Origins Pt. 04

This is a continuation of Origins Parts I-III

The hard fucking of the day before coupled with the cool fall weather allowed me to sleep as soundly as I could remember, and I woke energized and ready to start a full teaching day. I quickly showered, blendered a power shake and left for my study carrel in the library. I bought a large coffee to go at the Union cafeteria and took the elevator to the study carrels in the attic. Within minutes I was fully ensconced in my carrell with all my books, typewriter and supplies comfortably arranged. The time was 6:45.

My normal routine was to assemble my notes into a draft paragraph or two, then edit the previous day's work into a more consistent, coherent form, and finally give the work from two days before a final stylistic edit that was consistent with the organization of the chapter. If I had time in the morning before class, or later in the evening after dinner, I would do my basic research that created the notes that turned into the first drafts.

Just as I started organizing my note cards, I heard familiar murmurings that sometimes occurred—especially before 7:00 AM. Sometimes, these escalated into what could have been the sounds of a couple having sex. The voyeur in me was ever curious to figure out what and who, but finding the lovers was no small task. The study area was a dimly lit, wide-open area under an expansive hip roof that housed hundreds of cubicles with locked doors encircled by walls of cubicle sheet metal topped off with thick, opaque glass. Also, given that the roof had no sound dampening materials, the acoustics were very erratic. For example, you often couldn't hear the person occupying the carrel next to you, but you would sometimes hear someone jimmying the lock on the entrance to the stacks which were over 100 feet away.

The sex of the last couple of days had my balls still tingling, and the steady rhythmic sounds this morning were titillating and clear. Someone was fucking in one of the carrels. In the past, I had tried to systematically canvas the aisles, but this became awkward as doctoral students and faculty started trickling in around 7, and I had given up out of embarrassment. This was a purely utilitarian area, and there was little reason to be moving around in different sections of this rabbit warren unless you belonged in that specific area.

The area was divided into 4 quadrants. Down the middle running east to west was a wide corridor that was bisected by a smaller corridor, running north to south, that opened into smaller still alleys that led to the individual carrels. I was in the Southwest quadrant, and the sounds were coming from the Northeast section. Halfway down the bisecting corridor of the Northeast Quadrant, there was a small bulletin board posting administrivia for the use of the study area. The coupling was clearly taking place nearby. I pretended to study the board while my cock painfully hardened inside my tight jeans.

The sounds slowed followed by whispering from a woman's small voice in a low register, obviously caused by duress. I heard "so good. . . late . . .hafta . . .like that . . . come on, do it!" Then the rhythmic pounding started with urgency, and neither party was trying to be quiet. The metal carrel desk was pounding the partition wall supplying a loud back beat for the groans and grunts of two people orgasming together. If this had been occurring just minutes later, the yet to arrive occupants of the surrounding carrels would have been looking out their doors in wonderment. Then, I distinctly heard a familiar voice, "you know how I like it, pinch them hard!"

Couldn't make it up as they say.

This triggered a range of conflicting emotions. Part of me wanted to slink back to my carrel and jerkoff. Another wanted to confront Sharon, but that was ridiculous. I had no claim on her. Another part of me wanted to barge in, pull her partner off her, slap the shit out of him and then start pounding her well-used pussy.

The final thrusts were thunderous, and I heard Sharon say, "that was a good one." Her partner's voice was indistinct, but deep and vaguely familiar.

Now, I had to act fast because amidst general shuffling, smooching, belt buckling and zipper raising, I heard the carrell door opening. I took the less binary choice and stealthily moved down the bisecting corridor to its darkened dead-end.

Sharon's lover purposefully turned the corner and headed to the main corridor looking straight ahead. Now, I had the second shocking coincidence of this early morning. It was Viktor Sanchez. He wasn't in our department but was a government fellow from the Dominican Republic auditing graduate studies in Ag Econ. He often cruised the humanities departments for hookups with enough success to produce a smirking arrogance—even though his conquests tended toward plain, lonely associate professors who were going nowhere personally or professionally. He wasn't an idiot, but not the sharpest tack in the box either. Huge, coal black, pock-marked, swarthy with the genetic constitution of generations of muscular field workers now running to fat.

