Zane's Busy Bodies: Chocolate Flava 4 (15 page)

I was trying to wait him out in the hope that, even though I was leaning toward kinda wanting to give him some, I would not have to have his dick in me. That is, until I stood up from the table to go to the couch. I felt wetness I had never experienced in his presence before. And it had nothing to do with whether Stax or Motown was the best music company of the sixties. It had everything to do with how his bulge was hanging to the left as he poured me a glass of German Liebfraumilch wine. That bulge just kept on bulging.

I made sure that he got a good look down my blouse when I leaned forward to pick up my glass. He took a good look. Did not even attempt to be sly, no pretense at all. Then, just as casually, he started talking about Al Green, Hi Records, and Willie Mitchell’s influence on Memphis soul music of the seventies.

I listened to him ramble on through two glasses of the German table wine. It was an inexpensive wine he drank as a private in the army stationed in Geissen, in what was then West Germany. It was the only decent wine he could afford. A retired army buddy of his would periodically supply him with a few
bottles from the army/air force exchange store at Fort Meade.

I interrupted his rendition of Al Green’s “For the Good Times” by telling him I had to pee. Without waiting for his acknowledgment I grabbed my bag and headed for his bathroom. Sitting on the toilet with a nice buzz and a wet tingling between my legs, I had to make a decision. It was now or never. I didn’t want to fuck him, but I didn’t not want to fuck him, either. A wet pussy on a single girl, involved or not, is a terrible thing to waste. I often had sex with my fiancé without being wet when we started, but we would make up for it by the time we finished. But here I was in Jerome’s apartment, getting turned on, enjoying and hating it at the same time. I’d often heard my brother say that a hard dick has no conscience. Well, a throbbing wet pussy is a lonely hunter, but of course I would never say that to my brother. (If he knew what went through the mind of his little sister when she had a wet pussy, he would be shocked beyond belief. The thought of me having a wet pussy probably never crossed his mind.)

It’s hard for me to pee when I’m already horny. I decided to put on the black teddy. Besides, with my panties already down around my ankles, I was already halfway there. And no way was I putting that sticky wet material back between my legs. I decided to hang them on his towel rack. Leave him a little souvenir of his conquest. Some men may think it’s gross, some like freaky stuff like that. And since this was a one-shot deal, I really didn’t care. I hung them on the towel rack above his sink. “Shave and savor, sweetheart,” I said to myself.

None of my girlfriends talk about looking at themselves naked. But I just love to look at my body. Perfect tits, perfect hips, strong black thighs, beautiful ass, and very pretty face. Hell, I’d fuck me in a heartbeat. I thought about covering myself with some of the baby oil he had in his medicine cabinet,
spraying some water on my body from the flower sprayer sitting in his window, and walking out there stark naked, wet inside and wet outside. But that would telegraph the fact that I was too horny to turn back, that it was either fuck me or cut off your dick. What if I had read his signals wrong? What if he was gay and that was a banana in his pants! Yeah, right! But, just to be safe, I put on the teddy and went back out to meet my fate.

That was no banana! Nor should I have worried about him being gay. He was sitting on the sofa with nothing on but a pair of blue University of Memphis basketball shorts. Were my horns that obvious or did the boy just want to make sure he got this good pussy? For a former geek, Jerome had a fine body. He had a hairy chest. Not that common in black men and a first for me. This would be a nice little treat for my tits. Treat for my tits, treat for my tits. That would make a good hip-hop song title.

The time for indecision, being coy, or whatever, was over. We were going to fuck. That was that. I was not about to let all of this juice running down my leg go to waste. And I’m sure Jerome planned to stick his dick somewhere tonight besides in his hand.

I sat down next to him on the couch. As I did, he stood up, took me by the shoulders, and laid me back. My tits separated under the flimsy material, moving to either side of my chest. The movement of the fabric across my nipples turned them into hard, rubbery points of sensation. My nipples sent a signal to my pussy, checking to see if it was interested in playing. Which was just as well, because without much fanfare, Jerome used two of his fingers and slowly inserted them into my pussy until the heel of his hand was resting against my bushy box. He used his thumb to rub my clitoris. I came for the first time. Then I grabbed his wrist to stop what he was doing without taking his fingers out of me.

