Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (15 page)

Rhonda came over to me, turned around with her back facing my front, and slid her ass backward into my crouch. She ground her backside into me in a swirling motion. Sojourner joined Rhonda in front of me, politely edging her to the side so that she could take over. She took the joint from my mouth and lit it. The smoke unfurled from her lips as she inhaled it into her nose and back to her mouth again. She stuck it in my mouth and I took a long drag, taking measures to ensure that the mellow-yellow took me to where I wanted to go.

Rhonda was next. She stuck the jay in Sojourner's mouth so that she could blow her an old-school charge. Sojourner simultaneously let the straps to her dress drift off her shoulders. Her thick mountains bounced forward, happy to be released. Drops of saliva dripped from the corner of my mouth as I took her nipples onto my tongue and sucked them
like the last flesh of a succulent mango. I embraced her full, round ass with my hands and pulled her to me. She wrapped one of her glorious thighs around me and slammed her pelvis into mine. I damn near came, but I wanted to share that moment with her, so I held back until I could get her where I wanted her.

The three of us floated into my bedroom, shedding the rest of our clothing as we traveled. I immediately made Sojourner straddle my face while I sucked her into oblivion. Her clit swelled like an angry ocean and crashed onto my lips, creating its own shore. I slid two hungry fingers in and out of Rhonda's sweltering oven. I felt her orgasm coming so I stopped licking Sojourner and made Rhonda get on board. I locked Rhonda's pearl in between the small gap I was famous for. I sucked her lightly first, then built to a vibrating pulse that made her scream as her body shuttered with satisfaction. She rolled off my face, her limp body glimmering with beads of sweat.

Now Sojourner was back for more. I turned her over on her stomach, made her lie across my lap, and spanked her ass while I fingered her volcanic hole with slow precision. When I had her where I wanted her I commanded her to get on all fours. I slid into her and became completely enveloped by her warmth. I spanked her ass hard while I slid in and out of her. The impact of the slaps on her ass vibrated down to her clit. It was driving her crazy and I knew it, but we were helpless to stop. Rhonda licked and sucked my back while I fingered her ass gently. She began to press herself into my ass, stimulating her pearl again. I felt both of them ready to cum again so I took it to the next stage and began loving them with a ferocity that drove them to tears and screams at the same time. I came right along with them, my clitoris quaking like a five-point-four. Miles' horn screamed along with the three of us as we climaxed together.

Sojourner unhooked the strap to my chocolate-colored
dildo and laid it to the side. She pushed me down on my back. Her eyes promised to thank me profusely for making her feel so good. She placed her lips firmly around my already throbbing clit. Knowing I was sensitive, she simply licked me like a baby kitten until I found my second fire. When I could stand no more I spread my legs like wings and let her take me out of my body into her orbit. And there were no more secrets between us. That night became a story for the stars and the moon. No one but the sky would ever tell it. Spent and intoxicated by our intense loving, we lay together cooled by the summer breeze, connected by a three-way spoon.

On Sojourner's backside, right at the bottom of her spine, I noticed a tattoo. When I asked her about it she rubbed it with her fingertips and said, “That is the Voudoun symbol for love. It represents Erzulie, the goddess of love. I asked her to send me a lover today, and when I saw you I knew she'd answered my prayers.”

All I could do was laugh. I'd been turned out by a voodoo woman and her distant lover. I guess I wasn't such a mack daddy after all. Before we got dressed, I took Sojourner into my closet and showed her my shrine to Erzulie. Her eyes bulged out in sheer surprise.

“So, my love,” I said, “who would you say conjured who?”

 

 

 

 

This desert night, like all the others before it, is scalding. Lingering waves of humidity drift across the diamond-lit sky and create a kaleidoscope of sparkling movement. My cocoa-colored military-issue T-shirt is molded to my cinnamon frame; the salt of my moisture clings to my skin and pools between my unbound breasts before forming a puddle in the sloping well of my navel.