You never saw him with a Black woman—he preposterously claimed to be of Spanish descent and not African. He was clearly on a mission to fuck as many white women as he could during his academic idyll. Furthermore, he was often at the co-recreational gym prospecting for new conquests and spent extra time in the shower and sauna. And it was hard not to notice that he had the biggest cock and balls that I had ever seen in person. His cock was the most remarkable thing about him, and he made certain that any person in his immediate vicinity was aware. Although my cock was above average in length and about average in girth, his heavily veined, uncut member was much longer and thicker soft than mine hard. The image of that hulking brute slam fucking petite Sharon was both titillating and nauseating.

In a daze, I started moving back to my carrell just in time to bump into Sharon who was quickly exiting the side corridor while stuffing tissues into her purse. Her shock and embarrassment upon seeing me were obvious, but the color of her face told the whole story. Her face became flushed and blotchy during sex. The hotter the sex, the blotchier she became, and she was still in full radiant bloom. If you didn't know better, you would assume she was having an attack of hives. "How l...long have you been out here?" She stammered.

"Long enough." I was still trying to process all this, and was not in the mood to speak, so I sped up to move away. She grabbed my arm. "Wait. wait. I can explain." "Sharon, you don't owe me any explanations. You don't owe me anything. Period. I am having a little trouble processing a liberated woman letting that smug, moron make a conquest of her. Even though you are obviously fucking anything with a pulse during your separation." That straightened her up a bit and gave me time to make a twisting exit to my carrel. Since I moved too quickly for her to follow, I had no idea what she did, but I returned to my carrel and shuffled my note cards aimlessly and pondered my embarrassing hypocrisy.

I had always thought of Sanchez as kind of a joke-counting those wan ghosts as heroic sexual conquests and strutting around as if he owned the place. But this was hitting closer to home, and I rued the day when he would figure things out and shine that arrogant condescension on me. Worse, this reminded me of a snatch of a conversation I had overheard Sanchez having with one of his hangers-on as they passed my locker at the gym. "Separated . . .loves it dark . . .anytime . . .anyway, and I mean anyway, I want it . . ." I couldn't stand this guy, and now I was at least temporarily sharing a woman with him. Take this, coupled with the Iron Horsemen conflict, and this woman was starting to deliver me more grief in a short period of time than I could have imagined. Moreover, I was having trouble processing how angry I was. It had been a long time since I had been so out of control, and harkened back to days when I suffered from what the bourgeoisie would call "anger management" issues, but that is another story.

Conveniently, today was practicum in my classes, and all I had to do was supervise as different students presented their solutions while the class critiqued their findings. Just as well because my mind was clearly elsewhere. Luckily, the attendance at office hours was slight, and later, I marched to the gym determined to lose myself in an intense workout—letting the physical pain of exertion blot out my confusion and disorder.

I skipped dinner and research and went straight to the Pub for a greasy burger and a pitcher of beer. One thing led to another, whooping it up with my lifting buddies from the Physics department, and I ended closing the place and reconnecting with one of my old barmaid friends in the process. She came home with me for an energetic fuck. After just a little foreplay, she leaned back, spread her legs wide, and pulled my cock into her. "Come on, give me that hard cock. Pound that pussy."

Those girls worked hard for their pay, and I loved their smell of beer, sweat and hot pussy—especially while suspecting that she had drunkenly slipped out to the parking lot during an earlier break and pulled a round or two out of one or more of her large circle of fuck buddies. This woman had "the hot pants" as my hillbilly uncle would have intoned, and she made no excuses about it. Later, I fell into a fitful sleep with Phyllis's pussy dripping an inordinate amount of cum on my leg and my head filled with images of that hulking beast pounding a shrieking Sharon with his massive cock.

To be continued . . .