“Talk time, first. Okay,” I said. “Let’s lay down the rules of engagement. Kissing—no tongue. You can kiss me on the lips, and I really like being kissed on the neck, but putting your tongue down my throat is off limits. I want to keep that for my boyfriend. When he does it, it gets me really wet. But since I already have a miniature Niagara Falls going on between my legs, it’s not necessary.

“Sucking dick is off limits, too. My boyfriend’s dick is just the right length. I can get his whole dick in my mouth without having to gag. He likes to grab me by the head and fuck my mouth like it’s a pussy. And I swallow. The first time I let him come down my throat it freaked him out so bad I think he would have married me on the spot if I had asked him.

“The last restriction is the asshole. Boy, do I have a sensitive asshole. If you want to score brownie points, then pull my cheeks open and stick your tongue as far up my asshole as it will go. It doesn’t hurt if you lick my brown slit for a while, either. Also, if you want to take me doggie style, you can smack my ass as hard as you want and you can even stick your thumb up my ass if you need to hold on to something, but no dick head in the butt. Digits only.

“Now just because I’m not giving up any head does not mean you can’t. Feel free to lick and suck as much as you want. When you get to the clit, I prefer that you put your whole mouth on the little knob, create some suction, and tickle it with your tongue until my butt starts bouncing on the bed. My orgasm won’t be far behind.

“That leaves the pussy, which I assume is what you are after, after all. You can do anything to the pussy you want. You can use your fingers, tongue, thumb, nose. If you have a dildo you want to put in my pussy while you suck my clit, I’m game. Or, if you
want to watch phallic vegetables or small fruits going in and out of my pussy, that’s okay, too, as long as they are clean and you can get them out. I don’t know how freaky you are when it comes to sex and most of this pussy stuff I have never tried, but I have always been interested in it, and since you are leaving for good, I won’t have to worry about hearing about what a freak I am, and I won’t have to worry about doing it again. I don’t even trust my boyfriend with this side of me.

“Now that we have gotten the fucktials out of the way, how about taking off those shorts and using me for your fuck lust.”

I didn’t have to ask him twice. He took his fingers out of my pussy, stood up, pulled off his shorts, and walked back toward me with the longest, thickest, meanest-looking dick I have ever seen in my life.

“My god! Jerome,” I said, staring at his thick-veined dick, not looking at his face. “I had no earthly idea that you were packing this much meat.”

“Would you have let me fuck you any sooner?” he asked, half-laughing.

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t have wasted all that time thinking about sugar and spice and everything nice.”

“Well, here’s to snakes, snails, and puppy dog tails; mostly snakes.” He laughed again.

I had to touch it. In all my years of fucking, I don’t remember touching a dick just to touch it. I’ve grabbed a few to stick in my pussy when my lover couldn’t find the hole and I didn’t want to wait. But to take a dick in my hand just to play with it—this was a first. I used my left hand to lightly cup his balls, which made my boyfriend’s balls look like raisins. I used my right hand to push the skin back, to fully expose the head, and stuffed his dick into my mouth. So much for rules.

As I enjoyed the sensation of his dick in my mouth I became excited, if a bit afraid. A big dick was new, it was challenging; I was afraid for my throat and my butt hole. As the head filled my mouth my pussy tightened, my butt hole loosened—spreading, winking, waiting, hoping. Everything that I’d said was off limits was now in play.

With his hands on my ears he pushed forward, and I could feel the head inching toward my throat. I knew I should stop because I had to sing a solo on Sunday. The last Saturday night my boyfriend had his dick in my throat my soprano was nowhere to be found the next day. Fortunately I didn’t have to solo that day. I hadn’t missed a solo since singing in the junior choir. If I didn’t sing tomorrow, I would have some explaining to do to our choir director.

Of course, if I were true to my Christian values, I wouldn’t be down on my knees, in the house of a man other than my boyfriend, with a dick in my mouth. I would have to figure this shit out tomorrow because sin and lust had me in their grip and I was loving losing the battle.

