Best Black Women's Erotica Page 5

  “Ooh, shit,” he whispered. Her pussy was wet and with each stroke of his finger across her clit she became more excited. “Now it’s your turn,” he said. He led her through the darkened house to their bedroom and sat her on the edge of the bed. He laid her down on her back and spread her legs. Chills ran through her body when he buried his face in her pussy, his thick, full lips kissing her softly, gently, teasing her until she put her hands on the back of his head and pulled him closer. She moaned, her breath coming in quick, heavy gasps.

  Then he introduced his tongue to the event. She came almost immediately, her legs trembling, and she involuntarily jerked away. He reached under and cupped her ass in his hands, pressing his tongue even deeper. Overwhelmed, she moved her pussy harder against his tongue. She loved the humming sound he made while he was between her legs. She closed her eyes to better feel his voice vibrating against the lips of her pussy.

  She instinctively reached for his dick. He slid his muscular frame upward along her body until they were face to face. She held his penis in her hands and massaged it until a drop of cum ran from the tip. When she felt the moisture, she looked down at what they’d both agreed was the most beautiful dick she’d ever seen. It was the same delicious reddish brown as the rest of his body. She ran her fingers along the large vein that ran the length of his shaft, teasing him to near orgasm. He pushed his dick against her pelvic bone and she flinched at the pressure. She adjusted her body to redirect the head of his penis to the opening of her wet, pulsating pussy. He thanked her in kind by pushing himself into her hot moist center in one gliding motion. She moaned softly at first, then realized they were alone and shouted out his name. He stroked her pussy with an arrogance to which he had every right. He knew that he pleased her. She responded with a confidence of her own, rolling her hips up and around to greet every inch of him. He moaned her name over and over again, low, close to her ear.

  “I wanna cum,” she breathed out between his powerful thrusts.

  “Then cum for me, Baby,” he said, stroking faster. His voice reached out and sucked her nipples. She wished he’d say it again.

  “Cum for me, Baby,” he whispered into her ear. “Please, Baby,” he whispered into her other ear. Had she wished out loud?

  “I’m cumming,” she said, her words coming in short, staccato bursts. “Here I cum.”

  “Can I cum with you?” he asked as if he needed her permission. She ground her hips harder and faster into his, hoping to cum again. And if he just kept licking the curve of her ear, whispering his sweet love, she knew that she would.

  She slowed her pace, then pushed him onto his back. She straddled him, slowly lowering herself down onto his hard dick, pushing him deep inside her, swallowing more and more of him with every stroke. He began to push up into her as she pushed down into him.

  “Are you ready, Baby?” he asked.

  “Ready for what?” she asked, just to keep him talking.

  “Are you ready for me to cum inside this fine, hot pussy,” he panted.

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  “I’m cumming, Baby,” his voice now louder, more intense. “Cum with me, Baby. Cum with me, now. Gimme all you got, Baby. Take all this dick. This is your dick, Baby, all yours.” She felt his dick expand and jerk inside her and her pussy contracted tightly around it. “Oh, shit!” he yelled.

  They came together, spasm after spasm, after spasm, after spasm, until she collapsed, trembling and out of breath, onto his chest. They lay quietly for a moment, relishing the silence until their heartbeats gradually returned to a normal pace.

  “Do you think we can sell the kids?”

  “We love the kids, remember?”

  “Oh, right. I guess I’ll just have to come home early more often,” he said, smacking her on the ass. They laughed, then fell silent, locked in a warm embrace.

  He thought about the time he’d come across her in the laundry room, bent over the hamper, sorting their dirty laundry. Her round firm ass seemed to beckon him. “Come on over here and feel this,” it seemed to say. “Fuck me now. Here.” But she had just gone off on him and the kids for taking their clothes off inside out, making more work for her. He didn’t know how she’d react to his fantasy of lifting her onto the vibrating dryer or the washing machine during the spin cycle and fucking her brains out. But this weekend… the vibes were right, the kids were gone. He’d offer to help with the laundry.

