Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (14 page)

She heard Shango calling, picked up the canvas bag, and walked into the kitchen. She had never been able to persuade Donald to do it on the kitchen counter. Shango wasn't uptight at all. Crystal turned on the burner under the kettle, climbed on the kitchen counter, and lay on her back. Shango mounted her, sweeping jars of beans and pasta to the floor. He smiled down at her, before licking her from head to toe, not bothering to undress her. After he had sufficiently aroused and teased her, he entered her like a cannon and their pleasure bounced off the walls.

Crystal didn't want to rise, but the whistling of the kettle was insistent. The kitchen was filled with the odor of sex. Feeling deep satisfaction in her limbs, she rose slowly, slid her legs over the edge of the kitchen counter, and jumped down. She filled the teacup with boiling water, picked up a pot full of ginger water that she had boiled earlier, and headed for the bathroom. Shango was waiting for her there with a huge grin on his face. She turned on the hot water faucet, poured in the ginger water, added a handful of Epsom salts, some frankincense crystals, and a dash of jasmine bubble bath. She slowly lifted the crumpled camisole over her head, tossed it on the floor, and tugged playfully at the G-string like a stripper teasing voyeurs. Once it was below her bottom she slowly raised her left leg and ever so slowly slipped her foot out of of the G-string, leaving it to dangle at her right ankle. Shango's eyes grew big in his head. He knew she was a tease, with a big appetite. A woman like that could be plenty of trouble: the demanding, never-get-enough type. Crystal twirled the G-string around her ankle then flicked it, her feet pointed, red painted toenails shimmering.

“I will rub your back and then I'll have to leave,” Shango pleaded.

Crystal smiled, lit the red and white candles that she had placed by the bathtub, and turned off the lights. Shango pulled
off his soiled clothes and stepped into the tub. The water was scalding. He reached for the cold water faucet to cool it down. Crystal sipped on her tea, watching him.
Just let him think he will get away with only washing my back,
she thought as she stepped into the tub and fitted her body perfectly between his open thighs. Instantly she felt his rod hardening against her bottom and she settled back comfortably against his chest.

Shango was not one to resist beauty. Crystal had come to him in great pain. She had been wronged, cheated. She wanted justice. He offered to help, even before she offered him a piece, and exhausted as he was he couldn't resist her. He blew on her neck and saw the small hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention. She pressed into him and wiggled her bottom against his shaft. He slid his wet finger into her mouth and she greedily sucked on it. With his free hand he lathered her garden, his middle finger found the way into her store-room, and his lips and tongue sucked the calcium knots from her shoulder blades and back. She was moaning softly, the flute of pleasure, moaning the deep bass, humming the melody, and chortling the guitar and drums combined—moaning the whole band, so that Shango was beside himself.

He took his other hand from her mouth and cupped her breast, the lather from the bath making her breast slide with ease up and down in his palm as he massaged, pressed, stroked, and squeezed. But he wanted to taste it in his mouth, drink her milk, nibble on her nipples, send her soaring. Reading his mind, Crystal turned and got onto her knees facing Shango with her great behind jutting upward, and she pulled Shango's mouth to hers. First she sucked on his lips, then nibbled at his tongue before sucking it into her mouth, until he felt as if she was going to swallow it from his mouth.

This woman is something else
, he thought. Uncertain whether he dared to boast that no woman could outdo him, Shango was determined at least not to be undone by a mere
human woman. The thought gnawed at his ego, so Shango rose up, grasped Crystal around her shoulders, and they rolled around in the bathtub, water spilling over the sides, soaking the mat and wetting the entire floor. Red bubbles swirled, sailing around the bathroom. They laughed, panted, steadied, then unsteadied, themselves. Lightning flashed through the window, and the tub trembled with thunder.

Crystal pushed Shango against the tile and brushed her lips against his faucet. Shango moaned thunder, his eyes flashed lightning. He rose above the clouds then returned to cool Crystal down. On all fours Shango entered Crystal, and kept pumping until her entire body trembled and a scream of agonizing ecstasy escaped her throat. Panting for breath, Shango thought,
Such decadent rapture
. He was surfeited. He tenderly brushed his lips against Crystal's, ran his finger over her nipples, and left her to a well-deserved sleep.

