The respectable older couple used my St. Louis apartment weekly for their indecorous behavior. He was a professor at Washington University. She was a country club member from affluent Webster Groves. They were married to the wrong people.
My stake in this deal had nothing to do with promoting romance. This helped pay the rent on my Central West End residence during college days.
I met the 48-year-old professor through mutual acquaintances, and we both quickly realized how we could benefit from each other. We were not associated with the same university so there were no awkward conflicts.
The professor taught sociology and looked the part. He had fluffy grey hair, sleepy eyes of an indeterminate color between grey and green, a herringbone tweed jacket to match his eyes, a fiercely white shirt and wee tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses
He was willing to chip in with steady cash for the chance to fuck his married lover in a tasteful setting. So I gave him full privileges to my roommate’s bed. I didn’t want their white stains on my sheets.
Besides, Lenny really stayed with his fraudulent Catholic girlfriend two blocks away, and only returned when her upright parents hit town – which was rare as rain in Dubai.
Sometimes the couple arrived before noon; sometimes after lunch. Professor Brendan Shaw always brought Sarah Kendall flowers and a no-name bottle of cheap wine for the tryst.
The first time Shaw arrived at the apartment with his mistress we made clumsy small talk until he opened the wine bottle and filled our glasses. It wasn’t even 11:30 a.m. yet.
Sarah was in her late 30s, yet had a fixed ingénue smile, as if she could arrest the passage of time. She had a vague idea that I was a college student, although it didn’t really matter.
“What do you study?†she asked politely. Her voice was soft and somehow girlish.
“Nothing. Drugs. Both.â€
That was enough for the impatient professor, and the couple retired to the privacy of my roommate’s bedroom.
The apartment was classic shotgun style from the 1920s, with a straight hallway from front door-to-back door, and rooms off to the side. Over time the neighborhood descended from respectable middle-class values to flagrant degeneracy.
Late at night black prostitutes operated from the building next door, while taxi drivers arrived hourly with white cliental from the suburbs.
If I had any decency, I would have left the middle-aged romantics alone for at least an hour that first afternoon. But there wasn’t anything proper about me in those days. I stayed for the show.
I pretended to study an economics textbook but I’d rather toss off with sandpaper than read Karl Marx. Gradually, a gentle summer breeze rustled through the apartment and the French doors of the love nest opened faintly. The couple took no notice of this.
But I did, and made no effort to conceal my enthusiasm for their behavior.
I leaned against the wall, just outside their room, letting my fingers trail along to a throbbing bulge in my pants.
I watched Sarah place her hands on his hot, swelling balls. She kissed the professor again, not moving her hand except to stray to his shaft and tease him with her nails. His cock resembled an overfed white snake.
The married woman straddled him, reaching back so her hand remained in place, yet bringing her other hand up to his chest, tweaking his nipples, as he reached up and held her ample breasts in his hands.
Shaw pulled his lover toward him, the tip of his cock grazed along her labia, sliding along with ease. Yet Sarah shifted so that her head rested between his legs, and she took his clean-shaven balls in her mouth
From the next-door whorehouse, Champion Jack Dupree played some raunchy barrelhouse blues on an erratic stereo.
“Come on, mama; get on your hands and knees,
do that shake dance as you please.”
As Sarah engulfed his rigid cock, the professor’s eyes started out of his head.
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