  She had stood on the back porch some weeks back and watched him mow the backyard. He’d stripped to the waist, sweat dripping from his forehead, his shoulders, down his back and hairless chest. When the sun had suddenly peeked from behind the expansive shade of the broad lemon tree that stood on the edge of their yard, the light glistened off his sweaty brow, his muscular back and strong arms. He glowed. She swooned. Didn’t know whether to run to him and pull him down into the freshly mown grass or fetch him a glass of her world-famous homemade lemonade. But the kids and their friends were skirting the edges of the yard, playing tag. A roll in the grass seemed out of the question. But this weekend…

  This weekend the kids were gone and after the recent rains, the grass was even taller then before he’d mowed it several weeks ago. She’d pick twenty or twenty-five lemons in the morning while the grits cooked and have a pitcher of fresh cold lemonade ready when she told him he needed to cut the grass. Once he’d stripped down to the waist, she’d strip down to the waist—and let him do the rest.

  “Good night, Baby,” he said, thinking back to the time when they made love against the cool tiles of the shower almost every morning—before the kids came.

  “Good night,” she murmured, remembering a long-ago night in the front seat of the car, the backseat of the car, just inside the front door, on the kitchen counter, in the dining room, up against the refrigerator, clothes littering the hallway all the way to the bed.

  “See you in the morning,” he whispered.

  sex hall

  MR Daniel

  The hallway is narrow. I had expected it to be less bare—there are no pictures on the walls, which have all been painted dark reds, slick mahoganies, and purples. I laugh to myself. The colored girls must have had fun checking out swollen pussies when they were painting this. The lights are sunk deep into the ceiling and turned down low so it’s lit like a club. A house diva is wailing through the PA system, backed up by an insistent fuck-me-baby, fuck-me-baby tempo. I feel as though I’m in a peepshow.

  Brown, bronze, and various sun-kissed women move past me, some with their eyes straight forward, nervous, others whose eyes seem to burn a path before them. I can feel their heat as they pass. There is a steady pulsing below my skin as I move forward, the current stopping and starting and me feeling the blood push-flow push-flow through my neck and fingers, my heart growing, forcing blood into my breasts. I pass the first doorway and hesitate. The door is open but I am suddenly afraid to be caught looking.

  Someone behind me stops to look over my shoulder, and her fingers inquire at my leg. I can feel her questions all the way up my thigh into my stomach. I almost jump into the room, and there is laughter behind me. I catch my breath, surprised at my confusion. This morning I was so sure of what I wanted, what I felt, but now… Excitement? Pleasure? Fear?

  Didn’t I want to be fucked from behind, anonymous?

  A voice in my ear is saying, “Look forward, baby, or I’ll leave.”

  And, “I know you’re wet.”

  And, “When I remember how you look I’m going to think about parting your bush, how you almost reached behind to guide my hands. But I told you not to move. Don’t move.”

  Hiking up skirt, pulling down panties, the snap of a glove, and a hand between my legs. Fucked in a doorway. Fingers up my cunt, feeling the space in my flesh, pushing deeper and rubbing ’til there’s this cross between a sharpness and pleasure, my muscles filled with blood, taut, filling and pressing until I think I’m going to pee on the floor.

  My mouth is filled with stars and they’re bu
rning their way through my vagina. They hurl through my chest and I can’t breathe; sweat collects in the band of my skirt. They light up nerves, sending shocks to my clit and behind my eyelids. I hear myself salivate as she works her hand in further, I pant, my cunt pants for her and the feeling of stars.

  I am high, nipples sharp from the sound of her inside me. I am straining against damp fabric, pores fucked alert, open, wanting to feel air on sweat-and-oil-steeped skin, as I brace myself in the doorway.

  Bodies passing by us go quiet as another finger goes in my puckering ass, tilted to receive, and lips circle my neck, her tongue leaving a trail that ends with a mouth clamped on the back of my throat, kissing, sucking hard, until a half-moon appears. I wanna come bad, but I could stay here forever.

