Best Black Women's Erotica 2 (23 page)

Marlon's hand reached down and cupped my ass, lifted one leg up toward his shoulder. He stroked inside me so deep it made my eyes cross. His face was inches from mine but I couldn't see him. I gnashed my teeth together and bit on the ends of his locks, clawed my neat, filed nails across his magnificent back, tried to drag him deeper inside me. He scooped me up, pulled my torso inches off the table where I hovered, sustained by and centered on his plowing dick, supported by his iron arms.

I was nothing but an orgasm, shrieking and moaning. My arms were spread open, flung wide on the table's blanketed surface. I rode my wild climax, bucking. I was still coming when Marlon put me down on the cushion with my hips at its edge and slammed his cock forcefully from an inviting new angle. I swung my legs upward and held them at the ankles, giving him an eyeful of his dick plunging in and out. No man I'd ever been with hadn't liked to watch, and I was fucking a
man I'd just met in our shared place of business. I figured, why go halfway with it? I wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock and massaged my engorged clit with my thumb.

Marlon clutched my hips and started twisting his waist, churning into me and, unbelievably, growing even stiffer. I wrung the last of my climax off on his magnificent dick.

With my pussy still clenching from my peak, I swung upward, sliding off Marlon's ready shaft and wrapping my lips around it before he could say anything. I sank that thick thing as far into my throat as it would go and folded my hands around the rest. I drank the taste of my pussy from his flesh and milked it with my tongue, lips, fingers. Marlon put his hand on the back of my head, not rough but insistent, and I fucked my mouth up and down on him until I felt that jerk/ pulse/quiver that meant he was coming.

I stroked his cock firmly and kissed the very tip, whirling my tongue around the head and keeping my lips parted. I let him see it shoot into my mouth a little before I dove down onto him, feeling his cum splash warm down my throat. His hands dug into my shoulders and back as I drank his juices down—not at all like a trained masseuse.

That time, we both fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

You are a third-generation beast in a first-generation world of open legs. You were six when you read your mother's Marquis de Sade. It explained so much about things in the house. Kama Sutra at seven, but you remained unimpressed. Likewise, at eight, by the flaccid illustrations in
The Joy of Sex
. However, the paintings of Shoji at nine—the kimonos parted over thick white penises, the arc of them shining into pleated vulvas—excited you.

You fuck artfully, are disappointed by graceless fumblings. You give them one more chance, just to placate your horrified friends. To say, I fucked her twice, avoid the one-night-stand hisses. Not that the PR helps your reputation or your sex life. Some things do not improve with time.

You talk to them first, pay close attention to details, are interested and easily amused. Women like that. Always a voracious reader, you turn their pages, memorize the deep structure of their grammar, their adjectival clauses. A question in private that puts them off guard. Women are so polite. So crisscrossed with borders. Sometimes it's like stealing. Taking
something you don't really want just to. Get away with it. Sometimes you tell them you love them. Sometimes, not often, this is true.

You hold back enough to keep them curious. Women like that. You are wounded enough to be salvageable. Women like that too—fixing things. Taking in the broken wing you drag like a decoy.

You are hungry. Each one tastes different. You lavish your tongue wherever they push your mouth. Creases slick with sweat and hair and the particular liquid of an armpit. You are not clean. You are not fresh. You are not pleased with extended foreplay. You want the fuck. Your hands as full of cunt as the stretch can dare, the edge of pain and fear. Their screams delicious bells pealing, their small large rough soft hands grabbing. Sometimes you make an offering of yourself. They think they take and you open wide to swallow them whole.

You are not generous.

One holds herself away from you and fucks your cunt dry with the thick black cock, sweat rain, and, unrelenting, fucks your ass, then slathers the lube and turns you over again and again.

One pushes your fist away. You rewind and tease her clit until she begs for it, kneels ass moon full. A difficult position, but you oblige, blood spilling from your wrist and aching fingers.

One stumbles in the shower against your soap-slick arm, gasps choking on the water full in a mouth turned away from you, a tongue you sucked on for hours. A shining slap and push through to the cervix soft circle.

One you coax and beg and cajole. She doesn't say yes but she doesn't say no. You suck her asshole until her cunt is wet and fuck her with your tongue until she sighs.

You do not make promises. You do not plan to keep. You are not conjunctive.

One sits on your cock while you think about her boyfriend.

You are perfect.

One cries from her urethra while you suck her clit.

You are dangerous.

One's anus spirals out around your finger.

You are unapologetic.

One's youth gives beneath your knee, crisp indentations.

You are born.

When you can't fuck, hunger makes you walk the streets alone and weep. If the moon is full your womb is an aching crater. The doctor says your hormones are fucked up. She wants you to take pills to stabilize them. They make you feel pregnant and bitter and you won't stop smoking. You quit taking them, though it means you will get cancer. The eggs struggle against the membrane and wait to be let out, die, and decay there, festering cysts. On the sonogram, your ovaries look like asteroids against the tulips of your fallopian tubes.

When you can't fuck, you write about not fucking. You plan the next escapade, have dreams where you hook up with blue-eyed Australian men. You kiss women young enough to be your daughters, masturbate several times a day, and get no work done. Your friends say that this is good for you, that you need to stop fucking so much. That if you do it less you will think about it less. They are lying, as usual. You think they are jealous of how you feed, how they repress their own gluttony. You think of sins, of church, of priests, of how the hood of the clitoris is like the nave of a cathedral.

You are not penitent.

When you haven't fucked for long enough, you make bad fuck judgments.

