Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (18 page)

We were in the middle of praise when the usher seated her in the midst of Sister Beulah's crew. They were rocking and swaying and you knew it was getting ready to hit the pitch when Brother Marcus began to jog. He jogged first across the front of the church and then back. Well, that just got those sisters riled up 'cause the next thing you knew three or four of them had joined him, and Sister Martine had started with the cries. “Oh, Jesus. Yes, Lord. My God, my God. Oh. Oh. Oh. Yes, Jesus. Oh, yes, Jesus. Oh. Oh. Oh. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The attendants came and caught her just as she swooned.

Brother Bishop had joined in the fray and was now jumping straight up and down in place. This started his whole row going. I was moving my fingers up and down the keyboard, punctuating every percussive bass note I could find right in beat with Lloyd Jr. on the congas. The Jubilee singers took their cue, “I'm in my Father's house, I dance I sing I shout. I love to give Him praise and bless His Holy Name. Shout, Shout, Shout. Dance, Dance, Dance. Sing, Sing, Sing. And bless His Holy Name.” Sister Wrigley raised her skirt and did a little step. Brother Richard grabbed a tambourine as Sister Jean worked over the bass guitar. Hallelujahs went up everywhere.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her hands clapping. She bent over and put her Bible and purse on the seat behind her. The crowd was pulsating. Brother Edwards and his grinnin' self edged over toward her. That dog. If it wore a dress he just had to sniff under it. But she was gone.
She moved forward in the midst of the commotion and threw her head back. Her arms fell to the side and her feet started dancing. Her torso trembled as she submitted to the Holy Ghost's taking her shaking and dancing all the way from one side of the church to the other. The hair in that neatly pinned bun just let itself loose. Back and forth she leaned, first one way then the other, her body surrendering to that good gladness, that happy dance. Her hips moved in time with the music, grinding and gyrating. Her pelvis pumping and pushing that fine behind back and forth.

And all the while I was playing. Oh, man, was I playing. I could feel my behind sliding from one end of the bench to the other, feet pumping away at the pedals, my fingers stroking those ivory keys with deliberate measure, my tongue licking my lips. I locked onto her step and moved faster and faster as the congregation's fervor grew to a collective pitch. No one was seated. Some twelve hundred folks were shouting, “Hallelujah, Praise Jesus, Thank you Father, Yes Lord.” But above it all I could hear her voice. “Yes, Jesus,” she shouted. “Yes, Jesus. Oh, God, Yes, Jesus!”

My body was trembling, twitching. I could feel the burn in my thighs as I pounded those pedals harder with my feet. My throat became dry as I sucked in short breaths between the hiss of the “Yes, Jesus, Oh, yes, Jesus,” moaning between my lips. My bottom felt on fire. As I continued to bounce along the bench my cheek muscles contracted with each syncopated beat. I began to lose the rhythm as the all-too-familiar explosion edged its way to the surface. The strain showed on my face. I slowed the rhythm of my music. And God's people followed suit. Sister Mavis collapsed in her pew as she turned to wink and smile at me.

Till that moment I'd thought I'd experienced this by myself. But there she was, her smile radiating a familiar afterglow. Tendril strands of hair curled about her ears and neck, wove
around her collar, and fell between the folds of her blouse, caressing her cleavage. I had to know her.

Throughout the service I caught myself watching her demure beauty recollecting itself from the earlier release. Each exquisite movement was in itself a distraction. My mind raced. What had the wink meant? Had she felt me as I had felt her? Or was she merely thanking my spirit for moving hers? I refocused my thoughts on the day's lesson and back to my duties as organist.

My legs still ached from the earlier workout. Nearly an hour had passed since service ended. Pastor congratulated me on my “spirited playing” and joked about how I continued to raise the bar for him to inspire the congregation. I nodded and smiled, thinking of the particular congregant who had inspired my playing.

I rushed out of the church, knowing in my heart that she had already gone. I looked to the lot across the street and my heart sank. My car was the only one there. I gathered the strap of my music bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed toward the foot of the stairs and the street. As I moved toward the curb, I lowered my head and bemoaned the lost opportunity. A horn blared and chased away my reverie. I looked up in time to catch a glance of Miss Mavis Dupree, her slender arm waving through the driver's side window of the silver Mustang as it roared by. I floated two feet off the ground to my car and winged my way home.

