Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (17 page)

 

he admits, “i can't get rid of your scent if i hang your coat with my shit your smell permeates my shit it hangs in my locks it stays in my sheets i think your scent lives in the mattress even after the sheets are changed even after i shower after days you stay here you stay with me on me in me i can't get rid of your scent driving me crazy if i wish days after we fuck i can lick my mouth and there you are i daydream of you i grab myself you never leave lover your scent is the mantra that lives in my room”

 

 

and he continues, “you move my root chakra i'm not moved easily kamania you do something to me you are the source in which I express my joy in passion and sex you are that place i travel to seek it all you evoke constant fantasies of fucking you i love to fuck you it's inebriating you have such a powerful appeal and sweet scent i'm not talking about your body oils your frankincense or your amber tell me what i'm talking about kamania tell me you know i'm talking about your pussy”

he explains, “kamania i don't go to a flower shop expecting heavily scented flowers cut from earth the sweetest flowers are living you are a flower a wild bush the most sweet-smelling the most natural you are a wild bee that flower dress your waist in beads i want you in a waistlet with a strand of beads that goes down between your legs connects from your navel to your back rubs against your clit something soft and comfortable but erotic would you wear that for me kamania? dress your waist in beads to express your sexuality—to evoke it even more? ah that's my girl i'd love that”

 

with curiosity and slurring words, he asks, “so kamania baby tell me are you heavy or do you not bleed that much? when was the last time you slept with someone while you were on your period? how does it smell right now? how does it taste? sure you know you have it right there with you smell it taste it tell me it smells as sweet as it smelled the other night? when you literally left a sweet taste in my mouth oh baby you're killing me do you want to meet me down the street for a drink?”
four times now your body has healed me made me feel like a good night's sleep a chamomile bath a nature walk baby like aphrodite's fruit you make me rain blue again each night i fuck you it snows you fall to my stomach to my chest to my mouth this tongue these hips wait for the sky to fall i'm waiting for the fifth time so we can call up divination lying beside me you pull off my panties your dick hard skin stretched tight cock standing straight waiting to float in my cycle ready remembering how good it feels to pull up my dress undress my flesh your dick shining its veins protruding my panties resting over your searching nose your eyes close

 

he asks, “baby, how are your panties so wet? don't you have on a tampon?”

 

his lips? they pout even when he is smiling his mouth is always happy as if he has stored the finest tastes upon his tongue and is celebrating a sweet palate orgasm they v his top lip meets the deep pierce of his bottom lip i want to plant the whole of me there i want to taste you to feel the
sandalwood texture between your penis and ass so i stretch myself down while painting your torso with saliva you push your hardness to the back of my mouth you penetrate my throat and move my hair away watch my tongue your dick slides in and out of my mouth teasing you giving you slow fast in deeper but i would curl up in the pyramid between his pecs there in that place my hand fits perfectly and inherently finds its way there every time we fuck every time we stroke tongues every time there are nile waves below the pyramid that spread around his torso his back dips vertebrae curves a graceful arch his arms bend slightly at his elbows he holds them as if to say,
“i'm ready for anything”
you finger my calyx spread it open pull out my cotton throw it to the floor turn me over and push yourself inside me i tingle from the feeling of your dick entering i cum around you stain the blanket i soak you swim inside my wetness

 

“kamania i want to taste you open your legs”

 

 

 

 

 

Let's not front. If it's good, cussing in bed is a given, just like smacking a substantial ass. I smile at the thought. I know now it was looking down into his face that made it unbearable. Nutmeg brown, framed by a clipped black beard and mustache around full lips, dreadlocks spread like an Afro-mandala around his head. I saw vulnerability in his face, but it was trapped behind a mouth that offered no syllables. The parting of his lips in a soft, slow gasp. The long fingers, the arching back, the rise of hips into mine. Each shift, each tremble culminated softly on his face.

But I couldn't understand why his silence bothered me. Why was I looking for words when his hands broke me into quivering spells? I mean, the man even makes dinner after a full day at work and kisses the back of my neck while I'm at the computer. He looks me in the eye as if I'm the world. It's not that I didn't trust him in spite of the quiet. I did. I just needed to hear the words.
Tell me what it feels like. Do you like it? I'm here, baby. Hold me. I love holding you. Oooooh, when you move like that, don't stop, don't, ooooh,
you taste…damn, don't stop, can't let go, don't move.
But it wasn't happening.

So, I'm walking up the block with my keys in hand and I'm waiting to see his big old Kool-Aid grin. Just thinking about it pulls a throb from me.
Girl, baby girl, woman, what you doin' hot and wet like that? Damn.
Makes me want to cross my legs and stop to look up at the stars. Key in the lock, then I step into the hallway, up three short steps to the landing. Nag Champa sweetens the apartment. He's smiling and one of his locks points at me as if speaking for him. I reach my arms toward his outstretched smile. Far be it from me not to be, like, “Hey, ba'y, thought about you today.”