You fuck a lawyer who has never fucked a woman before. “Women are so kind,” says the virgin. “Women are sensitive and caring.” Her hope is a virus. You say nothing. She makes
good rum cake and wants to watch TV. You fuck her tiny cunt with three fingers while you patiently suck her clit. You are unceremonious. You disabuse.

You fuck an insipid poet who is too fat for your taste. She sends you poems you claim were never received. She calls the night you are fucking the lawyer. You tell her—I am fucking the lawyer, we'll talk tomorrow—and turn off the ringer. Let the answering machine take her eighteen pleas.

You fuck your best friend the night before your father's funeral.

You fuck your ex's best friend the week before you get back together with your ex.

You fall in love.

You fall in love with a star in a different constellation, city, state, relationship. Her lovers have good credit and dark hair. She meets you in the back room of your cunt, in the crevices you left unturned. You fuck her in the armchair before the fireplace when her lover is away, pull down the laces of her mouth, and shove your hand into the bruised cuff of her cunt. Her face is a quick flush of heat, lips purple from your teeth. You blind, bind, beat. Her geography wears at your nipples. You map her in reticent bodies, know a crystal glass by how it sings beneath your moistened fingers.

When you are not fucking, your generosity knows no bounds. When you have no more money, you share your food. When you have no more food, you give good advice. Everyone tells you, you should be a therapist.

You have been lying since you were six. The Marquis de Sade was all about presentation. Your origin is a story your mother used to quell the troops. Your luteinizing hormone will not release the eggs. Cunt judgment. The gynecologist laughed. You were eighteen years old and she thought your dickless state was a joke. You are not a joke and you have your own dicks. You refuse to make love. Take the consumptive
tunnel and give it a fuck. The edge of the tub, the arm of the sofa, your brother's rocking horse, fruit, vegetables, tongues, fists, nipples, fingers, toes, toothbrushes, bottles, candles, handles, plastic, porcelain, silicone, glass.

You are not injured. You are not healing.

You are taking it lying down.

 

 

 

 

 

girl,

first day here. flight was manageable. these accommodations are far superior to the last conference. just getting settled from the airport. gazing out the window over the lake. thought about those scars on your body. the scars on your neck. imagined kissing them. pressing my lips against that raised mark.

you like me to mark you. you enjoy the marking as play. the making is even more exquisite. I wonder how you got those other marks. (you linger in the safety of your secrets.) and I wonder what it would be like to let go and cherish those marks. (those not made by me.) permanent. to kiss them. maybe the one on your neck. really kiss it. kiss the one beneath it. pull you close and tight. give and know the giving is received, without hesitation. no questions. simply become that cherished moment. become the one cherished. would you give yourself to me?

6 days until I see you again.

 

shhhh.

in my bed, kitten. the hot summer air surrounding us. after a long day of workshops I imagine you here. gently licking my mosquito bites. massaging my tired limbs until I force you to stop. I feel desire in your hands. smooth and press it into my flesh like expensive oils. I know that you can't not touch me. if I said
no,
would you seal your desire from me? or give it to me, knowing it's your desire that feeds my endless hunger?

show me your desire. submit in honesty. like a kitten pulled by the scruff of the neck, you go limp with desire just to see me smile. will you focus on minutia if it pleases me? wait all day in one place if I ask it of you?

5 more days until I see you again.

 

 

 

let's revisit one of the nights before I left.

I called you late and you came over immediately. hitchhiked from the outskirts of the city just to get to me. barely inside the door I had you tell me of your travels and then strip down in silence. fold your clothes neatly in a pile on the floor while I watched. it was lovely, knowing what you did to get to me. I could smell the excitement on your skin. I made you sit in the middle of the floor, bare ass on cool, hard wood. you squirmed and I frowned at you. so shy and unsure, brown skin blistering under my gaze. and still I made you wait, because it was delicious.

eventually I had you sit on the low stool. the one I had refinished just days before. I told you that you would be breaking it in. ass on the edge, knees bent and open. I told you some of the nasty things I could do to you. and we both
watched your wetness form, grow strings heavy with gravity, fall and collect itself in tiny pools on the floor…

4 more days…

 

 

 

later, I had you crawl on all fours, ass in the air, inviting.

I knew what you wanted. needed. but I had worked you over so hard the day before. I wanted to be sure you were sure. you're still so new to this. so I drew you a bath with fragrant oils. let you soak away the muscle cramps and strains. gave you a glass of wine and washed your body slowly. lingered over the fresh bruises that made you so proud. I took pleasure in your joy and accomplishment for having me mark you. display ownership. spoil. pamper.

your body a glistening mixture of water and oils, I had you crawl back over to the stool. back to the same spot you inhabited earlier, only this time I sat on the stool, legs spread wide. I beckoned you forward to the spot I had marked off with masking tape before your bath. back to the little pool of your wetness cooling in the night air. you sniffed it so lovingly, ass high in the air on display. I had you lie flat. and then slowly, exactly as I instructed, you gently lapped up your sweet treasure.

couldn't get enough. I had you get in my bed for the first time. you rolled your body around on my sheets. I demanded that you come for me while I watched. then I dressed your naked flesh in my overcoat. tucked your hungry body into a cab. into the early morning light. sent you home to think. to remember.

3 more days.

 

it's been a very long day.

events went well into the evening and I find myself a little tired. I think about your tongue, kitten. how eager and persistent it is. so willing. inviting. your pussy is not always so open. sometimes you hold back from me. is it fear? is it too much for you? or too little? where is your heart, little one? do you protect it from me? bundle it off somewhere like winter coats in mothballs? it's always summer with me, if you are warm and willing. if you show me your promise. submit in spirit and posture. shut out the world, little one. hush. I can give you what you desire.

2 more days.