  Can you fuck too much? Can you feel too good? Can you be so ripe that you keep bursting and swelling, bursting and swelling until a mouth bites you open again? Her teeth burn into my ass, she whips the hand out of my cunt and I feel the air leave my chest, my breasts suddenly get heavy and full. Her hand spanks my ass, my skin wet and hot, and enters me again like horses. I swear I’m gonna drop to my knees as the finger in my ass moves back and forth, teasing the rim of my anus. I feel myself coming, raging against the horses, grasping them, expelling-thrusting them out as they lunge, push further inside. She holds onto me. “That hand isn’t going anywhere,” she says.

  I feel come like hushed spurts, warm like blood, flowing out of me. I’m on my knees, my unconscious fingers take her horse hand, arching as I pull her out of me and rub her against my lips and clit. I feel like a dog, mouth open and bent over, writhing against her hand, I’m not thinking anymore, just doing what feels good. She doesn’t pull away. I come again, air passes through my throat and I hear a sound like the last breath as you break the surface of water. Doubled over, breathing hard, I pull away from the finger in my ass and push her other hand from between my legs. I lick my juice from her glove, and pull the latex off. My tongue dives for the skin in between her fingers. This is how I will remember her, by her hands. She helps me up from behind, pulling up my panties stretched and tangled in my boots, her fingers spread wide feeling me up as she pulls my skirt down.

  She bites my neck and says, “It’s too bad you came so soon,” and rubs her pelvis against the crack of my behind. I can feel her packing. Well, I’m sorry, too.

  “Next time,” she says, her hands firm on my hips, teasing, pressing into, circling against me, slowly. “It’s underneath my black vinyl shorts, it peeks through a little cause they’re short-shorts like the ones the reggae dancehall queens wear. Zippers up the sides. I only wear them here.”

  “How do you know you’re the only one?” I ask. She can’t see me smile.

  “Well, if I’m not, we’ll find out soon enough,” she laughs, and bites the half-moon she left before. I listen to her walking away.

  Boots, I guess, with heavy soles.

  Five Hundred Dollars

  Renée Swindle

  I woke up having one of those mornings. The kind where instead of pressing the snooze button and praying for another five minutes of sleep, you simply turn the whole damn alarm off. Don’t misunderstand, I wasn’t in the habit of missing work. I showed up to both my jobs on time and ready to hustle. But on that particular morning, as I hugged my pillow to my chest and stared up into my bedroom ceiling, I knew there was just no way I could play receptionist all day, only to turn around and play waitress all night. So I called in sick. In my own gentle way, I told Boss Man Number One that he would have to make his own damn coffee for a change and answer his own damn phone calls. I told Boss Man Number Two that I had the flu. Did he really want to risk me passing out in the restaurant? Throwing up on somebody’s food?

  I didn’t feel I was lying to either of them. I was sick. Sick of working so hard for so little. Sick of watching my days roll into each other without a single surprise, sick of feeling like my life had turned into nothing more than two simple phrases: How can I direct your call and May I take your order.

  I didn’t do much on my day off. Slept in past noon. Watched a few talk shows. I drove out to La Jolla for the hell of it and walked along the beach. You would’ve thought I had all the time in the world if you saw me. Just a woman staring out at the ocean. Just a woman taking a leisurely midday stroll. After my walk, I decided to browse through a few of the upscale boutiques that line the main boulevard, the kind where saleswomen with frozen blonde hair and ridged blue eyes follow your every move like you can’t help but steal something. You are black, after all. But they were right to watch me, actually. I’m certainly no shoplifter, but I was tempted to take something. A silk bra. A gold bracelet. Some sort of souvenir from the world I’d always dreamed of living in.