“Really?” he answers. “Not too busy saving the world?”

“Always. Not enough time in the day.”

“Well, sometimes we make time.”

“Make time for what?” My lips curled into curlicues as I stretched the vowels. He knows I strain them with skills and volume when coaxed. OK, at least a little coaxing. OK, no fronting, not much coaxing at all. It's been days since I've heard that drop in his voice, as if the beat was riding in just a little heavier, as if it's made for my hip pockets.

Now we're sipping merlot, one glass, but it's not as sweet as kissing him for ten solid minutes. I know he sees me thinking just that, when my lips press into the glass rim. He looks like he's about to curl into the big reading chair with me until one of his long arms pulls me up, close to his chest.

“What's wrong with you, boy?” I smile that coy, teenage smile at him.

“Nothing,” he says, smiling back. He's talking with his face. I don't hear any music, but I'm feeling the rhythm in this dance. I like the beat that leads us to the bedroom, peeling back our clothes like dried husks that can't hold the juicy flesh inside. The kisses don't end, don't stop. My skin is swelling from his lips. Each lock brushes me to shudders and I can't
help hoping he will say something so that I can hear the sound of brother-voice I've grown accustomed to in these moments. I want his voice to push me over the crooked edges of my screams.
Yeah, baby. That's it. You feel so damn good. Damn, baby, you wet. You gonna come for me, baby? You gonna make some noise? Scare my neighbors?

My response breaks through in half question/half moan. “What, baby?” I'm hoping I heard him say it 'cause it was sounding too good in my head. He shakes his head
no
without stopping, and shatters the fantasy. His eyes are closed, and I'm tempted to rock even faster until they pop wide open. I'm waiting for the honey-dipped bass to fall into my ears. No words. I'm pent up with goddamn wondering when the whispers will flow. Say something, shit.

He's nothing but lean. Eyes closed as his head rocks back and forth against the pillow. Fingers clasped over our heads. His flat, firm stomach forms a
V
at his hips where tiny, fine, clustered hairs line their way into tickling my stomach. He's opening his mouth so that I see the white of his square teeth mocking the moonlight that peeks through slanted blinds.
I feel you squeezing me. God, you're wet. You know I love you. You know you can do whatever you want, baby. Whatever. Shiiitt….

He still hasn't spoken. But his breath is keeping time with some go-go song and I can't remember the title. I don't even want to recall. Egyptian musk is clinging to his neck like my mouth is. His hand brushes behind my ear and a twitch blooms into a lotus of shock across my back. He starts rubbing my ass with the sheets. Now, why did he have to do that?

So I start. “Damn you. Why does your dick have to be so good? You know how bad I wanted this. This shit is like prayer. You gonna give me what I want? Baby?”

Every word's a stutter-step. I clamp onto him and we are both pushing with as much speed and force as our bones will
allow. I think I hear his mouth open. I know what finally comes out. I hear, “Yes, baby. Yessss….”

Something crashes inside me. A tidal wave rushes up my thighs, my spine, my shoulders. The tremors burst into citrus-colored fans underneath my eyelids. Then a scream finally crashes out of my mouth and into the dark. When we collapse, press skin to skin, we are breathless. We are, again, silent. Without words.

 

 

 

 

It seems like it took me forever to get here. One solid year of watching Miss Mavis Dupree. Sister Mavis Dupree, that is. One solid year. Mm-mmm. What a woman. Every Sunday I, Marva L. Malcomb, do the praise and worship hour at the Divine Deliverance Tabernacle. Oh, we really get the spirit moving. Sister Etta Wrigley leads the Jubilee chorus in their weekly shoutfest as I get things going with my organ. My fingers fly across those keys while my feet pump the pedals. It's not an easy thing to do unless you're doin' it for the Lord like I am.

Some Sundays I can hit it just right as Sister Wrigley shouts, “Put your hands together for Jesus. Let your praises be heard in the heavens. Hallelujah! Lift your voices and let me hear an Amen. I said, lift those voices of praise. In the name of Jesus, In the name of Jesus, We have a victory.…” The whole congregation joins in clapping and singing while I'm just a playin' on that organ.

Well, this one particular Sunday, about a year ago, is when Sister Mavis Dupree came to join us. I noticed her right off
because of her height. Not too many folks can be six foot two and not be noticed, especially not a woman like Sister Mavis. No, no. Not like Sister Mavis. She stood off to herself on the left side of the church looking a little lost and quiet. She wore a long plain skirt and blouse. Her hair was neatly pulled back and held with a clip. Pretty, but plain.