The following Sunday came after an excruciatingly slow week. Every morning I rose counting the days to Sunday's return. And when it finally arrived, I was on the steps of of the church at seven for the eight A.M. service. By 9:45 I was frantically searching the burgeoning crowd for Miss Mavis's face. She didn't disappoint me. Again, she sat on the left side of the church. Her hair was pulled back and pinned in the same tight bun. Her skirt, long and unadorned, accentuated the
A
-line of her frame. Her heels added two inches to her height.

I started the music off slowly, the melodies framed by sweet harmonies above and below. “Jesus on the main line…” Sister Eveline, the soloist, crooned dramatically as the choir chimed in, “Tell him what you want.…” The crowd was being massaged. Their toes were tapping, fingers popping, heads bopping. Sister Beulah's crew began clapping, snapping, and tapping. Sister Wrigley began her step; Brother Edwards wandered over to some unsuspecting pretty young thang in a long, flower-print dress.

I took it up a notch and gave Sister Martine her cue. The attendants rushed, fans in hand, to her side. Lloyd Jr. grabbed hold of those congas and beat the black right out of them. It was
on.
My bass notes dueled with his drums and matched Sister Jean's bass guitar. Sister Etta Wrigley broke into full dance as the choir sang, arms flying, robes raised in full wing like angels.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her. Her head thrown back, hair undone, shirt buttons bursting as she threw her chest forward and proceeded to dance. She came out of her shoes as the spirit moved her torso shaking, shimmying across the church. This time, I turned and watched as I pounded those keys. My fingers stroking ivory, my feet pounding wood, my behind rising and riding her shouts of “Yes, oh yes, oh yes.… Thank you. Yes, Father. Oh, Lord, yes.” Our voices rang out in unison, “Yes, yes. Oh, Lord, yes.…” I played and watched her as she danced and watched me, the smiles in our eyes creeping to the corners of our lips.

That Sunday after service, I was the first one out of the church. And Sister Mavis wasn't far behind. I invited her to dinner. We ate, and talked, and drank a little wine. She told me her story of being a P.K.—preacher's kid—who'd never learned to let herself go till she stepped foot in the Divine Deliverance Tabernacle and felt for herself what she'd
witnessed women doing all those years back home in her daddy's tiny church.

I listened to the soft voice that held contrast to the shouts of praise I'd heard earlier. I watched the quiet, almost sacrosanct figure who seemed so small now at dinner, but who loomed large in her worship of her Creator. I listened intently, as she softly spoke about how my music moved her—not just the music itself, but also the idea that a woman such as me, big-framed with large hands, heavy in weight, and so obviously strong, handsome, and masculine, could elicit such spirit from an organ. She stopped and then quietly intoned, “If you could so masterfully do that to an organ, I wonder what you would do to me.”

That night, in the quiet of her room, beneath the bristles of the boar's hair brush, I felt the length and weight of her hair cascade down her narrow, athletic back. I kissed the nape of her tiny neck, stroked the slender curve of her shoulders, held the arc of her waist, and watched with envy the tender kiss of her hair as it brushed her naked breast when she removed first her shirt, then mine.

My fingers burned to make music with her, caress the song right out of her throat, draw the breath from her lungs and hear its tonal escape. My hands wanted to pound her keys, hit each right note, bang the inside chords, produce a perfect melody, blend a perfect harmony, strum the perfect beat. I listened for the pitch as my hands moved down her shoulders and along her back, my mouth sprang open, filled with nipples and breasts, and became its own instrumentalist. My hands slid down along her bottom and felt the contracting muscles as she raised her skirt and wrapped her thighs around mine. I pulled her closer.

I felt myself growing as the cotton pressed against my swollen clitoris. Her lips long ago had surrendered to the strength of my loving. I reached down, undid my pants, and
let them slide to the floor. I gingerly stepped out of them and my shoes, unzipped the back of her skirt and raised it over her breasts, face, and hair. I carried her into the bedroom.

Miss Mavis Dupree.…Mmm Oh yes, what a woman. To say that night she re-created that shout at home with me would be an understatement. Miss Mavis had been wanting for many years to find that sweet release, surrender her body to that good gladness, not just in church, but also at home. In me, Marva L. Malcomb, she finally found the spirit that could set her free.

