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RA has tried to smooth things at a troubled womens’ house on a midwestern campus. Each woman there has particular issues and needs, the RA working hard to satisfy.
I got up early, beat everybody. I could hear folks shuffling around upstairs as I snagged some portable breakfast.
Today was my last chance for test prep – the teaching-assistant kind, not the student kind. Writing the problems, not studying them.
It was inorganic, my specialty, and I had 5 years worth of tests to crib from. No question should be identical but that just meant changing the measurement and reaction times.
I wasn’t one of those progressively-harder-questions kind of test writers. I covered the topics carefully and wrote questions about each section, more than one if space permitted.
You either had kept up, knew the stuff or you didn’t. I wasn’t trying to filter anybody out, flunk anybody. Just motivate them to cover all the material for the final, leave nothing out.
Lunch at my desk, my prof coming in to look over my shoulder and make meddling remarks about the test. I nodded and smiled, and changed nothing.
Over to my lab for some reagent deliveries, set up some equipment for tomorrow, and back to my desk for a final stab at it.
I had to write the answer key too. In this subject I waffled on that. If I wrote the answer sheet now, somebody might see it and cheat. I could always solve the problems after the test was over.
But they wanted grades reported, results posted quickly and I didn’t want to work over the weekend. So I wrote the answer key, locked it in my filing cabinet. Didn’t give a copy to my absent-minded prof even though he’d requested it – he’d likely leave it out on his desk for anybody to see, leave his office unlocked. He’d done all that before.
Shadows were getting long by the time I’d gone back to my lab, started reactions I needed to run overnight for tomorrows trials, turned the lights out and locked up.
Stopped at a Chinese hole in the wall, Kung Pao Shrimp with fried rice in a takeout bag. Thursdays we were on our own for dinner.
Walking home(!) was a pleasure – through quiet leafy lanes and peaceful residential streets, an occasional dog barking or car downshifting on the highway half a mile away.
Lights were on when I turned in our lane. I stopped to just look at the place – warm glow from two stories, the third of course the windows were blanked, Slut’s plants tucked safely inside with their grow-lamps.
Happy sounds inside, some friend over by the sound of it. I hoped Adam; he was cool and funny.
I pushed open the old oaken door, ajar as usual, came in and left it the same way. The smell of something Mexican was strong – cumin, pork, maybe cilantro! Have to ask where that came from – I didn’t know any local Mexican joints.
Midterms early next week. Homework was forbidden the three days leading up, by long University tradition. So I expected folks to hit the books, maybe a study group.
I wasn’t disappointed. The card table was set up, fast-food containers strewn over it in various states of pillage.
The shag rug in front of the fireplace was piled with books, stacks of papers, notes and packs. Preppy and Kitty were laying face to face, books propped, laughing about something, pencils in hands, notebooks open.
What possible class could they have in common? A Quant finance wonk and a media major? This was a new one on me.
I heard GG in the kitchen with somebody, not Butch. I stuck my head in, said Hi!
It wasn’t Adam, more’s the pity. Another pre-med stud?
Looking again I saw the short hair, slight build, strong shoulders and big hands belonged to a female. I think, from the way her t-shirt lumped when she turned to be introduced.
“Dick – this is Leon! Leon – Dick!” GG seemed happy today, relaxed, comfortable in her own home. A big change, her previous days’ tension noticeable now for its absence.
Still unsure of Leon’s sex – house names could come from anything I imagined, gender regardless. Anyway, not really my business.
I shook Leon’s hand, the one not holding a beer.
“Pleased to meet you!”
I opened a cupboard, found a leftover paper plate, a cup.
Disgorging my Chinese bag on the counter I dished myself a good helping from the takeout carton, peeled the chopstick paper open, tore open the hot mustard packets and dumped them on.
Steaming pile of shrimp and rice, my saliva started flowing. I was hungry!
Rooting around I found the dregs of wine in a bottle by the toaster, drained it into my cup, tossed the bottle in a recycle bin.
“Some Kung Pao up for grabs!” I waved my chopsticks at the half-full paper carton.
“If you’re sure?” Leon brightened, hopeful.
“Go for it!” I left them to it, went and plopped on the couch.
Kung Pao Shrimp and hot Chinese mustard – my idea of heaven. Savory, carbs galore, hot as a firecracker.
Just chowing down for a while I tuned out the world. I could hear Kitty was explaining something about a tv show – Monty Hall? Preppy was having none of Ankara Rus Escort it.
