The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
comfortable, and it was familiar, and it still shook me to the bones when I least expected it.
Like now.
Blood throbbed in my temples, pounded through my veins, so that I could barely hear
the harsh, fast sound of our breaths, the hard slap of flesh on flesh, the music of the mattress.
Jake’s hot breath gusted between my shoulder blades, sending little chills of sensation down
my spine. And all the while that pleasurable scrape and slide, smooth exit and stiff entry,
over and over and over.
I dug my fingers into the bedding, relinquishing control, letting him take me further
and faster.
“Oh, baby …” he gritted between his teeth, and I felt a grin breaking across my tense
face, even while I clenched, focused as that slow wash of liquid heat flooded my groin.
My whole body seized, clenched like the fist wrapped around my cock, the electric
intensity of orgasm holding me in place while relief bordering on bliss shuddered through
nerves and muscles and bones. I creamed over our joined fingers, his hand slipping a little in
the sticky wetness. Jake went rigid, groaned like he was mortally wounded, and I could feel
that wet warmth pulsing into me, a man’s cum flooding my ass.
I collapsed in a limp sprawl, Jake’s body covering my own. Wet beneath me, wet
seeping out of my hole. Held hot and wet in Jake’s powerful arms and never wanting to move
again while pleasure echoed through me.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about this all day.” His voice was rough on the admission.
“Feels so fucking good with you.”
I nodded, managed, “It is good.” In fact, sometimes it surprised me how good it was
with Jake, given his various hang-ups and extracurricular interests.
He kissed the back of my neck, and I felt my heart turn over. The sex was great, but it
was those moments of quiet tenderness…
“Lisa is thinking of remarrying,” I said later, when we had both had time to catch our
breath.
He made a noncommittal noise and turned his head on the pillow to face me.
“It’s kind of weird, that’s all,” I said in answer to the question he hadn’t asked. “She’s
had plenty of opportunity. Probably should have done it years ago, but she always made such
a thing about never loving anyone but my father.”
“Do you know the guy?”
I shook my head. “Councilman Dauten. I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never met him.”
“You want me to run a background check?” He sounded amused.
“Forget it,” I said, smothering a yawn. “It’s Chinatown, Jake.”
“Nah, it’s only Pasadena. You’ll be fine, baby.”
* * * * *
Angus wasn’t exactly a blabby guy. Maybe that’s why I remembered the infrequent bits
of information he let drop. I recalled him saying that he was a teaching assistant for a
Professor Snowden.
I made a few phone calls, learned without too much trouble that on Monday morning
Dr. G. Snowden was supposed to be at Bunche Hall giving a lecture on the occult in popular
film and fiction.
UCLA is like a small village, with its own police department, fire marshal, radio and TV
station, restaurants, shops. It even has a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Campus
Resource Center. I don’t know if they were offering this back in The Day. My father
graduated from Stanford University, so Lisa’s expectation was that I would grace the halls of
the old alma mater. That suited me fine, as I was attracted by the university’s proximity to
San Francisco and the gay community.
But because I’d had friends at UCLA, and because I’d attended various cultural events
there, I was reasonably familiar with the campus. I knew that Bunche Hall was located close
to the Sculpture Garden, which was about five acres of grass and trees and studded by the
works of Matisse and Rodin, among others. It was especially beautiful in the spring when the
jacaranda trees were in bloom.
They were not in bloom that gray autumn day. Bare trees and stark sculptures provided
a suitable backdrop for Bunche Hall, which had to be one of the ugliest buildings on campus.
It looked like a concrete slab of Wasa bread.
I found #1209B without a problem. Slipping inside the dark classroom, I took a seat in
the back row. It was one of the few empty seats in a room that looked like it seated about
two hundred, indicating Professor Snowden was either popular or an easy pass. At the
moment, he was showing a videotaped Yu-Gi-Oh cartoon on a pull-down screen at the front
of the class.
Every so often Professor Snowden’s tall silhouette loomed menacingly on the screen in
front of Yugi and the gang, as he skewered the notion that occult elements in the popular
kid’s cartoon were dangerous. He had an attractive speaking voice with a hint of a British
accent.
“The Religious Reich takes the view that despite overt themes of friendship, loyalty,
and courage, Satan is using Yu-Gi-Oh, Pokemon, and Harry Potter to prime innocent minds
for occult suggestion and demonic influence. The idea being that if your brats are going to be
brainwashed, it should be by Pat Robertson.”
The class rumbled into laughter.
On the video, a girl cartoon figure said, “It’s a symbol of our friendship. So when Yugi’s
dueling, no matter how tough it gets, he’ll know that he’s not alone!”
Snowden drawled, “Not that Yugi is ever alone, as he’s possessed by the spirit of Yami
Yugi, the ancient Egyptian pharaoh.”
More laughter. Nothing like a captive audience.
There was a smattering of discussion before Snowden turned off the video. Someone in
the back row hit the lights.
The lecture concluded, students rose, talking, gathering books and papers, shuffling off
to the next dog and pony show.
Snowden stood at the front surrounded by a flock of the faithful, mostly female, vying
for the final crumbs of his attention. I made my way down the aisle watching him dispatch
them with smooth ease.
He was medium height, lean, with long, loose silvery hair and a haughty world-weary
face. He reminded me vaguely of Alan Rickman’s Professor Snape, except that he wore Levi’s
and Birkenstocks and a T-shirt that read, I’m not Satan, I’m merely one of his highly placed
minions.
When he smiled, which seemed to be rarely, it transformed his face, and I had a hint of
