Zane's Busy Bodies: Chocolate Flava 4 (13 page)

“You have a wife.”

“You have a husband.”

“I’m gonna go,” she says as she gets up to leave.

“Not yet. Please.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You, Tia. I want you; all of you. I don’t want to share. I’m getting too old to play this twenty-plus-year-old game. I need you. I want you. Now.”

“I need to use the ladies’ room.”

The waitress walks toward us. Her presence is welcomed as it will give us a much-needed time out.

“Another drink?”

“Yes,” I reply. “We’ll have another round.”

With the grace of a ballerina, Tia stands and her statuesque, five-foot-eleven-inch frame glides graciously across the room.
Instinct gets the better of me and I follow, walking in beat to her rhythm.

The sight of Tia’s ass swaying confidently and magically from side to side, up and down, as her hips coincide with perfection, makes the tip of my manhood as solid as a rock. She is wearing the hell, shit, and damn out of that black dress. She is a sin and a shame in human form. As she takes the first step of a small flight of stairs to the ladies’ room, I trace the curvature of her thick thighs with my eyes; I imagine them wrapped securely and seductively around my waist and with each blow, my manhood delves deeper into her righteousness, further into her faithfulness, and takes my breath away. Her pretty, pulsating pussy would give way to every one of my bold, blunt blows.

She looks back at me, as the hair around her sweet face dances a beautiful jig down her jaw. Knowing that look has the power to drop me to my knees, she does it again and smirks the second time around. She is carrying that extra forty pounds like it’s a million damn dollars. Every time she bounces, I feel like I may bust.

We reach the ladies’ room. Her hand reaches for the doorknob, but I open the door instead.

Looking back at me, she asks, “Does this make any sense to you, Tre’?”

“Doesn’t have to make sense, it’s who we are. I don’t want to wake up again and know that you could be gone forever. Been there, done that; don’t want to do it again.”

We enter the ladies’ room. The marble sink and cleverly decorated small space are both sexy and inviting. Boasting earth tones and rich purples, the bathroom could be a backdrop to something magnificent.

“Will you ever leave her for me?”

HER . . .

Experience trumps assumption every time. Knowing this man the way I do makes me an expert in the field of everything Tre’. Still, I wonder why he chose her. I often contemplate what things would be like if we had met in a different time and space.

“I already belong to you, Tia.”

“Right.”

He locks the door behind us. Taking my hands in his, he moves in close and that glazed look of euphoria covers him completely. Pressing me against the wall, he places his lips right on mine, but doesn’t kiss me. He makes me beg for it—and he knows I will.

“Kiss me,” he says as his tongue licks my lips.

“Touch me,” he commands as he places my hands on his erection.

“Love me,” he tells me as his long, piano-player fingers wrap around my waist.

My tongue dances with the devil and his mouth tastes like the sweetest sin. Like water for chocolate—he is divine.

“Let me eat your pussy from the back. Bend over.”

Have mercy.

His wish is my command. I bend over, to the point that I can touch my toes.

“Good girl. Now, spread your legs.”

As if on a mission he parts my legs and his hands travel the length of my thighs until he reaches the point of no return. Uncontrollably, my thighs surrender to his fingers as he inserts them one by one inside me, releasing a precursor of my nectar.

“No panties, huh?” he whispers.

“Just get in the way,” I exhale.

Skillfully, he burrows his head in the land of milk and honey
and devours me so good. His tongue tries to calm my hot flesh. I try not to flinch at every caress and instinctively I pinch at my hardened nipples. As he grabs my cheeks, forcing them to clap, the volcano set ablaze inside me ruptures.

“Oooh,” I coo. He loves to hear me make the sound.

“Don’t leave me this way . . .”

HIM . . .

I place a single finger over her lips and pull her toward me. My tongue slithers out of my mouth and enters her with force and determination. My hunger gets the best of me. I lick and suck with a fierceness, satisfying my craving, ensuring I don’t miss a drop.

“Damn, I’ve missed the taste of your pretty lips, baby. Please don’t keep this away from me.” I kiss her cheek, lingering for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being at home within the sweet walls of her flesh.

As the tears fill her eyes, one begins to stream and I take my thumb and wipe it away.