  Instead of shoplifting, I chose to use up a saleswoman’s time by trying on expensive outfits I could never afford. One after another. A blouse made of silk organza. A pale blue satin skirt. A black cocktail dress with pearl inlays. Everything I put on made me feel like I was more than a waitress-slash-receptionist. More than a college dropout with a hundred and forty dollars in her checking account. More than a woman who hadn’t had a single date in the past seven months. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to pretend that I lived in La Jolla and could afford something nice.

  After the shops closed, I drove back to San Diego and caught a movie. After the movie I decided to treat myself to a drink. I figured why not celebrate my last few hours of illness? The closest bar was next to an out-of-business Laundromat and a ninety-nine-cent-Chinese-food restaurant. The neon sign over the bar flashed ANCERS. The L flicking on and off as though it were trying to stay alive.

  The inside of the place was pretty much like you’d expect. Old barstools lined the bar. Cracked red vinyl booths sat along the opposite wall. There was a pool table and a dance floor big enough for two couples with a small disco ball overhead. A jukebox sat in one corner and next to the jukebox, an old white man with stringy gray hair wobbled from foot to foot. You couldn’t tell if he was dancing or about to pass out. The few other people in the place didn’t look much better. Ten or so old people staring into their glasses and nodding their heads to the country musiccoming from the jukebox. If I’d had any sense I would’ve kept walking, but I told myself that if I was tired of doing the same thing day-in and day-out, I needed to try new things. Why not hang out with a bunch of broken-down white folks and listen to country music? Yee ha!

  I was taking a sip from my Long Island iced tea when a woman who looked to be in her sixties came over.

  “Hey, are you a Sagittarius?”

  “No.”

  “A Virgo?”

  “No.”

  The woman took a sip of her drink, thinking for a moment. She had long lavender nails and matching lavender eye shadow that reached from the inside of her nose to the far end of her eyebrows. She wore a gold leotard that dipped in the front so that it showed off two heaping mounds of wrinkled cleavage. Her big Texas-style hair climbed into the air like a small mountain made from hair spray and bobby pins.

  “I read fortunes. Your name start with a C?”

  “No, an L. It’s Leah.”

  “What, honey? I can’t hear you with this country shit they’re playing.”

  “Leee-ah.”

  “My name is Doris Ann. I’m a Capricorn and I’m fifty-four years old.” She wiggled her shoulders so that her breasts shook. “I look pretty good, huh?” She pointed at the jukebox with one of her long nails. “I’m gonna play something just for you. Gotta quarter?”

  I gave her a quarter and watched her saunter over to the jukebox. The Ojays came on a few seconds later and she shot her fist in the air. “That’s better, huh?”She lifted her glass and I clinked mine to hers. “Hey, are you a teacher? I’m picking up on you being a teacher.”

  I had to laugh. She was a lousy fortune-teller. “No, I’m a waitress. A waitress and a receptionist.”

  “Get outta here. I’m a waitress too. A waitress and a fortune-teller.
I’ve been waitin’ tables since I was sixteen! Ain’t that somethin’? Forty years of bustin’ my ass and askin’ people what they want to eat. I make good money telling fortunes. I can’t ever tell what’s going to happen to me, though. Ain’t that somethin’?”

  I looked her over then. Saw myself forty years later. A black version of Doris Ann. Old. Lonely. Still waiting tables and trying to tell my own fortune.

  I downed my drink and asked for another.

  Doris Ann and I were swapping waitressing stories, trying to outdo each other with our all-time-worst experiences when she tapped my arm. “Look what we got here,” she said, nodding her head toward the entrance.

  A man stood in the doorway. While I couldn’t tell if he was Puerto Rican or what, his dark brown skin definitely gave off the fact that he had some African blood running through his veins. He was much older than me, not my taste at all, but I liked how his chest muscles stretched against his leather jacket. I liked the way he looked over his cigarette at everyone in the bar like they were beneath him. And I was all too happy to see some color in the place.

  Doris Ann started her fortune-telling routine as soon as he found a seat at the bar. “Hey, buddy, your name start with a M?”