EROTIC STORIES :

INSIDE THE PRIDE
© remittance girl, 2005

I admit it, I wanted her to pay attention to me, like she did with her *boys*. Someone had actually dubbed them the "Pride of Professor Gordon." Six guys in all - young lions in the *pride*. Anyone from the zoology department might have pointed out that a pride usually consisted of a group of females and a single mature male lion. Anyone from the Arts Faculty would have countered that Professor Natalya Gordon did things differently. Theories on mammalian behaviour aside, I just wanted to be where the sun was shining, and the sun was always shining wherever the Professor and her cubs happened to sit themselves down.

Not being much of a natural *joiner*, I found this newborn need to be on the inside a bit of disconcerting. True, her post-graduates took some of the best grants on offer; true, she had a towering reputation in the world of Visual Arts; true, her students worked on the wildest, most cutting-edge projects. I would have liked to say that those were the reasons I sought proximity, but they weren't. It’s going to sound stupid, but there was just *something* about Professor Gordon. *Something* - as if it were indefinable.

This wasn't strictly true. She was definable; somewhere between forty and fifty, of Russian/Scottish extraction, with an IQ that was rumored to hover around the 160 mark, two PhD's and a throwaway Masters in Anthropology, Professor Gordon was a tenured senior lecturer in Visual Arts theory. When talking about her writing, people used adjectives like 'foundational' and 'groundbreaking'; when they talked about her own photography, they used words like "visionary".

Well, that defined her. It also made her sound like she walked with a middle-aged, introverted shuffle, smelled like stale food and had asthma. And being the hormone-driven pup I was, none of those would have drawn me,

No, Professor Gordon was all style and all substance. Five-foot eight, shoulders like a swimmer, dark red hair tumbling over her back in a chaos of corkscrew curls, breasts to die for - now we're getting somewhere. She power-smoked gitanes and wore stiletto-heeled black leather boots, despite her height. She'd walk into the lecture hall wearing a blood-red silk Chinese sam and yell: "Subtext...where's the subtext?" I had deconstructed her clothes in more ways than she knew.

She was almost universally adored by both her male and female students; gay guys loved her, lesbians either wanted to fuck her or be her, straight women thought she was the perfect role-model and straight guys wanted to get into her pants. All that, and I forgot to mention, they crowded to attend her lectures too.

It took two semesters of blithe interjections before she even bothered to turn her head and look at me. All it bought me was a wan smile, but I was nothing if not persistent. One afternoon on the patio of the student cafeteria, while I was busy trying to edge my chair into the tight grouping around her table, she blew a thin stream of noxious smoke in my direction and said, "Did you go to the 'Photographic Memory' opening?"

Her lions, hungry-eyed and predatory turned their heads towards me in unison. That's how I realized she was speaking to me. Fully cognizant of just how much having my neck torn out was going to hurt, I opened my stupid mouth and said, "Yes."

"What did you think?" Her gaze sank to ashtray where she was murdering her cigarette messily. Perhaps she liked triggering the hunt but eschewed the spectacle of the kill.

I had a lot of opinions about 'Photographic Memory', and even though I knew she'd set me up as a nice light snack for the young cubs, I couldn't stop myself. I had to show her I was there.

"I think it lacked depth."

They were on me in a second, demanding I justify the statement fifty-six ways from Sunday - on my neck, my back, my flanks, everywhere at once. The air was full of blood and my lack of confidence fed their viciousness. Every challenge I answered was ripped to ribbons before the next one lunged.

"So did I."

She said it quietly, distantly, denying me eye contact, but she'd saved me from slaughter nonetheless. The boys settled back into their patio chairs, sleek and purring, licking their bloody claws. Then she stood, smoothing her tight, black, wool skirt over her hips, and smiled. "Give him the address," she said to the lion cub on my right. "We're having dinner. At eight."

It didn't matter that it was she who walked away from the table. It was still, incontrovertibly, a dismissal.

The lion's name was Carlos. He introduced himself in a Hispanic accent and wrote the address on the white interior of her empty cigarette pack.

"What do I wear to this? What's the deal? Formal? Casual? What?" I pleaded pathetically, fully expecting to be left to blow it on my own by what I'd concluded was a rival.

