn't got the overall vision. Plus, can you work on that paper with Brian? If the two of you pull something together I'll go through it in January. If you pull it off ... manage that, you can be lead author."
Her face lit up. He smiled past the tears still glistening in his eyes. As he sat back, he caught sight of the golden flash in her cleavage. It was a gold electrode which had been adapted and made into a pendant.
Jim sat in his study staring blankly at his computer screen. He heard the front door open, then close, and one of the kids walk through to the kitchen. It must be Peter, his steps were heavier.
After a while, he heard a weird snuffling moaning noise. Although the sounds were quiet, he was worried they would get louder and wake Chloe, whom he had persuaded to lie down and rest before he went food shopping with her. (It was incredible how much stuff the family seemed to get through in a week. Good job he was pretty fit, the amount of canned goods and heavy boxes he had to lift into and out of the car.)
He walked into the kitchen and found Peter sitting at the table with his head in his hands, weeping. As he came in, Peter started to slowly bang his forehead on the table.
"Peter!" he exclaimed in a strangled hiss. He hurriedly shut the kitchen door to block the noise and went to prevent his son from banging his head again. "What's the matter? Is someone bullying you at school? What's happened?"
Peter lifted a face glowering and sulky with tears to him, refusing to reply.
"Come on, son," Jim pleaded. "What's wrong? You can tell me, I'm your Dad. Have you got a girl in trouble or something?"
Peter looked outraged, then burst into loud snorting sobs and threw himself at the table again.
"I don't want Mom to die! I don't want Mom to die-ie-ie!" he howled.
Jim had a momentary impulse to bang his own head on the table and howl: "I don't either!" but he sat down and put his arm around his son, patting his head.
"Mom's not going to die," he said firmly. "She just has a lump, it's probably nothing. Your Mom is a real healthy woman. She doesn't smoke, drink -- too much -- or do crack cocaine. She eats all your leftovers so she has enough greens to feed a horse." He wanted to huggle Peter in his arms but his son was too big for that now. Awww, when had his little boy grown up so big and tall? Nostalgic tears sprang to his eyes as he fondled the boy's hair.
"How about I make us some coffee?" Jim offered. "Or hot chocolate," he amended. Was fourteen old enough yet to drink coffee? What did his son drink at breakfast?
Jim bumbled between the cupboards until Peter got up, sniffing, and fetched out the chocolate powder and some marshmallows to sprinkle on top. Jim put some milk on to heat.
"That's way too much, Dad," Peter said. "Pour some back. God, you wouldn't last ten minutes without Mom," his voice started to wobble again.
"Don't worry about your mother," Jim said firmly, patting Peter's shoulder. "It'll just be a lump of fatty tissue, you'll see. And at least I know what to get her for Christmas this year."
Peter looked suspiciously at him. There had been some comic scenes when Chloe opened presents from him in the past.
"I can get her some bigger bras!"
"Ugh, urgggh, Dad, that's gross!" Peter cried in disgust.
It was still velvet dark with that lack of light that means the early hours of the morning. Jim lay staring at nothing for a moment. Tentatively he reached out a hand, into empty space beside him.
He sat up and peered at his bedside clock. Two a.m..
He went down the stairs, tying his robe around his naked chest, his pajama trousers flapping against his legs. He found Chloe in the living room, ironing a big heap of clothes and watching re-runs of Downton Abbey.
"What are you doing?" he asked, coming to try to take the iron away from her.
"I need to get this all ready so I won't have to do it after the biopsy!" Chloe's voice was high with anxiety.
"No, Chloe, I'll do it," Jim pleaded. "You need to get some sleep. Do it tomorrow."
"I have to run another laundry load tomorrow, it's going to be a fine day, I can hang it out."
"Jesus, Chloe, I'll do it. I said I'd help you but you're not letting me."
"You don't know how. You'll get it wrong."
"For Christ's sake, I'm running centrifuges in a lab all the time. I can turn on a washing machine."
Chloe paused, staring at him. Taking advantage, Jim pulled the plug for the iron out of the socket and took hold of her arm.
"Come on," he said. "Come back to bed."
"I don't want to lose my boob!" Chloe blurted out suddenly.
"Oh God!" he cried, pulling her into his arms. "I don't want to lose it either!" He felt them mash against him, the big rolling playthings of their early marriage years. "Don't, Chloe," he moaned. "It'll be fine. You'll be fine."
She stood shaking with fear in his arms.
"I'll ... be fine," she repeated in that high anxious voice. She went through the litany: "I don't smoke, I don't drink much. I eat healthy."
Jim hugged her to him. What would he ever do if she wasn't fine? He wouldn't think about it.
"Come on back to bed," he steered her out of the door and up the stairs, past the closed doors of the kids sunk deep in psychedelic teenage dreams. (He would never have believed how hard it was to get a teenager awake in time for school.)
As they came in the bedroom door, Chloe said mournfully: "I never even got to wear a corset. Maybe I never will."
"You said you didn't like them," Jim said incredulously.