“But . . .”

“Shhhh. Just let me love you.”

Kissing me softly on the lips, the seductress has once again come out to play.

“I’ve been dreaming of being your whore, Tre’.”

Those tantalizing words ooze from her mouth and enter my psyche, shooting orgasmic pulses through my entire being, finally landing at the tip of my length, where it releases my juices as I hunger for her even more.

“Let me see that pretty pussy, please, baby.”

Tia lies down on her back, and the fine hairs are just starting to grow back on her pussy, and her lips, now swollen with desire, beg silently for me.

“Spread it real nasty for me.”

Like Moses parted the Red Sea, so does she, for me. The sweetest thing I’ve ever known.

“Oh, Tre’. Baby, I have to . . .”

HER . . .

He interrupts by placing his tongue in my mouth. I can still smell my pussy on his breath. With sticky, cum-stained lips, he nibbles my lips gently and licks and bites my neck. Grabbing a deliciously treacherous hold of my breast, Tre’ sucks on my nipple, tugging at it until it reaches its firmness.

I’m almost afraid of what he has planned next, but my fear is overcome by the thought of him having his way with me, again. Tre’ licks his lips and reaches down to his manhood. He strokes it with his hand, but not for long. He needs to be inside me and I need him to be there as well. Stepping back, he lines his dick up for the perfect position to enter me and with one forceful thrust he gives it all to me deeply. Deliciously. Divinely.

I can almost hear the sound of my cherry popping once more when I go back in time, when he was my first, and I was his. The origin of our dance. The root of this beautiful evil.

“Tia, oh baby, damn, your pussy is so sweet.” Tre’ keeps his eyes glued on his erection sliding in and out of me and the more he watches his body in motion, the slower he goes. With each thrust, he gets deeper and deeper inside of me. He pins me to the floor. I can’t move. I don’t want to. It hurts so good. He’s got
me wide open, dripping wet, and about to cum all over him. I feel as if I am going to explode, if I don’t go crazy first.

Trying to hold it all in for fear that someone may hear the sounds of our lovemaking, I bite my lip. I don’t want to arouse him any further. Tre’ comes in closer to my ear. “Tia, don’t give this pussy to anybody else. This is my pussy. You belong to me, Tia.”

I exhale deeply, preparing to respond, hoping that the words will come out of my mouth. “I’m all yours, Tre’.” He picks up speed, still watching as he goes in and out of me. He’s talking that good shit to me, moaning and sucking any and every thing he can get his mouth on. With one hand he caresses my nipples; the other hand slithers down to my ass elevating me slightly from the waist down. He grabs hold of my ass cheek and squeezes it firmly as he pounds into me harder and deeper. I can’t help myself, I’m there, I’m seconds from cumming and he knows it. I guess he knows
his
pussy so well.

“Ahh, Tia, yes, that’s a good girl; cum all over
your
dick. This is
your
dick, Tia, cum all over it, baby.”

Without warning, and yet on cue, I cry out to Tre’ as he gives me the hardest climax, matched with the deepest dick pounding I’ve ever had in my life. With one of his final blows, he delves into me, and whispers,

“I love you, Tia.”

As a single tear emerges from Tre’s eye, I feel exactly what lies deep in his heart; that we’ve come to the end of our favorite nightmare on the other side of midnight.

“Just close your eyes and I’ll always be right there.”

Jeremy Edwards

If I hadn’t paused to glance at the headlines on the house copy of the
Miami Herald,
I wouldn’t have seen Ellen Sanderson walk by the deli.

I hadn’t set eyes on her since she’d entered a doctoral program up north. And it looked like Boston had been kind to Ellen. She seemed more self-assured, more radiantly intellectual, and more sexually desirable than ever. Her skin looked smooth as silk, and the peach-colored shorts she’d chosen to wear begged a comparison with the aforementioned fruit. She looked, in a word, delectable.

There’d been a time, not that long before, when I knew almost everybody in the friendly little African-American neighborhood that was my heritage. But I’d been living most of the past few years around the university, and these days I noticed new faces whenever I came back to this part of town. Still, it was surprising to see Ellen here, of all places. I knew for a fact that her family lived in a similar neighborhood, but all the way on the other side of the metropolis.

