Sex Objects Page 9

  Michael reached for her, but she held him back. “Not before the ceremony, sailor.” She was feeling slightly buzzed and giddy when she approached the column and cocked the bottle of champagne back like a baseball bat. “I christen this pain-in-the-ass skyscraper the S.S. Missy Butler, with first mate Michael Shaw in attendance as my witness. Okay, thanks for coming, and bon voyage.”

  The bottle clanged, then shattered into a million pieces, the fizzy liquid spraying every which way.

  Michael removed his hat and held it over his heart. “That booze died a noble death,” he said. “Congratulations, Captain. Now come here and kiss your first mate. Or anything else that pops into your head.”

  “Such insubordination! Who told you to move, sailor? Stand up straight! Eyes forward! And wipe that smirk off your face.”

  Michael played along, doing as he was told. “Seaman Shaw reporting for duty.” Missy laughed—his voice had gone husky with anticipation. Guys really were easy.

  But she didn’t need any prompting. She knelt in front of him, the sun dipping lower, the gentle breeze picking up a bit. She felt like she could do anything to him, ask anything of him. Be bold, she told herself. Two consenting adults playing doctor at the top of the world?—it was all good. She’d even be happy to let Michael drag her by the hair into the elevator and ravage her, leaving her body and bones weak from sex. No one ever died from too much fucking.

  “Looking for a good time, sailor?” She smiled up at him, delighting in his look of helplessness. She cupped his balls, and they nested like delicate quail eggs in her palm. Doing this aroused her, and she marveled at how this simple act of touching him caused his cock to stir and her cunt to moisten. She cradled his shaft on her tongue, rolling it from side to side like a gumdrop, feeling it expand. She’d done things with this man before, but had never tasted his essence. Was this the time? She closed her lips around him, just held him there, knowing he would follow her lead. She waited, waited, sinking her polished nails into the meat of his ass.

  Finally, Michael responded. He fucked her mouth tenderly, licentiously, and Missy felt the delicious sensation of his cockhead sliding over her tongue like a succulent mushroom. She could break him now if she wanted to. She could just sit back and become a passive receptacle for his sperm, making him forever indebted to his Mistress. Like all men, he would think it was a blow job for the ages. Afterward, she could lead him around on a leash like she’d done with the others.

  Yes, except that Michael was nobody’s poodle, and Missy wasn’t looking for another temporary plaything. At the risk of losing her mojo, she thought she might be ready to partner up with someone. Maybe a share-and-share-alike kind of thing. But if he couldn’t fuck her brains out as well, then that was a deal breaker.

  Oh my god, she thought with alarm. Have I tripped and fallen down the rabbit hole of love? Missy and Michael forever and ever? Yikes.

  Missy pushed herself away from him. “Michael,” she breathed. She knew he was close, and that stopping now wasn’t winning her any points. But she also knew what they both really wanted. “Lie down,” she said. “On your back.”

  Michael’s face was flushed, his cock never harder than it was now. “This is torture, Missy. You’re killing me.”

  “Oh, but what a way to go. That’s right, let me look at you. Now, let me watch you play with yourself.”

  “Missy…”

  “Do it. Touch your cock. Show me how sexed-up it is for me. Please?” She smiled seductively and purred, “I promise I’ll make it all worthwhile.”

  Lying on his side, Michael propped his head up so that he could watch her undress, his free hand leisurely stroking his cock in a backhanded fashion.

  “Oh yes,” Missy said. “Very nice.” She neatly folded her blouse and skirt and set them aside. Then she unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. Michael had once told her that her breasts, which were soft and full, reminded him of dessert: two heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with cherries. Vanilla? He’d never heard the end of it.

  Her orange silk panties, damp from her excitement, were next. When she turned her back to Michael and rolled them down over her hips and thighs, he let out a whoop and said, “Great ass. Stellar. We ought to christen that baby, too.” She stood astride him, and he suddenly looked like a kid who’d lost his milk money. “I don’t have, you know, protection.”