But I didn’t actually hear the words; my mind was riveted on the tender bay shrimps coated in hot mustard and soy. My god this stuff was genius!
When I couldn’t pick up another grain of rice with my chopsticks I set the plate down, burped, apologized and surveyed the room. As the carbs and protein hit my blood I could feel my awareness expand to include the people and conversation.
“We don’t have any more information, so the probability distribution doesn’t change.”
“How can two doors have a 2:1 probability? There are two options; it seems like a coin flip now, 1:1.”
“It’s like a weighted coin, that lands on heads more often. “
Preppy digested this, finally shook her head.
“Sometimes it helps to extrapolate. If Monty had 100 doors and opened 98 of them, would you still think you had an even chance? Remember he knows where the prize is, so if he has it which is very, very likely, then he can always keep that door closed.”
Light dawned. “Opening doors doesn’t change where the prize is, or who has it! The chances are not changed because we didn’t actually get any more information!”
Preppy went back to her notebook, began re-reading, writing notes, crossing things out, underlining. Kitty went back to her textbook, began sketching a graph of some sort, stopping frequently to mark the axes or plot a data point.
Leon breezed through just then, on her(?) way out. Preppy, Kitty looked up, gave a “Bye Leon!” and got a bye in return, and Leon was gone.
GG came in sipping a beer, nibbling a French fry.
This all left me bewildered. Who’s Monty? Monty Python? Doors? A band? I gave up trying to understand. There was one question I could get answered.
Quietly, so as not to interrupt the study session, “GG? Who’s Leon?”
She plonked down next to me, offered me a sip which I declined, considered.
“Leon is Butch’s friend, but they quit having any classes in common any more so they rarely socialize. By that time Leon was in with our house, and sort of stuck around.”
“Physio?” I knew that was Butch’s bailiwick.
No. “Childhood development and trauma. Primary special education, stuff like that.”
“So….Leon Trotsky? Leon Focault?”
GG smiled. “Leon the Professional.”
Oh, that Leon. The professional assassin. And in this house the takeaway from that movie was, Leon saved a young girl from crooked cops, taught her his craft, and was a nurturing adult to a troubled child.
Like Leon their friend.
I love these people.
So how did I ask the next question?
“How does Leon identify?”
Meaning, should I treat Leon as a male or female.
GG looked ambivalent. “I don’t know. It never came up.”
Of course. A person is a person around here, and the shape of their genitals is as private as they want it to be. And in this case, none of anybodys’ business.
I love these people!
GG finished her French fry, got up and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the fridge beer-drawer sound, then she sprinted up the stairs.
I guessed Butch was home. Not too much later I got confirmation.
There was a deep thumping sound, which I immediately thought was a stereo with a subwoofer turned up.
But I hadn’t seen any speakers when I did my house patrol the other day?
It could only be one other thing. And I soon got confirmation.
Just as Slut had said, peering up at the ceiling, in the corners I could make out tiny drifts of plaster dust filtering down like little smoke signals.
And yes, the ceiling light began to sway just slightly.
I couldn’t help smiling, knowing all was right with the world.
I was asleep by the time Slut came down. I felt the bed wobble, then a warm shape pasted to my back.
There’s something of heaven in a warm naked body pressed to yours, from feet to shoulders, a soft tactile embrace.
And when it’s somebody you have started to have the feels for, then oh my god.
I turned onto my back, turned my head to receive a kissy-nuzzle. It was nice.
After a nice interlude, I stirred as if to get up, start something. But she just held me, didn’t let me go.
“Lets just talk.”
Now that was new. I opened my eyes for the first time, saw her looking right back at me. With a peaceful look, not the sex-mad hungry look I was accustomed to.
“Who are you and what have you done with Slut?”
She giggled. “I put her away for a little while.”
I considered that.
“So this is Alani I have in my bed?”
She oozed in closer if that was possible, looked even more satisfied, smiled a little smile.
“I never get tired of hearing you say that.”
Teasing I said in my most seductive voice “Alani….Alani…Alani.”
It didn’t work. She just got happier. Which made me happier, somehow.
“What do you want to talk about?” I was curious.
“Oh, anything. About the house. About my past. About you. Things that are important, Yenimahalle Escort or used to be important but aren’t any more.”
I had an inspiration.
“Ok, about the house. Why is it Kitty gets a pass?”