"Anything, but just don't wear jeans. She hates jeans."

"You're not fucking me up here, are you? Please..."

Carlos clapped me on the shoulder and chuckled. "No, don't worry, man. You'll have fun. Just be on time and don't wear jeans."

The rest of the afternoon I spent in a fugue state. My mood zigzagged between extremes: pure joy at being invited and disbelief that I had been, confusion at having to choose what to bring and a profound fear of being set up for some colossal humiliation.

* * * *

The address was in the warehouse district. I stopped and panicked a while outside the black painted sliding door at number 54 Grandville Street. Were the peonies too cheesy? Was the port too snobby? The arrival of one of the other young lions put an end to the agony.

"Hey!" he said pleasantly, paying the cab driver through the window. "You're Mark, right?"

I nodded, shifting my gifts nervously from one arm to the other.

"Well, you're at the right place," he said, walking towards me. "Just bang on the door, good and loud."

"What's your name?" I was dissembling, but there was no way I was going to pound on a steel door for admission.

"Gerry." The guy strode past me and slammed his open palm on the metal a couple of times and waited.

A small access door, inset into the larger steel one, opened with a screech and golden light spilled out onto the deserted street.

"Hi, Nat. I found the new guy looking lost. "

She was wearing a dark blue silk shift and bare feet. "Mark, you found us. Come in, come in both of you." She stepped aside and I followed Gerry into the building.

"Oh! Gifties! Wonderful," she said, taking the brown paper bag that Gerry held out for her. She gave him a friendly hug and pecked him on the cheek.

Then she approached me. I thrust my offerings out to her. "Sorry... I wasn't sure what to bring."

"Well," she murmured, taking the flowers and the wine from me. "You brought yourself and that's the main thing. " I received an identical peck to Gerry's. Her hair brushed my face; it smelled of lime and garlic.

The interior was an open planned riot of color and textures. The walls had been left in their original shape and were covered poster-sized photographs, and an old crane rail bisected the high ceiling. Hanging from it was a huge, brutal-looking hook the size of a fridge. Suspended from that was a gigantic framed photograph of Stalin, inverted.

The space was paved with carpets in various states of dilapidation. A set of openwork metal steps led up to a loft area. Under it, basking in the light of a dozen mismatched lamps was the living, dining and kitchen areas.

The boys - four of them - were sitting around a huge rectangular dining table. They watched us as we walked through the enormous empty space.

The predator who'd done me the most damage earlier in the day, stood up and smiled jovially. "Hey Gerry, you brought the new guy on the landing party with you."

"Don't freak him out, Alan. Remember your first time and be kind."

I'm sure this was all meant to make me feel better, but it had the opposite effect. I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong, but the whole set-up felt strange. For one thing, why were there no females other than Professor Gordon?

My eyes followed her around as she shoved my flowers unceremoniously into a large, amorphous vase and tucked both my port and Gerry's gift - a tub of ice cream - into a retro, 1950's refrigerator.

"Uh... that's port," I called out weakly. "You probably don't want that chilled."

She bent over to shove the bottle onto one of the lower shelves, the silk of her dress slid deliciously between the cheeks of her ass. It was a perfect ass - round and firm. "Oh, yes I do." She sang out her response with a teasing tune.

"I guess she does..." joked a guy with a shaved head who was seated at the table, grating a mound of parmesan.

Carlos beckoned me over to the chair next to his. "Sit down and I'll do the introductions."

I sat and looked around the table. "Look ma, no jeans," I whispered. Carlos smiled.

"Working clockwise: Garnet, the cheese grater, finishing a masters in Communication Arts. Gerry, who you've already met, just starting his - rather late, if I may say - in Photography. Mel - unfortunate name - who's up here from Australia, doing a PhD in Lit. Alan, the trekkie puppy; he's taking an honors in Cultural Anthropology. And me... I am me, and I do what I do."

I couldn't help grinning. "I already know what you do. You do those huge motherfucker installations with photographic negatives on glass. They're brilliant."

Carlos colored a little and bowed importantly. "Thank you."

"Those motherfucking installations..." Professor Gordon echoed, bringing a huge bowl of pasta to the table. "Well put, Mark."

"Oh... I meant..."

