Chapter 4

Mid-January and the Spring semester was starting already. It was time to get back in the saddle and go to work.

I had more-or-less continued to ignore Martha's stream of requests and suggestions for things I could do to make life more comfortable for her.

I recalled with some satisfaction seeing the empty liquid drain cleaner bottle at the bottom of the trash can. Martha had finally gotten tired of waiting for me to clean her sink, and had actually put the chemical cleaning-cocktail down the drain herself. I added a bottle of drain cleaner to my list to replace the one that Martha had finished. After all, I might need it for my drain sometime.

If a task didn't benefit both of us, I stopped doing it. And in fairness, I also stopped expecting Martha to do things for me.

For example, I found a place not far from our house, where for a modest price; they would wash my laundry, and iron my pants and shirts. So I started taking my clothes down to them every week during breaks between classes, instead of leaving it in the hamper for Martha to do on the weekend.

It was actually kind of humorous for me to realize that it took a month before Martha noticed that my clothes weren't in the wash with her's anymore.

On Saturday morning, when Martha was separating the wash into the whites/colored/ and cold water loads, she suddenly got this very odd look on her face, a look of surprise and curiosity. Then she walked into the master bedroom and looked into the virtually empty clothes hamper there. Seeing the hamper empty of all but the clothes I'd been wearing the day before, she went into my walk-in closet, and looked around, seeing my clothes clean and ironed, hanging where they had always been. A complete mystery to her.

About that time, I made myself scarce for the rest of the day, so that I wouldn't have to answer her questions. I called and left a message on the answer-machine telling her I would be eating out with friends at the golf course (which, in fact, I did), and didn't return until after she was asleep.

As far as I could tell, by the next day, she had forgotten about my clothes, not that we talked enough that Sunday to have reminded her.

But that all occurred about two weeks after school started, anyway.

I was cheerful, looking forward to getting back to my office at the J.C. I was teaching classes Mondays through Thursdays, and I was available at my office on Fridays as well, by appointment.

It was a normal day to start the semester. I stopped by the faculty offices early to pick up my mail (mostly the academic version of 'junk mail') and said hello to Dean Wilson, the chairman of the Math & Engineering Department.

Back in my office, a couple of returning students stopped by to say 'hi' and to check on my office hours, and a number of new students came by to try and register for classes.

I was fairly consistent with admitting students into my classes this late: I had a fixed number of slots in each class, and if there were spaces available, I would sign to allow them into the class. If the class was already full, I would allow up to five additional students sign up (since I knew that a percentage would drop the class when they heard my requirements).

After that, too bad, unless it was a unique situation — someone who absolutely needed the class to graduate or to transfer to one of the four-year engineering schools. Even then, I had to be confident that the student was serious and would be likely to complete the class. Under those circumstances, I would grit my teeth and let them in. I didn't do that very often.

On Monday/Wednesdays I had two Engineering classes, one from 8:00 to 9:50 AM, and the second immediately following at 10:00 to 11:50. Then I was off until 2:00 PM, when I taught a Monday through Thursday class, 'Intro to Math', which was actually a pre-algebra class. Here at the J.C. we were expected to remediate the kids who had somehow been missing during math class for the past four years in high school!

I had just returned to my office from my 10 o'clock class, and was seated sorting thought the mail I'd picked up early that morning, when a mop of red hair became visible at the open door.

"Is this the office of Mark McDonald? Terror of the engineering department, tyrant of his domain, ruler of math classes, and nominee for Professor of the Year?" came the familiar voice.

"Stephanie!" I cried, "Come in and make yourself to home!"

Stephanie came in alright, but she was carrying two cups of hot coffee — and not the stuff that they call coffee from the vending machines. It looked to be the real McCoy!

"Oh Ms. Michaels, that smells like the nectar of the God's! To what do I owe this gift? I'm warning you — all of my classes are already filled!" I lectured my dear friend as she sat in the chair across my desk from where I was sitting.

"This is payback for your buying me coffee at the bookstore the other day. I pay my debts," she said, smiling at me, as she sipped at her cup.

I wasn't sure, but I suspect that cup of coffee was spiked with some secret ingredient. Maybe it was just some special kind of chocolate, but I would almost bet on Kahlua.

"Ummmm ... I don't think that the coffee at the bookstore was quite this," I paused, thinking of the right word, "intoxicating!"