We are at war, and fraternization is strictly forbidden in this strange land. Yours is an infantry combat unit, and there are no female troops in this border region. The landscape is witness to little activity save for the desert peddlers draped in flowing robes and light headdress, their women covered from head to toe in seeming miles of sheer material, their curious eyes mere slits behind dark, Arabian folds.

As America's first female combat photographer I consider these feeble attempts at sexual suppression among the troops absurd, and though my feet are broiling and my clothing damp, I watch closely as you trudge valiantly ahead of your riflemen through the shifting sand. Your broad shoulders are
starched-straight and ramrod; there is power in your lengthy stride. My breathing is strained and heavy as your muscular buttocks flex visibly through the fabric of your uniform, their curvature sending carnal desire pumping deliciously through my veins, ebbing and flowing with the pounding of my heart.

Nearing the perimeter of our encampment, you command us to trickle single-file through the maze of concrete barricades. From the dark walls of a bunker emerges a terrified sentinel. He barks a verbal challenge and you respond with the appropriate password.

Blackness descends and blankets the desert floor as we enter the compound. Your men are relieved to be back at camp, their backs bent with exhaustion, heavily laden with smoldering weapons of death, weary after toiling away in the pliant sand of this heat-filled crevice of the earth.

Regretful that our night's work of probing and reconnoitering has come to a close, I free the tangle of braids from my banded ponytail. I allow them to spill unfettered down my back and sigh in frustration as you march past me without a sideways glance, your chin prominently chiseled in profile. You gather your maps and radios to prepare for the night's briefing, and I am left alone to return to the solitude of my sleeping tent.

It has been several weeks since I replaced an aging Brit whose nerves finally wore out after months of witnessing the death and carnage of battle after bloody battle. Weeks for me, but long months for you and your men. I force myself to quiet the clicking shutters of my camera, to cease the endless snapshots required of me. My job is to satisfy the public's shameless bloodlust while immortalizing the essence of this desert war.

You balked at my presence as I rode into your camp, my arms overflowing with equipment, my press credentials dangling between my breasts.

A female,
you spat bitterly, in the midst of hundreds of war-weary fighting men.
She will cause distraction,
you warned.
She will require special consideration. She will bear watching.

You refused to address me, yet through the voice of your First Sergeant you isolated my sleeping tent. You forbade me entrance to the bivouac area and banished me to the perimeters of the operation, far away from the searching eyes and midnight dreams of the hundreds of combat-worn, virile young men.

This is not an easy assignment for you, a black infantry-commander. A leader of troops, you sleep in harm's way. Each casualty is like a hot knife plunged into your gut. Every soldier blasted to bits by land mines and hand grenades is your very own son. Death creeps nearer each time a missile explodes into the dark night, and danger lurks in every rustle of the wind, prowls in cryptic shifts of the sand.

It is only during these night reconnoiters, while the lens of my camera records and bears witness to the scores of broken bodies scattered across the sand, that I am bid entrance to your world. Unlike mine, your job is to fight and to die, and it is a near-certain death, this occupation of yours. Yet, as with me, the uncertainty of survival has rendered you ravenous, held you hostage from your desires.

We do not exchange words, you and I. Your ivory teeth flash like lightning against the midnight of your skin as you pretend not to notice me. The curly hairs teasing your upper lip dismiss me as you bark orders at your men, life-or-death tension making your words terse, causing your brow to furl and unfurl in a series of fierce scowls.

I am not deceived. I notice how your eyes, shielded by dark lashes, seem to suckle from me. To drink from my ebony curves of life. I take my fill from you as well, wondering what it would be like to drown in the quicksand of your love. My
nose detects the scent of your manhood. My eyes roam over the telltale rising that occurs in your groin whenever I am near, and I smile inwardly as I bide my time.

Of course you want me. As do your men.

And I delight in my power. My delta surges. My nipples strain. Mine is the only dripping pussy within endless miles of ravaged sand, and desperate hands bearing bands of gold grope my high breasts, cup the subtle sweetness of my rolling hips. Hot promises of unprecedented passion find their way to my ears from the pleading lips of Deon, Daryl, David, and Tyrone.