  “Protection? Gee, and here I am without the consent forms and liability waiver. You’re not leaving, Michael, until you take me to the moon. How I get there is immaterial.”

  “All right, then—get down here and get after it.” But when she lowered herself to straddle him, he slid out from beneath her. “No. On your hands and knees.”

  Missy laughed with delight. “On all fours? Honey, you’ve just thrown Missy into the briar patch. So do me doggy, you nasty boy.”

  She arched her ass and Michael was already there, tapping his cockhead against her swollen clit. When he entered her, she was so wet that she had to counter her slipperiness by clenching him, drawing him in, feeling his cock fill up all the hungry places inside her. But it was so, so good, and Missy could feel the dam beginning to crack.

  Her movements became more frenzied, more let-it-rip, and Michael said, “Easy. Make it last. I want you to get there with me.” The way he said it, so sincere, was like something out of a romance novel.

  “Screw easy!” Missy gasped. “I’m already there! Just keep fucking me, Michael. Keep fucking me.”

  When her orgasm came, it broke over her like a wave, and she didn’t think she’d survive it. How does the mind shatter like that and ever expect to recover? She screamed when she came, but Michael kept riding her, knowing she wasn’t through. When the next quake rocked her, it was more convulsive than the first, and she was so far gone that she didn’t hear Michael cry out or feel the milky threads of his come spray over her backside.

  Nobody ever died from too much fucking, Missy reminded herself. But how good would it be to be the first?

  They collapsed in silence, catching their breath, watching clouds sail by overhead. Finally, needing something to quench her thirst, she kicked at the cooler and saw that it was empty. “Damn it, Michael.” She socked him on the shoulder. “You killed our last beer. Now what?”

  “Yes, I had fun too,” Michael said. “And you’re welcome.” He rolled toward her so that he could nibble her ear. “Nobody christens a building like you and me, kid.”

  Missy slid a hand up his thigh. “The man with the magic dick. You’ll always be there for me, won’t you Michael? Not that I’m one of those clingy, demanding bitches.”

  “Demanding? You?”

  “It’s just that, I could get used to this. You know?”

  “I do. So let’s just see where it goes. No pressure. As long as my girlfriend doesn’t object, we’re in clover.”

  “Strike one, loser. And what makes you think that you’re boyfriend material anyway? What are your qualifications?” She gently squeezed his lazy cock, hoping to rouse it from slumber. “I mean, besides the obvious.”

  “Don’t you remember? I’m crazy about you. You drive me nuts and you drive me wild. Where I come from, that’s the whole enchilada.”

  “How flattering. But I’m not convinced. Hold me and tell me again.”

  “Better yet, I’ll show you. Starting…right…now…”

  “Oh my goodness—where did you learn to do that?”

  Vivify

  Cashmere S. Jackson

  Cecelia sighed. Her students were taking their Gender Studies midterm, giving her far too much time to contemplate the shambles that was her life. She had planned to grade the essays while they were taking the exam, but she’d forgotten them on her dining room table when she’d left the house late that morning. Figured. She’d woken up early, but lain in bed ruminating over the night before when her husband had walked out of their marriage.

  She’d expected him to leave sooner or later. They hadn’t had sex in six months and g
ave up talking two months ago. They’d played a game of passive-aggressive chicken to see who would call it quits first. Until the moment he’d left, she’d prayed for him to go first. Then, when he was gone, his closet empty except for an old brown shirt and a torn, empty shoebox, she’d cried herself to sleep.

  This morning, she’d woken up with swollen, burning eyes unwilling to see the emptiness of the house. She had grieved the end of her marriage a long time ago, but this new situation seemed sad somehow. So, she lay in bed and thought about what life had been like before they grew apart, and what life would be like now that she was alone. A soon-to-be forty-year-old divorcee.

  Cecelia felt like a fraud. She watched her students try to recall what she had told them about the ways women could be equal to men, and here she was, depressed and terrified of being a woman on her own. What was she going to do without her husband? She’d been a wife for fifteen years, but now what was she?