I lay on the bed and started to speak. Her fingers caressed my lips, as she shook her head, “No.” With the flick of a switch on the massive headboard frame of her bed, the room became filled with my music. I listened in awe as the music began to build. I watched Mavis's face. She turned and looked at me, eyes wide open, and softly she smiled. She climbed on top of me and placed my hands on her narrow hips. Bending her knees up, she now squatted over me. Her eyes slowly closed, her fingers tapped the tip of my nipples in time with the music, her glutes kept time on her bottom, her torso began to rock and sway, her head fell back, and her hair tickled the inside of my thighs. “Oh God,” the words escaped my lips. “Yes,” Mavis replied. Her bottom began sliding across my belly and grinding along my pubic hair. As the music began to grow, so did I. I could feel her edging over me. Lloyd Jr.'s congas seemed to take over in the background and the beat lifted her bouncing along the top of my thighs, the contracting cheek muscles catching and pulling on me.

“Oh God,” I moaned.

“Oh yes,” she responded.

“Oh God.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Oh, God!”

“Oh…yes,” our voices cried out in unison.

She bent her knees under and slid the length of her body against mine. I felt her wetness and her hard clit push against my own. The friction between us heated our clits, and wetness streamed between our thighs. Her hair poured over my body, tickling and tantalizing it beyond belief. The choir clapping was ringing in my ears, the bass guitar strummed our heated bodies. We twisted and turned, banged and bonded, arms, fingers, teeth, hair, and juices a mass of motion, gyrating, grinding, pushing, and pumping in time with the music, its crescendo matched by our own.

“Oh God. Yes Father. Oh Jesus. Yes God. Oh God. Yes! Yes! Yes!” Mavis rose as I grabbed her cheeks with both hands. The music continued. We hit the bridge, and Hallelujahs went up everywhere. We could hear the tambourines shaking and the feet stomping.

I pulled Mavis's nether lips to my mouth. Her sigh rose above me when I plunged my tongue deep inside her. Her body shook as I watched her rocking back and forth, struggling against the surrender. Her hands grabbed my shoulders as she tried to wrench away. With each lift, her swollen pussy would void itself of my tongue and then hungrily pound me back into it again and again. She rode this way for several minutes, grabbing my hair and then the headboard, my shoulders, and then the sheets, seeking to find a merciful anchor.

And then it happened. The juices flowing between her thighs slid across my fingers. My thumb edged its way between them and found its way to that last virgin spot and, like an organ key, pushed in and turned on. Mavis rode it, reached around and pushed it further in, pounded my tongue, mouth, and chin with her soft, cavernous pussy. My bottom pounded the bed; my feet pounded the mattress; my fingers keyed her ass; and my lips played an embouchure to her organ. Her shouts reverberated through the night air.

As I said, it has been a year since that first Sunday. We've had fifty-one Sundays since. And on every one of them Sister Mavis Dupree re-creates that shout at home with me, Sister Marva L. Malcomb. Gotta go. She's in the bedroom waiting to celebrate our anniversary. And I don't want to keep her waiting. Oh no, no, no. Not Sister Mavis.

 

 

 

 

“There go Miss Cicero, every Saturday, just as regular as you please.” The Modeen sisters rocked in their chairs and nodded from the porch as she passed by.

“Yes, indeed. Ain't it sweet how she walk halfway cross town just to read to blind old Mr. Thackeray?”

“Sure is. And she ain't no spring chicken neither. She in her seventies and Mr. Thackeray's older than that! He and her dead husband was tight as tits. Just like family, they was.“

“You have a nice day now, hear?” they called out as she tossed a nod their way.

Purple blossomed wisteria vines trailed along the sides of Mr. Thackeray's small white house. The brick pathway bit a swath through the crew-cut lawn, past the figure of a white jockey with a bullet hole in its cap. Miss Cicero held onto the wrought iron railing, and pulled herself up the wide wooden steps.

“Come on in, Miss Cicero,” a deep voice called out before she could ring the bell. “My door ain't never closed to you.” She locked the door behind her, unpinned the straw hat,
and hung it on the hall tree. She stood in the vestibule for a moment, blinded by the darkness of the half-drawn shades, the closed windows, and the smell of fresh roses.