Like Dust in the Wind
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 10
Micah and Da.
September.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Bell had run into Carey on campus, of all places.
Ironically, neither one of them was supposed to be there.
Carey was taking the fall semester off, perhaps the entire year. After the accident, rehab continued, both mental and physical. A trip to campus to clean out his mailbox and touch base with a couple of professors. Apollo at his side, he limped along a campus walkway, a cane helping to keep the full weight off of his left leg and hip.
A chance encounter. Bell, now a high school senior, was also there for a campus tour. The idea of it was kind of a joke but it was a good excuse to get out of school. He was well acquainted with the university. Numerous family members were alums. He was actually staying with his sister for the weekend. Harper, Carey's ex, was in her Junior year. His acceptance and attendance were really a fait accompli.
"I was in a car accident."
A vague explanation. Carey elaborated but only in general terms.
Bell looked even better, if it was possible, than he had looked a couple of years ago. Carey thought back. That amazing cock rubbing against his butt cheeks. His brazen display of sex, Carey watching, as he pushed a butt plug up his ass. The kid was one complete erogenous zone.
Jaw set, Apollo watched them talk. Ok, he was hot. But, what a fuckin' attitude. He talked and acted like a complete prick.
Bell responded, making a couple of sympathetic remarks. It was tragic but, he surmised, shit happens. He had things to do and places to go. First, he'd received an invitation from Professor Day to stop over for cocktails later this afternoon. But, before that, he wanted to hook up with the guy he'd met earlier in the day.
The tour group had just rounded the corner of the bio science complex, heading next to the Newberry Center for the Arts. He noticed her right away. As tall as she was, probably over 6 feet, her tight black skirt was just as short. Pale white legs, long and sexier than shit, black pumps, a sequined t-shirt under a cute little denim jacket. Her pale oval face surrounded by neatly brushed black hair, long and parted in the middle. Light blue eyes.
Forgetting completely why he was there, Bell fell away from the tour group and followed the girl. He caught up with her just as she reached the corner. She had stopped for a moment, looking both ways, as if unsure of which way she wanted to go.
"You look like you need some directions," Bell said, a confident smile on his face.
She looked at him, a bit surprised, and then smirked. Smirked in a way most girls who are constantly getting hit on would smirk.
Bell drew his breath in, an audible "Uhhhh!"
Holy crap! She was a he!
It was subtle. He wasn't really trying to hide the fact he was a guy. Maybe it was the Adam's apple although that wasn't what Bell noticed first. It was sort of the way he carried himself. In an instant, a wide range of thoughts went through Bell's mind. Everything from I gotta get out of here to I've gotta have some of that.
He didn't answer. He just looked at Bell, an ever so slight smile forming on his lips.
Some awkward chatter ensued. He didn't have an especially low voice or a high voice either. But, it wasn't a girl's voice nor did he use any feminine affectation.
"I'm Bell," he said, after he collected himself.
"Micah."
"Would you like to…ah…?" Bell tried to think. Get a drink? It was only ten in the morning. Coffee? Go somewhere and fuck?
"I was just going to get some breakfast," Micah announced after Bell's question sort of just hung there unfinished.
They got something to eat at a nearby campus bistro. Bell paid. Just doing so made him hard. It was almost like he was taking Micah out on a date.
Micah leaned back in the chair, stretching his long bare legs out, crossing them at the knee. He knew they looked good.
It had started innocently enough when he was just a kid. Like most boys, he would sometimes walk around in his mom's shoes or wear one of her necklaces. Eventually, he took it a bit further, using scotch tape to hold a pair of his mother's earrings in place. Along with the necklace, he thought he was pretty cute when he looked at himself in the mirror.
When he was 14, Micah started letting his hair grow out. He got some grief from his parents but they were actually pretty cool with it. He kept it neat and clean, carefully brushing it out and trimming off the broken ends.
Outside of his mother's shoes, he didn't have any particular feeling about her other clothes. Rather, he saved up and went shopping for himself. He kept his small private collection of cami bras, pink lace panties, crop tops, and skirts hidden in his room. A trip to DSW had yielded some cute shoes. No one even gave him a second glance when he picked up eye-liner, eye shadow, and lipstick at Walgreen's.