"When the Mendozas were buying one. You said it was Frank making Karen into an object to ogle."
"Oh-h-h, maybe," she admitted. Then the tears started dripping down her nose. "Karen showed me the one he bought her online. It was so pretty! I couldn't help thinking I would look real good in it, because although I'm fat I have got good boobs."
"You're not fat," Jim said automatically.
"I don't want to lose a boob," she sobbed. "Maybe I will have to have both cut off, I can't go round with one boob, I'll look so weird."
"Oh no, Chloe!" he pleaded. "Your boobs are so great. Even if you have one boob it will be as good, because your boobs are twice as great as anyone-else's so it will even things up."
She laughed through her tears at this, then she turned urgently to him. "Jim," she said. "Please. I know I don't turn you on but I need you. I need to have something ... before maybe, I lose one of my boobs."
"Chloe, you're not thinking straight," he answered, sitting down on the bed. "Of course you turn me on! We're so stressed with all of this. It doesn't seem like the right time to just be having a little bit of fun.... Oh God!" Suddenly he reached out and pulled her to him so that his face smashed into the soft fat pillows of her tits. He rubbed his head side to side in between the two of them. Chloe clutched her head to him, hugging his head into her boobs.
He pulled up her nightie. She was helping him, lifting it up, jutting her big breasts out at him. With a greedy sigh, he eyed the large orbs with dark nipples like licorice wheels in the center of big fat buns. He groaned with lust, made a circle out of one finger and thumb to put round her nipple.
The teat was standing up and out. He put his mouth to her tit and ran his tongue over her nipple and teat. He suckled the breast into his mouth. He put his hand up to rub and play with her other tit.
"Yes, yes!" Chloe moaned. "Please, please, Jim. More; I need this, give me more. Play with my breasts. Please!"
He pushed at her to get her to lie back on the bed. He pulled her nightie over her head. Straddling her buxom hips, he placed hands on both her boobs and began massaging and fingering the flesh of her breasts and the teats of her nipples.
She arched her back up, thrusting her bazooka boobs at him. He twisted one nipple. She gave a scream of excitement.
It might be now or never. Jim hurriedly pulled his pajama trousers down to free his dick. His cock sprang out, swollen hard with pent-up lust, precum already dripping from the end. Jim sidled up Chloe's body, pressed her two tits together and pushed the wet tip of his cock at them.
"Fuck, fuck! Yes, Jim, yes!" Chloe was laughing and crying and grunting with pleasure. She reached up to put her own hands round her tits and squeeze them together for him. He thrust at the narrow crack of a valley between the two mounds of flesh. Lubricated by his precum, his cock slid in to the makeshift crack between her boobs.
Chloe gasped and moaned as he thrust his cock between her tits, fucking them, fucking them. Her dark nipples were pointing up like licorice snaps at him. His face above her was snarling with concentrated lust. He grunted as he thrust at her, then suddenly shouted: "I'm coming!"
"Come on me!" she squealed.
An eruption of white sperm burst from his cock into the crack of her tits, around and over them, one rope even splashed up to her face. He slid his softening cock in and out of the sticky gooey mess on her breasts a couple of times. Chloe was laughing and crying, licking at the cum on her chin, rubbing the cum on her breasts into them as if it could spring life in her boobs as it had twice sprung life in her womb.
Jim pulled back. He lay heavily down on her, rubbing his chest into her cum-covered chest. He hugged her, holding her close, so close. His pocket rocket with the deep dark licorice voice and tits.
It all turned out as you might expect of course. Jim was useless at cooking but Les and Rita brought some of their pre-cooked frozen meals over and Jim got take-out for a couple of nights. Peter demanded if Jim wanted to get him beaten up -- he and Becky point blank refused to wear the white sports shirts Jim managed to dye pink, although everyone said the color suited Jim. They didn't get the funding for the extra PhD students but the Research Council gave them some pointers and encouraged them to re-apply in six months' time. Dawkins came round to the lab specially to commiserate with them.
And it turned out to be just a fatty lump in Chloe's breast. The family celebrated by booking into Aspen for a January skiing break with the Mendozas. Everyone said how great Chloe was looking. (In exchange for helping her choose work suits, Helen had taken Chloe to get better fitted bras and the effect on her figure was quite something.) The ski instructors annoyed Jim by saying his two daughters were both naturals.
Helen fidgeted in her chair next to Jim. God, this was such a waste of time. She could've been out bar-hopping in a figure-hugging outfit instead of sitting in a charcoal gray trouser suit with her shirt buttoned demurely high. However Jim and Chloe both said inter-disciplinarity was the way to go and that Literature, for fuck's sake, was where the hot shots were pushing the boundaries.
Marcus Black was standing up to the table to give his paper on gendered positions in the scientific metaphors of seventeenth century poetry. Helen had heard all about him! They called him the Lech-erer. He was tall with tousled dark hair and an ugly slouch in his shoulder, legacy of a climbing accident. He wore an artfully scruffy navy blue sweater over Armani jeans. Literature was full of women students, of course, and rumor said he had his pick of them.