“Ok, let me explain. She’s so different, yet everybody loves her. She’s acting, like all the time, never the same face forward two days in a row. Surely it can be provoking, not knowing who she’s going to be today. And yet, you all just take it in stride! Never any push-back; never a cross word; not a flicker of annoyance. Full acceptance, inclusion.”
“Didn’t we treat you that way?” Alani was serious.
I thought about that.
“Not the same way. Maybe because I’m the RA, the University gatekeeper to things you want or need. But I think it’s more than that.
Is it because Kitty came to you as a challenge? Economically? Does she need your support to be here at all?”
“Nah. Kitty isn’t poor. She’s rich as fuck.”
That surprised me, then I felt my face color.
All those outfits; that three-hundred-dollar hair; the studio. She’s got all the signs of a rich kid, and I didn’t see it.
An objection. “Wouldn’t that just make it harder to accept her? Money can trigger resentment, envy, frustration.”
“Kitty? Are you fucking kidding?”
“There it is again! You just accept her, even though normal people would be looking hard to find reasons to resent her privilege.”
‘Ah. Privilege. Let me tell you about that. Kitty’s Mom owns a chain of salons, an environment of haute couture, fancy clothes, perfect hair, expensive perfume.
And then they had little baby Kitty, the shrimp. Barely able to keep a sweater on without it falling around her waist; hair fine as silk, that won’t take a perm or even color.
Tiny hands; tiny feet; Tiny voice; tiny tits.”
“So did then disown her or something? No, you said she’s rich as fuck.”
“No, but they did distance from her. Kind of quit caring. Mom calls on holidays, but doesn’t ask about anything. Not what she’s studying, how she’s eating, who she’s fucking, nothing.
Just How Are You Dear? That’s Nice. Have a Happy Holiday!
No family get-togethers; no big Thanksgiving or Christmas; nothing.
So from that point of view, she’s as poor as some of the rest of us. Almost an orphan.”
I digested that.
“Maybe worse. He’s a media guy. Was an actor; now a producer. Made of money after backing some successful flicks. And assumes it wasn’t luck; it was all his genius.
So you can hardly talk to him without his ego getting in the way. I met him briefly when he was here, endowing a chair in film or some shit. He greeted me with a smile, then when I said who I was (a student, not even a film student) he just turned away like I didn’t exist, move on the rub shoulders with somebody who mattered.”
Whew. That sounded rough. Almost worse than never having parents; at least you didn’t experience them being disappointed in you daily.
“Ok, you explained her upbringing and how she got here, a media student at a midwestern collage that likes to do theatre. Does that explain the way the house treats her?”
Alani looked ready to contradict me, but instead moved on.
“Kitty is treated as a special person, because Kitty is a special person. Here’s an example.
GG was in an accident last semester. Not her fault; t-boned at an intersection by a drunk Alum in an expensive car. Sent her spinning into a hedge, her bike ruined, collarbone broke.
The bastard sued her for damage to his car, hired a fancy lawyer, was steam-rolling her. Rich people stuff; they do it all the time.”
That was chilling, to know somebody who’d run afoul of the rich and evil. Whew.
“So Kitty learns about it, you never imagined somebody that size could look so mad, so fierce, so dangerous. I never want to see that look again, and I love Kitty.
Makes one phone call. One phone call! Hours later GG gets a call from that fancy lawyer, crawling, apologizing! Offering a settlement, more than enough for her medical bills and a new bike besides.
GG didn’t believe him, but this big check shows up accompanied by a quit-claim, all she has to do is sign.
Kitty tells her to deposit the check first, then transfer the money to another account at another bank, then withdraw it. GG does that.
When it all clears, cash in hand, GG signs, returns the form. Never hears another word about the matter.
Kitty never said what she did, but it was clear some rich-people strings got pulled. And there’s nobody else coulda pulled them, than Kitty. Or her Mom or Dad anyway.”
“Why would Mom or Dad do that for her? If they don’t care about their daughter.”
“They do care that somebody is fucking with one of their own. It’s rich-person ego shit. ‘Don’t mess with our daughter or her friends, never mind we don’t care about her.’ The way I figure it.”
That made our world make more sense to me. It explained what I’d seen but didn’t understand.
Kitty was good people, and in this house that mattered more than sex, or money, or class, or smarts.
It also explained how the grocery bill got paid. That had to be a Kitty charge account. Just making sure her loved ones, her family, were taken care of, housed and fed and safe. I would never breath a word of that grocery thing; it would betray Kitty’s privacy. But there was no other explanation.