 

 

 

 

The foot-stomping twang of a distant blues guitar strummed through me as I entered the festival grounds. The sound and smell of barbecue sizzling nearby snaked its way up my nostrils. I stepped up to one of the dozen or so food vendors and ordered a grilled corn on the cob. I saturated it with margarine and chili powder and at the last minute decided to sprinkle it with just a dash of cayenne. I casually moved toward the bleachers, corn and ice chest in hand, where the rest of the music lovers were bobbing their heads and clapping their hands to the stank grooves and wicked rhythms coming from the stage.

Two steps from the entrance I spotted her. My ticket was still in my hand. I shoved it back down in my pocket as my eyes narrowed to take in the magnitude of her statuesque frame. She was absolutely stunning. Her tie-dyed, orange-gold, floor-length dress hugged every curve and fold of her voluptuous body. The cowrie shells that hung from the bottom of her dress shook like the shimmy in a Shekere. Coyly she sat, aiming her buttery thighs and watermelon breasts in
my direction. She was slightly rocking, shielded by the shade of a father tree, her straw hat pulled down tight over bronze dreadlocks and cat-eyed sunglasses.

The reflection of her oval face and oak-colored skin made me simmer like a piping pot of New Orleans jambalaya. I backtracked by her booth, pretending to consider purchasing a purple and gold dashiki from the booth next to hers. I lifted my head slowly, measuring her gaze, conjuring a line in my head that would grab her in the first six words. She glared at me, almost daringly, a challenge I found irresistible. I nodded, hoping she'd say something. Because if she didn't I was taking my ass home, along with my fantasies and the six-pack of designer beer chilling patiently in my ice chest. I'd sit in the bathtub and dream about her. Picture her there with me. Me pouring lavender oil and cherry wine into the water. Letting the stream of the faucet flow to that spot on her silk, just above the pearl.

She nodded her head and that was the permission I needed to enter. My ego kicked in. My fantasy expanded as I pimp-strolled over to her booth humming a blues song under my breath:
I bet she likes to be loved slow/kissed long and steady/ this wild afrique woman/nothing but moans for music/no jazz or blues/no damn rules/just us moaning an original tune/a song for the rest of our life/a song slow and steady/the dog-gone truth/the dog-gone truth.
I kept walking and humming. Seemed like a million years went by. I tried my best to pretend that the pounding in my heart wasn't about to expose what was going through my mind.

“The African dolls are seventy-five dollars, the necklaces are twenty and up. Oh yeah, I do psychic readings too. The cost is a love offering of at least twenty-five dollars.” Her deep velvety New York accent swam from her throat and lodged itself in my temple. I shook my head back and forth so that I could beam back to the moment.

“That was the nicest invitation to spend my hard-earned money I have ever received. Wrap up that necklace with the ankh in the middle. I'll take that one too—the one to the left of it with the amber stone.” Yeah. I had a few dollars for Ms. Lady. Enough to back up the smooth mack I was getting ready to drop on this syrupy sister.

“And how much does it cost to take you to dinner?”

That was more than six words. But it didn't matter because it seemed to work. She smiled and I realized that what I thought was a cavity was a diamond in one of her front teeth. Sistah must have southern roots.

Then she answered, “Dinner? I'm a vegetarian. Do you like tofu?”

Shit, I was thinking about tossing this lovely over some barbecue ribs and potato salad and here she was talking about tofu. Hell, bud I'd eat a bowl of slimy okra to have a shot at her fine round ass. She ran her tongue across the pillows of her lips and began nervously arranging and rearranging the wares on her table. I was close to having her. I inched a bit closer so that I could inhale the sandalwood and ylang-ylang seeping from her skin. She reclined back in the folding chair and let a tiny bounce escape from her legs. That was the deal-clincher. Now I had to taste some of that perfume.

“Yeah, tofu's my favorite. I became a vegetarian about… oh, six months ago. May I ask what your name is?”

“Sojourner Maxwell. And you?”

Sojourner.
Sistah has to be conscious calling herself Sojourner. “I'm Tommy. Tommy Williamson. My friends call me Tee. I live here in L.A., but I was born in Louisiana. The Big Easy, you know.”