"My God, what was that all about," Jim grumbled surreptitiously as the talk ended. "I didn't get a word of it!"
"Oh ... well, I thought that bit about the lacuna at the center of the binary gender polarity was quite cool," Helen objected.
"Lacoo- how much?" Jim laughed. "Rather you than me."
They joined the general movement to a nearby bar. It was somewhere students frequented but as it was a micro-brewery, the beer was good enough to make up for that.
Jim and Helen stood at the bar discussing some points of their application for funding for four new PhD students and an additional junior lecturer. Helen was conscious of Marcus Black glancing occasionally at them from the center of an adoring set of pretty literati. Jim had made a move to sit with them when they first came in. Helen held him back, saying with a naughty grin: "Let him come to us. We're STEM. We've got the power."
Marcus was coming over now.
"Hey, Black, congratulations on the promotion to Associate Professor," Jim said heartily, slapping Marcus's shoulder in that way that meant: 'Because of the way you dress, I think you are a gay guy, but I'm not going to hold that against you. Hell, I don't want to hold anything against you!'
"Oh yeah, thanks," Marcus said casually, in that way that meant: 'What, that old thing?' Helen figured out from this that he was secretly very ambitious. "So, we should get together and talk about this collaboration, I suppose."
"Right," Jim said. "My colleague Dr. Buchan is going to lead on that one. We should set up a team meeting, Helen. Maybe ... Thursday."
"Thursday is a heavy day for lectures in our Department," Marcus drawled, checking Helen out from under his bushy black brows.
"You guys can sort out the detail," Jim had spotted Dawkins of all people at a corner table with some suits. "Excuse me."
"So-o-o," Marcus said, rocking on the heels of his cowboy boots. "Dr. Buchan, huh."
"Oh you can call me Helen, sugar," Helen leant back on the bar and looked up through her lashes at him. He was tall so she didn't even have to dip her head to do this. When they had come into the bar, she had surreptitiously undone a couple of buttons at her cleavage and she thrust her tits out so as to show this off. "Does Friday suit you better for a day to meet?"
"I don't know," Marcus temporized. "I'm not so sure we're on board with this project. Maybe you and I could find things to do instead which would be ... more fun." His eyes laughed at her from under his bushy brows.
"Oh yeah?" she said, taking a careless sip of her beer. Her heart had dropped. She had a momentary impulse to sob into her glass. Jim and Chloe both told her this was her opportunity to build up an application for tenure but more than that, as she listened to Black's talk, she had heard some points she was genuinely interested in working with.
"Well, Dr. Buchan," Marcus's voice dropped to sound her name out in low sensuous tones. "I heard all about you."
"Oh yeah?" she said, still in that careless tone.
"They call you the Lecheress," Marcus laughed. He sure was joshing her hard in order to try to pick her up. "Is it true that you took on the college football team, sitting on a washing machine?"
Helen burst out laughing and didn't deny it verbally, just looked in that way that meant: 'We are hot stuff in STEM, sugar.'
"I wouldn't mind taking you for a spin cycle," Marcus laughed, jiggling his hand in his pocket. He came in too close to her. She could smell his cologne, wafting over the light hoppy notes of her beer. "I think you are a naughty girl," Marcus breathed softly at her, "a naughty girl who needs a spanking."
Helen's breath started to come faster and her eyes gleamed. Her buttocks tingled at the thought of his hand smacking them. She couldn't help but glance at his hand: firm, big fingers. Her cunt was going wet and squishy for it already.
"Unfortunately I don't live in the dorm any more," she said, in that careless tone of voice, taking another sip of her beer. "Too bad you're not up ... for the project. Maybe we can figure something out with the guys in French Studies."
Marcus quivered. Literature and French Studies were arch-rivals -- too similar to get along.
"Yeah," Marcus said. "Maybe .... Well, I guess a preliminary meeting wouldn't do any harm."
"Friday?" Helen inquired.
"Sure," he laughed, looking down at her with unwilling admiration in his gaze. "We can do Friday."
"That's good," Helen said. She allowed her tone to become smug, knowing this would make him itch to spank her.
"Maybe we can go for drinks afterwards," Marcus suggested casually.
"Mmmm," Helen said carelessly and noncommittally.
Marcus laughed. "Or maybe I can take you to dinner some time, Dr. Buchan," he said in amusement. He glanced behind him at the pretty literati. Hell, though, it was time he settled down to some serious ... work. She was obviously a little firecracker. She sure lit his fuse.
"That sounds nice, sugar," Helen said smugly.
"What's the pendant you're wearing?" Marcus asked.
"Oh!" Her face lit up and became suddenly serious and very beautiful. "It's a gold electrode. When I ran the first set of experiments for my PhD in the lab, I was so damn proud," she laughed, shyly, looking charmingly up at him through her lashes. "The technicians took this electrode off and gave it to me to keep, so I could always remember how well the results tracked my predictions and be proud of my work."
Jul 24, 2018 in romance