Suddenly I felt like protecting Kitty too. Anybody mess with her, I was going to have my own emotional problems with that. Emotions are funny that way.
And Kitty could play all the cosplay games she liked; I knew I was going to play along, laugh along, get along. Because you made allowances for good people, people who took care of their own.
So then we made love, Alani and I. Slow and sexy, sweet then urgent then relaxed.
She delighted in stroking my penis, feeling me grow and throb, watching my face. More than her own pleasure almost.
She’d insist on stimulating me to nearly climax, then kissing me while I recovered, then doing it again, each time more intimately than before.
With her tongue on my sensitive head, my pre-cum flowing freely. Stop and kiss.
My penis in her mouth, holding it warm and wet; stop and kiss.
Her hand pumping me as she slurped and slathered spit; stop and kiss.
When I could stand it no longer she rolled on her back, pull me onto her, let me find my way to her sex, hot and wet and sloppy with her excitement.
Probe her with my hand, my tongue, my cock, tenderly on her outer lips then her clitoris then her vulva.
Then inside, now steamy and swelled and ready to be fucked, to be inseminated, to be bred by her lover.
Then sweet cries of passion as we clutched and mated and spilled our passion as cum and juice, on and in one another.
And kissed again and fell asleep, for the first time in the same bed.
First Alani, snoring and blubbering, dead to the world, her gorgeous tits jiggling, me looking on and feeling like the luckiest fellow alive.
Then me, deeply and completely.
When I woke to the light through the window she’d gone. Slut and her early mornings!
The bed still smelled of her, a little musky, a little sweaty, with the punk of sex and horniness. I breathed it in deeply.
God I loved this house.
Friday was gonna be a busy day. House cleaning, mostly Preppy’s job but I didn’t have a job, figured I’d pitch in. Hadn’t been done in a while so bigger job than usual, seemed unfair to ask her to do it single-handed.
Afterward I’d have to head into campus, review the test with my prof (who would rubber-stamp it), then work in the lab as usual, then buy groceries for supper, then make supper.
Then my regular house duties monitoring health and safety and academic progress. Including cumming in Slut to keep her head clear; she hadn’t missed a day so far. Unless you counted last night! Because that was Alani after all.
First things first! While Preppy banged around putting things away (the folding table and chairs went in a closet under the stairs, I discovered) I rummaged in the kitchen, found a roll of garbage bags, ripped one off.
Traipsing through the house I dumped every wastebasket into my collection bag. Funny how fast those things got filled.
And the things they got filled with! The living room had plastic wineglasses, a wad of tissues, pizza bones, a torn nighty(?), some of Butch’s crushed cans. Need a bigger basket in here.
None of the condoms got in there. Understandable; passion could make you forget the niceties. I collected them with a tissue, from under the couch, down the cushions, by the fireplace, on the TV(!), under the window. Counting one, two, three….seven, eight, nine. It gets busy in here when I’m asleep!
Kitchen can is GG’s, skip that.
My bedroom – just the wreckage of Sluts nightly treatments, plus Alani’s lovemaking. Funny how I thought of those two things as different activities. Wads of tissues mostly.
Laundry room – a used condom and wrapper, that’s all. Waiting for a dryer to finish could be very boring; I understood the urge to find ways to pass the time. And the vibrations of the appliances could be useful stimulation!
Upstairs – bathroom basket full of cotton swabs, q-tips, lipstick-tissues, empty tubes of whatnot, broken eyeliner tube, pregnancy test (negative). No condoms here; good, it wasn’t very hygienic in here.
GG handed out the basket when I knocked; in the middle of doing something with her hair and some gel, I just dumped it and handed it back with a smile. Not polite to look too closely with her standing there.
Preppy downstairs, so I took the liberty of entering her room and found the basket on the other side of her table, aligned precisely with the closet door. Some fast-food wrappers, neatly folded. A condom, tied in a knot with a surprising amount of jizz inside. And nothing else.
Kitty’s room – Kitty not here, off to the ‘lab’ which I took to be the media lab. Some semester project? She’d talked about shooting to GG this morning, so I assumed a video of some kind.
Her wastebasket had tootsie-roll wrappers and soggy sticks; a pair of torn socks; an extremely cum-filled pair of tiny panties, almost unrecognizably crusty and wrinkled. I didn’t recall her having a guest. She must have worn those half the afternoon while she was out!
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