She stopped temporarily at the corner, still in view, where she waited for the light to change. The day was already warming up and, my imagination being one of my strong points, I imagined the thermal energy of Ellen’s pussy sizzling in her little shorts as she walked around in the Miami heat. And I could also
readily visualize her pulling her shorts and panties down later, in the air-conditioned cool of some private space. The nested garments, I decided, would descend in one piece, and Ellen would reach in to feel her sticky-sweet juncture, letting the aroma of her frisky honey filter into the room.

She moved on, and I forced myself out of the reverie, which I knew I’d return to in time. I permitted my incipient erection to stagnate, then dwindle, leaving me with a characteristic drop of precum to stain my briefs and lick at my skin. It was a sensation I always relished, in part because it made me feel I was tasting a hint of what a woman feels when she’s horny and holds the thought . . . gliding through the next phase of her day with a bit of clingy wetness as a reminder. Letting her juice bookmark her appetite. I reflexively imagined Ellen experiencing all of that, and my cock re-hardened a notch before I successfully focused my attention on the newspaper.

With headlines scanned and peach now long out of frame, I turned toward the cash register.

The bratty-cute breakfast wrangler behind the counter smirked at me. She wore it well. Perhaps it was just my general randiness that morning, but I couldn’t help thinking that if this had been midnight at the nu-jazz club rather than nine a.m. in an empty, brightly lit eatery, I might have had something to say for myself.

“What would you like? Besides
her,
I mean.”

Despite having been forewarned by the impish affect, I was taken aback. But I did my best to play it cool, feigning polite confusion. “Her?”

“Gonna make me spell it, huh?” The imp nodded toward the window. “That tall woman with the nice ass.”

Ellen was, in fact, tall. But this seemed like an
unnecessarily boring adjective to apply to her, with so many others available. By contrast, I could fully understand an allusion to the niceness of Ellen’s ass, which was a very apt description—in spite of my surprise at hearing a stranger direct it at me so pointedly.

“Do I know you?” I asked, peering through my glasses for a clue.

“No. Do you know
her
?”

“Actually,” I confessed, “I do know Ellen. Or I did.”

“Aha,” said my foil. “So, did it feel as good as it looks?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The
ass,
dude. In your hands. When you squeezed it.”

This dialogue, I noted, had quickly taken a surreal turn, even by my tolerant standards as a modernist literary scholar. “What makes you infer that Ms. Sanderson and I were . . . intimate?” I ventured.

The woman laughed. Her black curls fluttered around her mirthful cheeks, and her generous breasts jiggled under her striped, flour-streaked T-shirt. The laughter rippled through her with an overtly sexual sensuality, suggesting some Renaissance painter’s depiction of pleasure.

And when she turned her back on me briefly to attend to the stove, I saw that even her broad, attractive derriere appeared to be enlivened by the hilarity.

“Why are you laughing at me?”

“I’m not laughing at
you,
” she claimed, turning back to face me. “I’m laughing at the way you talk. You know, I’ve been to college, too, but I don’t give seminars at the deli counter.”

I decided I had nothing to lose by engaging with this personality on her own terms. “Okay, then . . . what
do
you give at the deli counter?”

“Point to you, professor,” she said, still chuckling. “That’s more like it.”

“I’m not a professor yet,” I replied. My obligatory humility was denatured, I feared, by my poorly concealed delight at the ad hoc promotion. “I’m still a graduate student.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I can’t imagine how stuffy you’re going to be when you’re a full-on professor, then.” Her smirk returned, bolder than before. And I had a suspicion she’d chosen the term
full-on
specifically so as to evoke
hard-on
. I was intrigued by her attitude.

“I’d like to talk to you,” I said quietly.

“You
are
talking to me. Or maybe you thought this was a cardboard cutout.”

“No. Not with that beauty of a behind.” I considered a wink, but elected instead to raise an eyebrow.

“I thought you said you liked Ellen Sandelman’s behind.”

“Sanderson. And I didn’t say that—you did.”

“But it’s true.”

“Yes, it’s true. But Ellen Sanderson’s behind is neither here nor there.”