At first, dressing up at home, the door to his room safely locked, brothers and sisters out of the house, was enough. It was really exciting. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he thought he looked cute and sexy. Totally authentic except for the hard-on he could barely disguise poking out the front of his skirt.
When he was 16, he could hardly take it anymore. Borrowing his older brother's car, Micah drove to the mall. He changed clothes right in the parking lot, keeping an eye out for anyone who might walk by. Pulling the visor down and opening the make-up mirror, he quickly applied eye-liner, a bit of eye shadow, and light pink lipstick. Smacking his lips and fluffing his hair, he gave himself one last look.
Show time!
Micah's heart was racing so fast he thought he might pass out. He somehow made it to the mall door and yanked it open. Realizing his movements were way too masculine, he made himself slow down. He concentrated on two things: letting his hips sway as he walked and keeping his eyes dead straight ahead.
It was one of those big malls so it took him a few minutes to get from one end to the other. At first, he thought everyone was staring at him. Then, he realized, absolutely no one was paying attention to him.
He walked all the way back, out the doors, and straight back to his car. Safely inside, he gasped for breath. OMG! This was so exciting! It took several minutes for him to catch his breath.
Over the next few months, he went back to the mall several more times, on each occasion taking it a step further. Eventually, he got up enough courage to walk into Starbucks.
He wore his favorite outfit. Short black skirt, a pink t-shirt that showed a bit of midriff, and a little leather jacket. High black boots with heels. Make up and hair perfectly done. Pretty fuckin' hot, if he did say so himself.
He didn't dare talk to anyone. But, the moment of truth came when he got up to the counter.
"What'll you have, miss?" The barista asked. She barely looked at him.
The blood rushed to his head. It was working, so far.
In his own voice, but coming more from his head than from his throat he replied, "Tall Caramel Macchiato."
Transaction complete. No one was any wiser.
Done and done.
Bell was so worked up he could hardly see straight. As they sat talking, his knee bounced up and down, practically out of control. A word kept repeating over and over in his mind: smitten.
Such an interesting person! 19 years old. A goddamn Sophomore here at the U! Going for a BFA. At least that made some sense. Other factoids didn't say much about him other than he was actually pretty normal.
Except for one thing. When Bell finally screwed up enough courage to broach the subject, Micah chuckled. Tantalizingly, he just twirled his hand around his wrist.
"It's a form of self-expression."
Micah was purposefully being evasive. He's playing me, Bell thought.
Some more bantering. Finally, Micah leaned forward.
"I've got class, cute stuff."
"Can't you skip it?"
Bell was frantic. He was so horned up, he thought he would die. After a fair amount of groveling and begging, Micah sighed. He agreed to meet up with him at his apartment after his one o'clock class.
In the meantime, Bell walked around a bit. That's when he ran into Carey. Afterwards, he checked in with the Admissions Office. He filled out a form and a survey, got invited to lunch by one of the school's student ambassadors, and hung around.
Micah made it to his apartment just ahead of Bell. He'd dressed like a regular guy for classes but, now…he chuckled to himself. Reaching into his closet, he pulled out a piece of clothing he had been reserving for a special occasion. Like this one.
Bell walked up and down the block three times before he dared go up to Micah's apartment. Three raps on the door. When Micah opened it, Bell thought he was going to toss his cookies.
Micah stood there wearing nothing but a ballet tutu. Well, not exactly nothing. He had pink ballet slippers on, too. The tutu was so short, his very erect cock peeked out from under the tulle. Topless, he was very flat chested, tiny light pink nipples, clear skin save for a couple of small moles. Narrow shoulders. His arms, in second position, held out to the sides, just like a ballet dancer.
With a low chuckle, Bell walked in, kicking the door shut. They literally dove at each other.
The simplest way to say it was that the next ninety minutes were filled with a healthy exchange of bodily fluids.
Bell had never fucked someone so hard. For a moment, he thought, he might split Micah in two. They both loved it. Kissing, biting, sucking.
In the middle of it all, "What is that smell?"
Bell had his face and nose planted between Micah's neck and shoulder.
"Paloma Picasso."