"You meant what you meant. There was absolutely nothing wrong with it," she said, seating herself at the head of the table next to a stack of plates and the steaming food. "You're perfectly right. They *are* motherfuckers. When you help him to hang the next set, you'll realize just how on the money you were."

She looked around the table and tapped her empty wineglass. "Who's in charge of libations?"

Mel jumped up, bottle in hand and stood beside her chair pouring her a generous glass. She glanced up at him, winked, and to my utter amazement, reached behind and gave his ass a very obvious pat. "Thank you, Mel."

She held the full glass aloft and cleared her throat. "So... just to keep everyone up to speed: we've lost Duncan to an artist-in-residence placement in Zurich. This brought you down to five." There were a bevy of murmurs around the table. "But, here we have Mark: young but hopeful and, you'll have to take my word for it, a worthy successor."

"How do you know?" I asked weakly, watching her finish the toast with a swig of wine.

"Firstly, I read your excellent paper on visual narrative in the electronic medium. And... well," leaning back in her chair, she looked at me appraisingly, "I just know."

There was an eruption of laughter around the table.

"I just know," she whispered again.

The meal went by without me even tasting it. The topics around the table bloomed and spiraled in on each other. I couldn't say that she held court, but when she talked, the rest of them listened. I was trying desperately to understand the dynamics of this group, what held them together. How could I possibly fit in otherwise? And I most desperately wanted to fit in. The four bottles of chardonnay we'd polished off over the main course did nothing to dampen my burgeoning feelings of universal love of mankind either. And obviously I wasn't the only one feeling that way, because as Alan got up to clear the plates, Mel grabbed him as he passed and kissed him on the mouth.

It didn't shock me, but I wasn't expecting it. I quickly glanced around the table to see the reaction. There was none. When I glanced over at the Professor, she was already looking at me. She smiled and raised an eyebrow in query.

"Does that bother you?"

"No. Not at all."

"Do you have a preference?"

It took me a second to understand the question. Some of the guys were in the kitchen area, serving the ice cream up in martini glasses.

"I think I do. But that could change over time, I guess. I don't believe in limiting my horizons."

"What a wise head you have on those young shoulders," she murmured, taking a glass of ice cream from Carlos. Using the tip of her finger, she gathered a dollop of the dessert and tasted it. "Mmm. Vodka sorbet, my favorite! Gerry, you spoil me rotten."

Gerry walked over to where she sat and crouched down by her side. "Damn it, Natalya. I just hate when I do that!" he teased.

Pushing her chair back from the table, she slid down in her chair and pulled the hem of her silk dress upwards, over her bare thighs. For a single moment, it occurred to me to look away, but I couldn't. Nothing in the world could have persuaded me to miss the unveiling of her long, lean thighs. With the tip of her spoon, she scooped up and then dropped a dollop of ice cream halfway up one bare thigh.

If I could manage no other immediate response, the one in my crotch was reaction enough. My cock stiffened instantaneously. I watched Gerry lower his head and eat, chasing the rivulets of ice cream down the inside of her leg.

With his hands, he slid her dress up further, over her hips, exposing a neat thatch of red pubic curls. Deliberately, she took another spoonful of ice cream and let it drop with precision onto the russet triangle. Again, Gerry bent his head and began to feed at it. I heard a low, sexual groan and turned to see Carlos with his hand on the very prominent bulge in Alan's lap, and Garnet with his lips on Mel's neck. But they were all watching her, feeding off her pleasure just as Gerry was.

For lack of an outlet, I ate my own ice cream, my eyes pinned on the Professor. She didn't close her eyes, like most women do. They were hooded, but open, as Gerry pushed her legs apart and began to eat her in earnest. She threw a bare leg over his shoulder and moaned, hips undulating. There was a small smile on her face, as she glanced around the table, taking in each of us slowly, in turn. Every so often, a ripple of sensation stronger than the rest would make the corner of her mouth twitch. Stupid as it sounds, I think that was the hottest thing I'd ever seen in my life.

I could hear her breathing as her gaze settled on me, short soft pants. Irrationally, I thought I'd explode if I met her eyes and I quickly looked down at my empty dessert glass.

"Come here..."