  The door to the classroom opened, interrupting her thoughts. Cecelia gazed at her graduate assistant who strode over to her and dropped off extra exams. Although she told herself differently, her attention was not purely professional.

  Six feet tall and wide shouldered, Aubrey Ayers was one of the most beautiful men she had ever met. His skin was a deep, smooth chocolate; Cecelia was ashamed to admit she had fantasized licking the side of his face once or twice to see if it tasted as decadent as it looked. His eyes gleamed like black onyx. Not to be outdone, he had a white smile that shone just as brightly. Everything about the way he looked was rich and deep.

  Of course, he was also emotionally deep, which made Cecelia feel even more like a fraud. When he’d requested to be her assistant, she took one look at his pretty-boy appearance and his maleness, and decided he couldn’t possibly be serious about gender studies. He had to have an angle. Then she discovered he’d spent four years in the army before getting his undergraduate degree. She’d grown more certain he had an ulterior motive: maybe he was trying to get girls or disprove feminist theory. She’d had no choice but to tell him no. But he’d been persistent. He told her he came to the school partly because he wanted to work with the Cecelia Sherrod.

  Flattered, she’d given him a chance and felt like a fool. A fool and a fraud. She taught that men should be just as committed as women to women’s issues. But when Aubrey, truly committed to its study, showed up, she let his gender blind her.

  She’d been right about one thing, however. While he was serious about the work, he did use what he learned in combination with his pretty-boy looks to date a lot of women. When he wasn’t working, she always saw him charming some young, beautiful thing. More than once, she’d imagined being on the receiving end of all that charm.

  “I swear, the next student who asks me for an extension will be stabbed in the neck with my red ink pen!” her friend Paula said, suddenly appearing in her office doorway.

  “Girl, you’re crazy. At least they want to do their work.”

  “No, they don’t. They’re just stalling in hopes that I’ll forget.” Paula sat down in the chair in front of Cecelia’s desk. “So, how’s your day going?”

  Cecelia hesitated about revealing her current marital problems. Paula Foster was her best friend at work, but she could be a wild card. After a beat longer than a normal conversational pause, she sighed. “Donald left last night.” She said it flatly, conveying the ambiguity she felt.

  “What do you mean, ‘left’?” Paula leaned into the desk.

  “What I said. It’s been coming for a long time.” Cecelia straightened a small stack of papers on her desk.

  “How do you feel? Are you okay?” Concern painted Paula’s face.

  Why had Cecelia ever doubted her friend’s trustworthiness?

  “I’m fine, I guess. Well, I’m not really. Not because he left. I should be sadder. Angry. Something.”

  “You should feel however you feel.”

  “I guess…but I don’t really feel…anything.”

  “You need a girls’ night out. I’m taking you for drinks and dancing tomorrow night.”

  Cecelia shook her head. “Tomorrow’s a school night. I have to grade these midterm exams, and I need to revise my article. I can’t go out, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Whatever, Cece. We’re going. Give those exams to that cute grad assistant you have. That’s what he’s there for. I’ll meet you in your office at five, and we’ll walk to this place I discovered. Now, I got to go because I have a two o’clock class.” She stood and blew a kiss. She was gone before Cecelia could wage another protest.

  Why was she fighting the idea of going out? When was the last time she’d been anywhere fun? Well, there was that conference in Maine a year ago when a bunch of the attendees went to the Mexican restaurant and ended up drunk and singing really bad karaoke. She had almost flirted with one of the men in the group. That had been at the beginning of her and Donald’s slow dance toward silence and sexlessness. Yes, she would give her Aubrey the exams. She wasn’t all that thrilled about grading them anyway.

  As if she had conjured him with her thoughts, Aubrey stood in her doorway. He reminded her of a yummy glass of Kahlúa. His dark eyes penetrated the space between them.

  “Hi, Dr. Sherrod. I was just checking in to see if you needed me for anything. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay for the exam this morning.”