"Good fuckin' Lord!" Bell giggled.
The perfume was like an accelerant, adding fire to what was already some pretty furious fucking.
Eventually, they both gave up, gasping for breath, Bell laughing hysterically. Micah groaned and sat up. With a grunt, he got off the bed and went to the bathroom. Bell squeezed his eyes shut as he listened to the shower running.
He pulled himself up, running his hand through his hair, letting it fall softly into place. Bell didn't smoke but, at that moment, he would have loved a cigarette if it had been handed to him. Glancing at the nearby coffee table, he spied a thick soft cover book of photography.
Bell's eyes widened. Micah's image graced the cover. He was naked. Seated on a big white cube, one knee up with the other folded underneath. Arms crossed. His dick just out of view. The book's title, "Now and Then." The photographer, someone named Miranda Hathaway.
"Well, well." Bell said out loud to no one in particular.
He chuckled as he laid the book flat and opened it to the inside.
"Holy shit!"
Bell could hardly believe his eyes. Carey??
A full page photo. He was naked from the waist down, arms stretched out in front of him, his head turned to the camera. That cute smile of his. Even though his privates weren't visible, his dick and butt just out of view, it was an incredibly hot picture.
Just then, the bathroom door bumped open. Micah stood there, wet hair curled around his face. He smiled at Bell.
"I know him!"
Bell looked up at Micah, a shocked look on his face.
Sitting next to Bell, Micah recounted how he met Carey. Professor Hathaway, as he referred to her, had recruited them both separately. Micah was in one of her classes. He didn't know where she had found Carey.
When they first met behind a screen in her studio, Carey was already naked. Micah thought he was awfully cute, sitting on a chair, trying in vain to cover himself up with his shirt.
They must have spent a couple of hours getting their pictures taken. Some separately, others together. The poses were, to say the least, interesting.
Bell smirked as he listened to Micah, all the while paging through the book. The photos were erotic, lascivious, and obscene. Better than anything he'd ever seen on a porn site. Everything was on display in a lot of the pictures. Others, like the first ones of Micah and Carey, creatively obscured their genitals. There were other guys, too. Even a couple of women.
"Where can I get a copy of this?"
Micah chuckled.
"Probably nowhere."
He told him about the controversy surrounding the art exhibit where most of the photos had first been displayed. The campus erupted over it, many accusing Hathaway of obscenity. Micah was an instantaneous celebrity. He suspected Carey was, too, although he never ran across him again.
"I saw him today."
Bell recounted bumping into Carey, giving him a quick synopsis of the accident and the aftermath.
Micah just shook his head.
"But, how do you know him?"
Bell chuckled. He looked up at a clock on the wall. Four o'clock.
"Well, that's a story for another day."
When Bell asked about the address, one of the admissions staff showed it to him on a campus map. Officially, it was Idlewild Drive. Colloquially, it was known as Doctor Drive, home to many of the most senior tenured faculty.
It was the largest house on a block of large houses. Bell gazed up at the two story gothic style residence. Not bad!
Clad in dark red brick, covered in ivy, a main entry set of double doors bordered by two columns that supported an overhang. He stood outside the iron fence looking at a semi-circular driveway covered in pea rock and bordered by low hedges.
Ushered into an expansive living room, Bell looked around at a crowd of twenty or so people talking to each other in hushed tones. Mostly older, a small number of students sprinkled here and there. The atmosphere could only be described as sedate.
He was feeling a little strung out from the activities of the last couple of hours. Crashing for a nap at Harper's apartment sounded really good right now. He wondered how quickly he could get out of there. Just then, a glass of champagne was thrust at him by a passing waiter. Well! Things all of a sudden were looking up!
Professor Day broke away from a small group of people to greet him. Still looking much as Bell remembered him from earlier this summer. A shock of white hair on the sides and back of his bald head, the thick English style mustache. For some reason, Bell hadn't noticed his dark eyebrows before. Were they dyed?
The same dark suit, pearl colored vest, and bow tie. Bell smiled to himself. He could just imagine the professor's closet. A long row of dark suits, all the same, on one side. Opposite, an equally long row of pearl gray vests.
"Let me introduce you 'round," Professor Day said.
