The Donor: When Conception Meets Deception Read Free

don't you appropriate me, professor?”
    Chase takes her question as a command. He is an ocean wave crashing to shore. Heavy breaths shoot in and out of their nostrils like snorting cattle. He clutches her throat and unlocks her jaw—with his mouth. Her moans echo in the silence of the cavernous hall. She bops off of the table, pushes her body into Chase and pins him to the podium. She raises her knee to his hip. The hem of her skirt reveals a lavender and pearl lace panty. He buries his fingers into the expansive thickness of her rump and hoists her in the air so she straddles him. His brawny biceps brace her with ease as her heels dangle at his knees. She slings her arms around his neck; they hop like sticky frogs back to the table.
    “Am I still being inappropriate professor?” she whispers in his ear as they bounce, bounce, bounce.
    “ Very inappropriate,” he says and splays her on the folding table. Ms. Dixon unbuckles the tight belt of his wool trousers. He hovers above, sandwiched between, her exposed purple panties. He presses his firm—
    “A-a-ahem,” gargles a throat at the top of the stairs.
    Chase pops up; he freezes like a prairie dog. His mouth drops in horror as he sees who’s leering down at him.
    “D-D-Dean Ganges," he says.
    Brooklyn University Dean and Chair of the English Department, Dr. Octavia Ganges glares down from the highest row. And as she does so, the folding table shakes and trembles. The sound of slow and steady creaking follows… CREA-CREA-CREACK…BOOM .
    The table collapses to the floor under their weight. Ms. Dixon’s arms and legs flail in the air like an overturned beetle. Chase's satchel spills its contents. His laptop, earphones, smart tablet, Edgar Allan Poe books, student essays, and files litter the floor. The two of them scurry like rodents. As she attempts to stand, Ms. Dixon’s toe catches Chase between his legs. “Arrgh,” he grabs the swollen arc of his loins and tumbles back to the floor in pain. Ms. Dixon winces and whispers a silent, Oops . Chase is a sight to see. His necktie is loose, shirt buttons are popped, belt buckle is dangling, and his gums are flapping as he struggles to explain himself to his boss.
    “Um, uh, see, I, er, uh, what we um.”
    Chase stammers to his feet, hurries to buckle his trousers and tuck in his shirt. Dean Ganges folds her arms and strokes her chin as if she had the whiskers of a Shaolin kung-fu monk.
    "Would you like a paper towel for that sloppy mouth as well Professor Archibald?" she says.
    “Sloppy mouth? Huh?” Chase wipes his mouth. “Um, yes, I mean no," he says.
    "Well which is it? Yes? No? No? Yes?” she says, as she bobs and weaves like Muhammad Ali.
    Ms. Dixon rises, fastens her lavender and lace bra, and calmly buttons her blouse.
    Dean Ganges trots down the steps and halts in front of Chase. Her stubby, four foot, eleven inch frame, is as elegant as it is authoritative. She dons an amber J. Crew pant suit with forest brown cuffs and trim. Her luscious, rich chocolate skin has a smooth, black don’t crack, flawlessness. She appears twenty years younger than her sixty-three birthdays should indicate. Her dimpled, globe-like cheeks showcase a powder white smile. She has the kind of smile that can be deceptive. It can be fireplace warm or ice queen mean—at the same time. Which is she giving Chase now? She doesn’t let on.
    "Nothing to say Professor?" she says.
    “I-I-I," he stutters.
    “My, my, my he sure is squirming isn't he Ms. Dixon?"
    “Well, I heard you can have that effect on men, Octavia.”
    “Girl you ain’t never lie,” Dean Ganges replies. The two women rock back, grab their bellies in laughter and wrap each other in a familiar embrace.
    “Girl, it’s been months since I’ve seen you. So tell me Ms. Attorney Jenae Dixon, how have you been?" Dean Ganges says.
    “I’ve been good Octavia. How’s English department life going?" Jenae asks.
    "Not bad. Just dealing with the occasional bratty