“New Orleans, huh? Home of the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau. Do you do voodoo, Tommy.”

“I know enough to know that it's real, but I don't practice.”

“That's too bad. Voodoo is some powerful shit.”

Now she was scaring me. I mean, everybody knows a little something, even if it ain't nothing but how your grandmother used to cure a cold by placing raw onions under your armpits for twenty-four hours. But actually practicing voodoo was different.

“Some of those root doctors have the wrong intentions,” I said, trying to see what she thought about folks who do wrong with that stuff.

“That's not voodoo, that's hoodoo. That's something the white man conjured up to demonize African religions.”

I was slightly relieved. “Oh, OK, so you don't believe in hurting anybody?” It was a question but it came out like a statement. She never answered me. But I felt better just putting it out there.

“What time would you like to have dinner?” I asked, trying to close the deal.

“Did I say I was going to dinner with you?”

I played her game and didn't answer.

“I'll be done here at six o'clock. There's a restaurant called Mother's in West L.A. that's really nice. Have you been there before?”

“Am I picking you up?”

“Depends. Where do you live?” Before I could answer she said, “I tell you what, let's meet at the restaurant at seven, before the dinner rush.”

“Cool. I'll see you at seven, Sojourner.” I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. The light sweat covering her cheek and her translucent face powder coated my lips. My legs were trembling when I straightened up.

She blushed and batted her eyes. “See you at seven, Tommy.”

I could barely enjoy the festival after meeting Sojourner. The taste of her skin simply refused to leave my lips. After
listening to two bands, I packed up and went home. I showered, spruced up the pad in case I got lucky, and made my way to Mother's. Luckily, it wasn't hard to find. When I arrived, Sojourner had a little surprise for me.

She was sitting at a table with another woman. She was a tad shorter than Sojourner, but wore the same Afrocentric garb. The smell of sandalwood hit me at the door, and once again I was intrigued. Sojourner rose and hugged me, her ample breasts smashing into my chest, causing friction between my legs. Her friend's name was Rhonda. She just happened to be dining there tonight, and of course Sojourner couldn't let her eat dinner alone.

We had a glib dinner and discussed everything from world politics to entertainment gossip. I was still hungry after eating a ton of whatever they ordered. Sojourner suggested that I try the sweet potato pie. The waitress brought me a huge slice, warm right out of the oven, with an overflowing scoop of vanilla yogurt. It was delectable, the best thing on the menu.

After our rabbity dinner we decided to go back to my place. I'd bragged about my jazz collection during dinner and Sojourner said she'd love to listen to some of her old favorites. Much to my dismay, Rhonda tagged along. As we loaded into the car, Rhonda dragged her breasts across my back as she eased into the back seat. Her thick nipples sent chills up my back. Damn, maybe this was going to be my lucky night. Two for one. It couldn't get any better than that.

I put on some Miles to kick off the party, then merged into Billie, slid into Thelonious, and finally settled into some Cassandra. I poured the sistahs an eclectic mixture of sparkling water, fruit juice, and herbal extracts designed to relax our minds and energize our bodies. The perfect aphrodisiac.

“This shit is good! What's it called again? Ame?” Sojourner asked me.

“It's pronounced ‘Ah-may.' I'm glad you like it.”

“Do you have any reefa?” Rhonda asked.

“I might be able to scrape a little something off of the bottom of the shoebox.”

I went to my bedroom and checked my stash. I had just enough for one thin joint. Excited and nervous about the night's possibilities, I took nearly fifteen minutes to gather the leaves and separate them from the dust and seeds in the shoebox. I sealed the cigarette paper with my saliva and let it dry in the breeze of my motion. I came back to the living room with the reed between my lips.

I was trapped in my doorway, frozen by the sight of Sojourner and Rhonda engaging in one of the most passionate tongue kisses I had ever witnessed. Their tongues danced a song of sensual thirst. They flickered hard and solid, back and forth against each other. Rhonda's hands were gently pulling and twisting Sojourner's nipples. Sojourner's back was arched, her dress above her knees, exposing her honey-cinnamon thighs. When Rhonda slithered her hand up Sojourner's dress, I cleared my throat to let them know they weren't alone.