Yet, of the hundreds of eager organs awaiting my command, for me there is only yours. In you I sense the greater need, and it is you I dream of. Dreams of steamy illusion, only to awaken alone in my secluded tent, drenched beneath the broiling desert sun, the phantom of your manhood still throbbing wickedly between my lonely thighs, your ghostly kiss still burning against the swell of my brown breasts.

Forbidden to enter your area of operations, I cloak myself in the shadows of the mess tent and listen to your briefing as your face turns to steel. Your men squat before you in a semicircle, and the First Sergeant's hands shake as he reads the combat orders sent down from your higher command.

You will depart at o-dark-thirty. The first rays of the Southwest Asian sun will find you probing far behind battle lines, deep in the belly of enemy territory where your men will attempt to accomplish a mission impossible.

Fucking suicide
. The slight breeze lifts the growled words from your full lips and lights them upon my ears. The last outfit to attempt such a breach had been slaughtered. Color photos bore witness to a bloodsoaked desert floor strewn with bodies, naked and stripped of glory. The First Sergeant crumples the orders in his fist and spits. Some dickhead back in Washington is sending flesh-and-bone men in where even armored equipment would be blown to bits.

I tremble at his apprehension. It is real and palpable even from this distance.

There will be no cameras on this mission,
you declare emphatically, your onyx eyes burning through the black shadows and piercing my hiding place.
There will be no women.

Panic snatches at my throat and claws my belly. Artillery fire resounds in the distance. My boot-clad feet sink into the sand. The First Sergeant speaks the truth: War is a deadly game. A game played for keeps. The stakes are high. The booty is life, the punishment a bloody death. The thought of you slipping into the stars, perhaps never to return, is unbearable. I cannot allow you to go into battle without a measure of protection. My unrequited midnight dreams leave my loins slick and wet and fill me with agony.

This could be it.

Your last night.

Then tonight will be different, I vow. Tonight, instead of the coarse blankets scraping at our centers, there will be flesh upon flesh. Bone against bone.

My mind races as you give your men the order to disperse. Fear and tension roll off their unwashed bodies and clog the stagnant air. They understand the impending peril and are not ashamed to show their fear.

Fear is good, I think. Fear can keep you alive.

But as I watch you watching them, there is something greater than fear in your eyes. A desperate something that resembles anguish as you study their retreating backs. Some stride into the night with instructions to guard the perimeter. More retreat to their foxholes to clean weapons. Others, taking advantage of the calm before the storm, drag themselves through the sand to their makeshift homes, row upon row of camouflaged mounds in the sandy tent city.

You remain behind, your posture pensive, an air of
exhausted loneliness surrounding you. Responsibility lands like a brick and burrows into your gut. Their lives are in your hands.

A sole figure silhouetted against the electrified sky, you rise to your feet and momentarily gaze up at the stars. As you stretch your arms toward the heavens, the heavy muscles in your back coil and rope lazily beneath your damp shirt. My loins leak a sudden, desperate passion and I collapse against the cloth of the mess tent and hold my breath. My heart thumps madly beneath my breasts, my thighs clench and unclench, the delta between them melting and molding into a tiny throbbing triangle.

My fingers find my breasts, my nipples already as stiff as stone. I am fascinated as you turn the long structure of your body and stride into the camel-colored folds of your sleeping tent, six months of pent-up fear, uncertainty, and desire in your step. My eyes remain glued to the spot where you have just been, as my hands hurriedly undo the buttons on my chocolate chip-patterned trousers.

I am powerless as I delve into my own wetness, my fingers hard and exacting as I probe my slippery folds. I find my spot and rub and massage until I pant aloud. I imagine that my gliding fingers belong to you, my wetness a by-product of our love. I fuck myself furiously, rocking my solitary hips back and forth across the mound of my own fist, bringing myself to the brink time after time, until finally a rocket explodes in my groin and tiny pellets of combustion scorch my breasts.