First a small group of people standing off to the side.
"This is Master Campbell Maine, one of our applicants to the next incoming class. Soon to be a matriculant, we hope," he posited, leaning into Bell somewhat expectantly.
Bell smiled and laughed, taking a sip of champagne.
"That's the plan!"
Professor Day introduced each person in turn.
"And this is Professor Oliver Oxydahl. You'll probably end up taking his Statistics course."
Bell wanted to say, not if I can help it. He hated math. Before he could respond, however, the professor grabbed his hand and looked at him.
And looked at him. And looked at him some more. His dark eyes, piercing. Bell felt a shudder. Just like that, the professor released his hand, his eyes quickly roving over Bell's body, a hint of a smile on his face. Short dark hair, chiseled features, thin lips, a slightly ruddy complexion. Menacing to be sure. In that moment, Bell's cultivated arrogance evaporated. He felt weak, compliant, almost like a child.
Bell wasn't sure if he said anything to Professor Oxydahl or if Oxydahl even responded. Moments later, Professor Day's hand on his lower back, he was directed away to meet some other people.
"And this is Dr. Miranda Hathaway," Professor Day said. "Da, meet one of our future students, Campbell Maine."
Bell's mouth dropped open.
A firm hand shake. Bell was literally speechless. A nice to meet you formed in his throat but he couldn't get it past his lips. Just then, Professor Day turned away to greet another newly arrived guest.
Miranda chuckled softly, "Nice to meet you," taking the words right out of his mouth.
A pleasant looking woman. More than pleasant, Bell thought. A really interesting looking woman. Long dark hair streaked with some gray, parted on the right side. A thin face, almond shaped eyes, pointed nose, thin lips, almost sunken cheeks. A narrow body. She wore an oversized button up men's shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of black tights.
"I know who you are," Bell stammered, finally collecting himself after that bizarre encounter with Professor What's His Name.
Miranda cocked her head to the side.
"I mean. I know some people you know."
"Yes?"
"Umm…Carey. And, I know Micah, too."
A slight smile.
"Is that so?"
Miranda looked at Bell, mentally undressing him. She imagined a nice chest, crowned by brown nipples, sculpted hips, a flat stomach, the shadows created from the indentations just inside his hips down to his crotch. An ample cock, shaved, she thought. Was this a nice thing to do? Did other women imagine men naked the instant they met them? Wasn't that a guy thing? She started to chastise herself, then remembered who she was.
Trees.
Maybe the first thing she ever remembered. In a stroller, laying back, her mother rolling her through the park. Gazing upward, trees and blue sky.
When she was just a kid, she took a pad of drawing paper and a pencil to the woods near her house. Sitting with her back against a fence post, she drew trees. Pages and pages of trees. Her mother was constantly at the store buying her new pads of drawing paper.
When they got a small digital camera, she was allowed to take it to the woods so she could take pictures of trees. Jockeying around one particular tree trunk, she snapped a picture.
"Look, Mom! It's a person's leg. See the foot?"
"Yes, Da it is!" Her mother laughed. It was a really good photo. Miranda somehow had managed to make the base of the tree look like part of a human figure.
Da had become her nickname. Her little brother, unable to form her name with his mouth, had shortened Miranda up to just Da. It stuck.
With her parent's encouragement, Miranda entered the photo in the county fair. It won the grand prize ribbon in her age category!
A man approached her as she stood proudly next to her prize winning photo. He turned out to be a professional photographer. Even though she was only 10 years old, he offered to take her under his wing. After getting her parents' approval, an arrangement was made. She spent a couple of hours a week helping him in his studio. In return, he carefully taught her both the technical and artistic aspects of photography.
One thing led to the next. Out in the woods one day, she lifted her shirt up and took a close up picture of her little girl breast. Miranda giggled when she looked at the picture on the LCD screen. Because she had a small mole next to her nipple, the picture made it look like the sun with a planet revolving around it.
"Clarice, just do it! Pull your pants down!"
Now 12 years old, she talked one of her friends into letting her take some pictures of her vagina. No matter which way she took the photos, it still looked like two V's nudged up against each other. When she agreed to let her take close-ups of her butt hole, she was surprised to see she had a mole near her anus, just like the one she had on her boob.