I glanced up. She beckoned me with long, spidery fingers. Rising from my chair, I walked the short distance between us and looked down at her. She pressed her palm over my clothed cock and said, "Kiss me."

I was on her in a flash, pushing her head back and kissing her mouth as if it was the only sex organ I had. Every tremor Gerry elicited ran through her body and emerged from her mouth in the form of passion. I've had intercourse that wasn't half as raw as that kiss. Her tongue, gentle until her orgasm built, became a probe, tasting every part of my mouth. In turn, I sucked at her lips with increasing desperation.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone's hand slip down the front of her dress and cup her breast, teasing the nipple. It made her arch her back and throw her head back further, allowing me to force my own tongue deep into her mouth. I wanted to know her throat from the inside.

Then she was coming. Her body was like a moth trapped on a mounting board, sinews taught, wings beating uselessly as convulsion after convulsion shook her. And she cried out, a sound like something being torn apart. As her orgasm waned, someone else was coming, low and feral and decidedly male.

Then it was over. Everyone was straightening up and giggling at everyone else. It was absurd and heartbreakingly nice, all at the same time.

"What a silly place to do this," Natalya said, still recovering her breath. "For gods sake, let's go upstairs. Somebody grab that bottle of port."

Her first attempt to stand didn't go so well. I did what a nice boy does; I picked her up and carried her up the stairs, with the Alan and Carlos behind me threatening to kill me if I dropped her. She wasn't a waif, and it wasn't easy, but it was worth it. At the top of the stairs, she said, "I don't think anyone's ever been brave enough to do that before, young Mark. I want you first," and kissed the tip of my nose. I almost cracked up and dropped her.

There was no bed, just an area covered in futons. Suddenly everyone was down on it, a snake ball of bodies in various states of undress, and there she lay like a mythical female creature, being tended by suitors who took time to pay her obeisance before moving on to their nearest neighbor. I knelt on the side of the melee, naked and somehow lost. I couldn't quite fathom how to insert myself into the fray.

"Mark? Come here."

"Yeah... don't be a snob, man," said Carlos. He reached up out of the nest of limbs and caught my wrist and pulled me in.

Down, down, into the warmth of the pride. I felt her smooth arms enfold me and pull me on top of her. Nibble fingers slid a sheath over my raging cock. Her legs wrapped around my hips, vice-like, and I pushed into that deep, wet, dark place. Oh, my god, it felt like the source of everything good. I don't know if it was only me that groaned, or if it was a collective sound of completion, because then we were gone, grinding and pushing and tasting and touching.

Someone pushed us onto our sides and I felt the pressure of another cock inside her ass. Each time I moved, it moved, she moved. Slowly the sensation and the noises of pleasure built. I felt her come again and opened my eyes to watch Alan's face contort in pleasure as her muscles squeezed him.

Then he smiled. " Are you close?" he panted.

I nodded my head for fear my tongue wouldn't work, and heard someone mutter words that passed from mouth to mouth. I found Natalya's and kissed it desperately, feeling my balls tighten.

"Take it now," someone said, and I felt Natalya push me back, breaking the kiss as I started to come. I heard the click and whine of an electronic shutter, but I didn't care. I was in ecstasy, jerking, shooting, plunging into her depths.

"Don't pull out... not yet," begged Alan as he started to orgasm. I felt his cock swell, pushing against the thin membrane between us, and Natalya moaned. Carlos held up the camera and shot them both as Alan came.

It went on and on, an insanity of sensation. That was a night of firsts; my legs spread, my mouth on Natalya's breast, and Mel pushed into my ass. She soothed me when it hurt at first and stroked my cock as I lost myself to it. I tasted every sex fluid in the room and so did everyone else.

As we lay sprawled and exhausted in a tangle of bodies, I thought that perhaps, at the age of twenty-four, I had become a man in all the ways that it was possible to be one, and that no one but Natalya could have taken me there.

* * * *

Week in, week out, we met at the Professor's place to eat and drink and debate and fuck and document every single orgasm. Finally, four months after my first dinner, we opened a joint show. Crepuscular smears and blurs of tantalizingly human shapes, perhaps faces, evidence of ecstasy mounted as negatives on massive panes of glass. It was called "Inside the Pride".