  “I told you, you didn’t need to be there. But I do have something for you.”

  “Oh? Is it good?” He leaned against the doorjamb.

  “Depends on how good you think grading papers is,” she said with a wry smile.

  “Well, I could think of better things to do…but I suppose this is my job. I’ll take them now.” He reached out his hand for the stack.

  Cecelia looked at it, noticing for the first time how large it was. His palm was a little calloused, like it had been rougher and was now being subjected to a daily moisturizing softening. She wondered possessively if a woman were responsible for his softening hands.

  “What?”

  “The exams. I’ll take them now.”

  Embarrassed, she handed him a gray tote bag filled with papers. “I’ll be out tomorrow, but if you have a question, call me on my cell.”

  “If you’re going to be out on a date with your husband, I don’t want to interrupt.” He smiled and Cecelia stared at his full lips. They looked supple.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. Was I overstepping?”

  “No. I mean, you’re okay. Uh, but no, I’m going out with Dr. Foster. No dates with anyone.”

  “Okay. If I have questions, I’ll definitely call.” He smiled again and left.

  The next evening, Cecelia was sitting across a tiny table from Paula who had insisted on changing into a minidress before they left. Cecelia was still in the tan pantsuit she had worn to work.

  “You’re free. You should be celebrating.”

  They sipped margaritas. “I don’t feel free. We were together for fifteen years; I still feel married. Hell, technically, I am still married. I can’t just turn it off because we have different addresses.”

  “I bet he has. You two haven’t had sex in six months. You think he didn’t immediately go out and get some?”

  Cecelia shrugged and sipped from her oversized glass.

  “He might have gotten it while he was still in your house.”

  “Paula!”

  “Seriously, men don’t get all hung up on things like commitment and marriage. It doesn’t mean the same to them as it does to most of us. You know this; you teach gender studies. They see what they want; they go get it. They see a hot piece of ass, they want to have sex with her, they do it. Zero qualms.”

  “Paula!”

  “Sorry about the piece of ass thing, but it’s true. You need to get you some. It’s been almost a year!”

  “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

  “You can. You should. Just pick somebody.”

  Just then, a colleague from the math department walked
by.

  “Hi, Dr. Foster. Dr. Sherrod. It’s nice to see you two out.”

  Cecelia warmed; she’d always liked his French accent.

  “Hi, Dr. Roget. Save me a dance when the music starts,” Paula said.

  “Of course, if Dr. Sherrod agrees to a dance as well.”

  Paula kicked her under the table.

  “Sure,” Cecelia murmured, giving Paula a glare.

  When he left, Paula said, “Oooh, you should do him. He’s sexy and French, and he’s hot for a math professor.”

  Cecelia found him attractive, but she couldn’t sleep with him.

  “Even if I did pick someone, Paula, I couldn’t have a one-night stand with a man I hardly know. I just wasn’t raised like that.”

  “Girl, that raising is going to leave you bitter and shriveled.”

  “Intellectually, I know that sex is used to keep women oppressed, but I can’t fight the values I’ve been taught all my life.”

  “All I’m saying is, you’re still young, you’re beautiful, you have needs. You’re coming up on your sexual peak. Get. You. Some.”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Dr. Roget interrupted their discussion, “but I wanted to know if one of you would like to dance?”

  “Cece would,” Paula answered quickly.

  “Paula,” Cecelia admonished.

  “Well, Dr. Sherrod?” Dr. Roget held his hand out.

  Cecelia took in his chestnut hair, flowing away from his lean, slightly unshaven face, his peridot-green eyes and his mischievous grin. Paula could be right. Maybe not wholly right, but she missed having a man’s hands on her.

  “Sure, but call me Cece.” She stood up and took his hand.

  He placed his other hand on the small of her back and leaned in. His breath blew warm across her ear. “As long as you call me Henri.”

  Cecelia smiled at him and the unfamiliar tingle at the base of her stomach.