Her mentor had taught her all about Photoshop. After she edited those private images, she tucked them safely away in a secret folder on her computer.
First Clarice, then Britta, Ellen, Maddy, and a couple of others. With each girl, the posing became more explicit.
It wasn't until the hormones kicked in that she connected the dots. The photos she took of her friends became erotically charged, a vehicle for her own sexual exploration.
Miranda's eyes opened widely. Wandering aimlessly around Target one day while she was waiting for her mom, she spied a product called The Bullet. The now 14-year-old girl was intrigued. A three and a half inch long vibrator. She had experimented with a hair brush handle but it was much too hard and too long. This seemed perfect. She sneaked back a few days later and bought it.
In a short time, Miranda became an expert on how to use The Bullet for her own pleasure. She even experimented by inserting it while she carried out normal everyday activities. At first, she was afraid it was going to fall out. Even though it seemed counter-intuitive, if she didn't contract her vaginal muscles too hard, it pretty much stayed in place.
The big moment came that summer when Miranda went on vacation with her family. Before they left for the airport, she made sure The Bullet was fully charged. She turned it on and inserted it. She had her first orgasm before she even finished getting dressed. The big test was getting through TSA. The Bullet set off the alarm at security but, after a quick pat down, she was passed through. She had another orgasm as they were walking through the concourse. The orgasm she had when they were in the jetway was so powerful she half stumbled into the side wall.
"Da, are you ok? Are you too nervous to fly?" Her mother asked, alarmed.
"I'm fine." Miranda replied, a hazy look in her eyes.
Three more orgasms during the flight. She had to hold her hand over her mouth to keep from gasping.
It wasn't any big moment or a sudden revelation. Over time Miranda slowly came to the realization that she was a lesbian. But, she was determined not to be pigeon holed in that way. More and more, she used the name Da. She didn't want the name Miranda to identify her as a female. She was more than gender neutral, she was just non-gender.
College. Graduate school. A PhD in Fine Arts. Eventually, a tenured position at the university. She worked hard, gained the respect of her students and colleagues, spoke at conferences, and published.
Miranda's sexual proclivity advanced with her education. Eventually, her private world expanded with the acquisition of a strap-on dildo. She could now, not only enjoy other women in a different way, but she could also fuck men if she wanted. And, she loved to fuck men. She wasn't sure where she'd heard the expression before, but the term, "the good hurt," resonated with her. Some guy grunting, gasping, and screaming in pain, the dildo deep in his ass, just heightened the effect for her, making her cum harder than ever.
She was at the opening reception for her newest project at the time when she met Winnie. Professor Winston Day, that is.
It was called, "Dunes." The photos were meant to look like desert sand dunes. In actuality, they were close up images of body parts. Hips, thighs, breasts, the graceful slope from a subject's neck to his or her shoulder. The skin tones, even the ones of Black and Latino models, were toned and textured to look like sand.
"What did the models wear when you took these pictures?" Winston asked her when they met.
"Why, nothing."
He had a strange smile on his face.
"Interesting."
He called Miranda a few days later and told her about their little group. They all shared a particular interest, as he put it. It was vague but she had some idea of what he was talking about. He invited her to attend an upcoming meeting as his guest.
She sat in the back of the room, dressed completely in black, an opera mask over her eyes, and watched. The group of fifteen or so people, none of whom she recognized, dressed just like her, watched as a young girl was sexually annihilated. Willingly, apparently. Miranda recognized her. She'd seen her walking on campus. She was probably 19 or 20 years old.
Her mind thrummed. If she only had her strap-on with her, she would have gladly gone up in front and fucked the daylights out of that girl.
Miranda was told not to speak to anyone that night. She didn't. Winston called her a couple of days later.
"I'm in."
He chuckled.
"I guess that exhibit must have been, ah, controversial."
Bell was digging, careful as to how he should broach the subject.
"A few people had some opinions."
Miranda smirked. She had nothing more to add.
"How are you going to follow it up?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've been doing some early exploration around a rodeo theme."
Bell laughed.
"Like calf roping?"
She laughed, too.
"Well, amongst other things."
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