Stephanie just smiled in my direction and didn't say a thing.

We sipped and enjoyed our repast for a couple of silent moments, just comfortable being there with each other.

I finally spoke,

"After you mentioned it the other day, I decided to sign up for the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class."

Stephanie was suddenly animated.

"Mark, that's great! Oh, you don't know how happy that makes me. I was afraid that I would be the only older person in the class, and none of the boys would want to dance with me," she exclaimed.

"Hey, 'old lady', I bet all those young guys would line up for a chance to dance with you," I teased, sensing the serious concern beneath her bantering tone.

"Yeah, right!" she replied, but with a little more confidence this time.

We chatted for awhile longer, but then Stephanie had to leave to make her Creative Writing class.

"See you tomorrow evening, Mark," she said as she walked out through the door.

Stephanie didn't know it, and would have been shocked if I'd told her, but she had made my day. Just seeing her lifted my spirits.

Tuesdays and Thursdays I didn't come in until late — I had a 12 noon to 1:50 class, and then I was done for the day, until 7:00 PM, when the 'Beginning Ballroom Dancing' class started.

That left my mornings free to do chores and errands before I needed to be a school. I left a note for Martha telling her I wouldn't be home for dinner, she was on her own. No other explanation.

That is how that Tuesday morning found me back at the Oriental massage parlor, with an extra $50 bucks in my pocket, asking to see Pearl.

Like my first visit, I walked up to the front desk, but this time I was already a 'known quantity.' The plump woman at the desk smiled when she saw me walk up, and addressed me as 'Mr. Mark.' I took care of the fees for the massage, and was directed to Pearl's room again.

Pearl seemed delighted to see me.

I had known men who had spent time in the Philippines or Thailand, and referred to the women like Pearl as LBFM — 'little brown fuck machines.' One of the things they all said was that the Asian women would greet you like a long-lost lover, tell you that you were the only man, the best man, their sexual dream, but what it was really about was MONEY! So I kept that in mind.

Pearl might treat me like a king, like her returning hero, but the reality was that I was a walking piggybank that would cough up dollars, in exchange for orgasms.

But fake as her demeanor might be, it was pleasant to have a younger woman greet me as if she had been pining away for me the past two weeks, since I was last here.

The first part of the treatment was a repeat of the first time: a really great, full-body massage. I realized that not only did it relax me, but that just having a woman touch me all over, even in a non-sexual way, was comforting. There was nothing wrong with me that prevented Pearl from touching me.

After the massage, Pearl cleaned the oil from her hands, and approached me again.

"You bring extra $50 dollar for blow-job this time?" she asked, smiling at me expectantly.

I nodded, and got up from the table, went to my wallet, and handed her the $50. Like the first time, the money disappeared into a pocket. I want back to the table and lay down.

Pearl cleaned my penis again, looking at it almost clinically before she started.

Do you remember the first time that a woman took your cock into her mouth? The warmth, the sensations of her lips, the tightness as she sucks. Do you remember how it turned you on, to be able to look down and see her mouth wrapped around your tool, her head moving up and down, as well.

Now imagine that you are a fifty-seven year old man, and that is happening to you for the first time in your life. Pretty heady stuff, almost impossible to believe, isn't it?

Pearl's expertise and experience is the only explanation that I can think of, that I didn't come within two minutes. My basic urge wasn't quite as intense as it had been two-weeks before, when she gave me the hand-job. The sensations from her mouth were so much more sensual, and I was so inexperienced.

She would work me, and then back off. Again, she would bring me to the brink, only to squeeze me in such a way to stop the process, only to start it again. Once again, I reached out and felt her breasts, and tugged and squeezed her nipples, while she serviced me. Her response to my manipulations, I thought, were authentic, since she didn't have to respond to excite me, although her moans did please and encourage me.

After perhaps ten or twelve minutes, a lifetime of pleasure, five times longer than I would have expected to last, she finally let me come, removing her mouth at the last second, and letting me once again explode onto her chest and my belly.

Pearl then repeated her actions of cleaning us up, smiling, comfortably chatting with me, while I dressed.

"So, Mr. Mark, how you like when I deep throat? Very good, yes?" she giggled a little, "I think that I best here at deep throat, because I like suck man's cock. Some girls no like."