Jerome saved me from the dick-throat dilemma. In one fluid motion he was out of my mouth and I was on my back, wet, willing, and wide open. He was inside me so fast and so deep that I didn’t have a chance to experience anything but pleasure. My mind stopped processing. My senses of sight, sound, smell, and hearing turned off as he slowly slid into my body. I forgot to breathe until he stuck his tongue in my mouth, grabbed a tit in each hand, and tried to bottom out. That shit was not happening. My pussy was not built for a dick like his. Mine was a nice-girl pussy, built for normal-sized dicks doing normal stuff. He had reached the limits of what I had to give, I thought. He put those basketball hands on my ample butt, pulled me close, and found
new territory inside my body. In my mind’s eye I could see his dick slowly entering my womb at the same time I felt him digging me a new hole. All my senses kicked back in. I opened my eyes, groaned really hard; I smelled his peppermint breath as he softly said, “I love you.”

When I stopped coming I started crying. I was coming here to give a good friend some pussy. I didn’t mind getting laid, but had not planned on getting stuffed. I didn’t mind giving him some pussy, but had not planned on giving him my body. I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about our relationship beyond twenty years of friendship. I had even started out setting down rules to govern our lust, only to have lust turn into love.

I held him as he kissed me. As he slid all the way to the back of my pussy, my tears kept falling. I knew that snot was running from my nose, but Jerome didn’t seem to mind. He was in the zone now, taking what I had come to give him, giving me what I had come for. Giving me more than I had come for in feelings and in dick.

Jerome was a one-of-a-kind friend. I would never see him again. Even though it was the best sex I ever had, I got over it. I got married. I have lived happily ever after. You think?

Shaniqua Holt

My legal name is Connie Johnson, but everyone calls me Cupcake because I am a chef. I relish working in the culinary field. Occasionally, I also work as a plus-sized model. I find that lifestyle extremely appealing. I’m confident about my curves and succulent dark skin. Many men regard me as a “dimepiece.”

A few weeks ago I caught wind of an announcement that auditions were taking place for the May issue of a hip-hop magazine. Even though they did not specify plus-sized models, I decided to audition. Considering that my body is on point, I figured I wouldn’t have any problems.

The audition was going smoothly until the time arrived for the actual shoot. When it came time to take my pictures, a thin, ass-less model vigorously complained. She believed I was
too large
to be allowed at the audition and that I was breaking some kind of an unwritten fat-model code or rule. She complained so much that I was politely asked to step aside and leave.

Darrin, my hero in more ways than one, came to my defense. He chastised the other photographers and the model. He told the other photographers that he would take my pictures for the magazine.

During the shoot, I made sure I showed off every curve, posing seductively in a sexy black bra and panty set. I was convinced
that I looked better than anyone else; my curves only enhanced my sex appeal.

Darrin seemed to love taking my pictures. I posed exclusively for him. I caught some of the other photographers talking among each other and watching my body with desperation in their eyes. I imagined they were whispering, “Damn . . . I want to fuck you to death.”

Darrin continued to snap pictures and even accumulated significantly more shots than the other photographers. Every few minutes, he paused and scanned my body as he held on to his camera. I would tease him and pout my lips, pretending to be naughty.

After the shoot, Darrin informed me that chances were slim that my pictures would be included in the magazine. He informed me that the model who had complained was remarkably good at getting her way with the other photographers, if I understood what he meant. He smiled a sad, but extremely sexy, smile that sent quakes down my spine and then he winked. It was then that I noticed the cane he was grasping in one hand. He blessed me with his business card and told me that if I ever needed him, give him a call.

The next day I told my friend Star, also a model, about the fallout at the shoot and how kind Darrin had been. She acknowledged his good deed, but warned me to stay away from him. She claimed that he had a terrible reputation within the model pool because he seemed to disregard everyone. Whenever someone tried to get close to him, he generally pushed them away. She then proceeded to tell me all about his past.

Darrin Sullivan had been stationed in Afghanistan two years earlier and was gravely injured, which resulted in the loss of both legs from the knees down. He had been honorably
discharged, then had returned to the States and had a brief stay at a veterans’ hospital where he underwent physical therapy and learned to walk again using prosthetic legs. He had recuperated at home after that.