by Zane
“I’d like to talk to you,” I said quietly.
“You are talking to me. Or maybe you thought this was a cardboard cutout.”
“No. Not with that beauty of a behind.” I considered a wink, but elected instead to raise an eyebrow.
“I thought you said you liked Ellen Sandelman’s behind.”
“Sanderson. And I didn’t say that—you did.”
“But it’s true.”
“Yes, it’s true. But Ellen Sanderson’s behind is neither here nor there.”
“It has to be somewhere. An ass like that can’t just vanish into thin air.”
Should I vanish into thin air myself, I wondered, rather than get drawn any further into this unpredictable interaction? No, I concluded.
“What’s your name?” I demanded cordially.
“Tammy.” She shrugged as if I’d asked an irrelevant question. By my calculations, this was the first straight answer I’d had from her. And it might well be the last.
“I’d like a pancake,” I informed Tammy, playing for time.
The establishment had a special way of serving its signature pancakes: a single flapjack was lubed up with butter, then folded like a taco and stuffed into an elongated variation on the classic paper french-fry carrier, in which posture its yearning edges were drizzled with syrup. In due course, and with Tammy watching me, I brought the soft, sticky pancake to my mouth.
After a few bites, I was ready to resume the negotiations. “Tell me, Tammy . . . are you fascinated by my erotic interest in Ellen, or are you fascinated by Ellen herself?”
“Who says I have to choose?”
“Yes, I suppose the two possibilities aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“That’s what I just said.”
“Are you bisexual?”
“Duh.”
I nourished myself with another mouthful of pancake before proceeding. “All right. If you must know, Ellen and I only dated a couple of times. We didn’t click that well, and we broke it off before anything much developed.”
“You did at least grab that ass of hers once or twice on the dance floor, right? Don’t be disappointing me now, professor.”
I studied my shoes, embarrassed but strangely flattered. “I did. That was about the extent of it . . . but, well, I’m not knocking it.”
“Good man. That’s the spirit I like to see in my guy.”
I laughed. “Since when am I your guy?”
“Since you started eating my pancakes.”
I was attracted by her logic—such as it was—and yet I felt compelled to challenge it, if only on principle. “A lot of people must come in here and eat your pancakes.”
“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about you. Mind your own business. Anyway, I didn’t say it was cause and effect. You asked ‘since when?’ and I was trying to give you a time frame.”
Before I could consider this, the bell over the door jingled.
“Now you’re in trouble,” said Tammy.
I spun around.
“We were just talking about you,” Tammy volunteered matter-of-factly, as Ellen Sanderson walked in.
“Tammy!” I sputtered.
Ellen was scrutinizing her. “Do I know you?”
“It’s no use,” I averred. “I tried that.”
Ellen managed to recover enough to smile at me, which I thought quite admirable, under the circumstances. “How the hell are you, Elliot?”
This was turning into a strange—no, a stranger—dream.
“I’m home for the week,” Ellen explained, “and as usual I’m stuck running errands for the folks. But I wound up over here too early, so I thought I’d treat myself to breakfast.”
In addition to the peach shorts, she was wearing a ribbed, off-white halter top that hugged her nipples, a hand-strung bead necklace, and a chic, wide-brimmed hat that flattened her auburn locks down around her elegant ears.
We made small talk while she waited for the egg and muffin that Tammy was cooking her, both of us ignoring the elephant in the room—namely, that I had noticed her walking by a few minutes earlier, and had been discussing her with Tammy. Ellen was gracious, and she pretended nothing had happened. I rattled off my recent academic triumphs, nodded with interest at hers, and temporarily suppressed my simmering thoughts about her warm, moist panties and her squeezable buttocks.
At last, Tammy handed over Ellen’s breakfast.
“Elliot, it was great running into you,” Ellen said with decisive finality. She looked out the window, then back at me. “I’m going to sit outside with this, I guess.” I wasn’t invited, and I took no offense: as I’d told Tammy, Ellen and I had never really clicked that well.
After leaving me with another reserved smile and Tammy with a sidelong glance, Ellen walked her gorgeous derriere out the door and made herself comfortable at the eatery’s only café table—which put her in easy view of anyone inside. Soon she was absorbed in her breakfast and her paperback.
“Come here.”
I turned around once again to face the counter. Tammy was lifting the chain and beckoning me in.
“Back there?”
“Quick,” said Tammy. “We’re gonna watch her together.”
Before the unusual scene playing out earlier had been interrupted by Ellen’s arrival, I’d been hoping I might rendezvous with Tammy somewhere sexy after work—as absurd as the prospect seemed to my more rational self. But I certainly hadn’t planned on teaming up with her at breakfast time to salivate over my poor ex-girlfriend.
Yet, at that moment, it didn’t occur to me not to do what Tammy asked. And so, an instant later, I stood just to her left in the narrow area between the counter and the unseen hinterland of the deli’s stockroom.
“Her tits aren’t bad, either,” Tammy promptly observed. “Don’t you think your Ellen Sanderson has nice, soft-looking tits, professor?”
She was being very casual about unbuttoning my fly. And then she was equally casual about placing her hand inside my trousers. She began to pet my cock through my shorts, as if absentmindedly.
I, on the other hand, did not feel remotely calm or collected. My face was hot, and I was squirming involuntarily, though pleasantly. I felt dirty, but undeniably aroused.
“Yes, she does,” I hissed.
And so she did. However, I’d noticed that Tammy had lovely breasts, too; and I turned my head now to admire the way they’d begun heaving while she stroked me. I gave myself an extended moment to appreciate this sight, conscious of the paradoxical transgression of cheating on Tammy by looking at her instead of at Ellen.
Then I turned back to the picturesque spectacle of Ellen, book, and breakfast in profile, backlit by the Miami sun. I couldn’t see below Ellen’s waist—and yet below her waist, as before, was where my mind settled.
“Say it,” said Tammy, her eyes never leaving the window.
“Say . . . what?”
“What you’re thinking about her. Now’s your chance to use those seminar words, professor. I want to hear what’s going through that big academic brain of yours.”
“I—”
“And, by the way, what happened to your hands? Don’t you want to smooth the seat of my jeans, professor? Don’t you want to slap my ass or something? I hope I didn’t waste your time by inviting you back here.”
The unfurling flesh beneath her left palm was my reply—followed, a moment later, by a playful, vigorous slap on the right cheek of her out-thrust bottom, where my own right hand subsequently remained.
“Yeah!” said Tammy. “Now give me some subtitles for this movie we’re watching.”
And so, as Ellen nibbled her muffin, I plunged in. In essence, I was picking up where I’d left off when I ogled her earlier. That meditation, in retrospect, appeared to have been a rehearsal for my present effort.
I used my “seminar words” for Tammy, and my most polished public-speaking voice. “I’d like to suggest, Tammy, that Ellen is pressing her thighs together under the table. H
er libido has been engaged by something. We might suppose, for example, that she’s reading an erotic passage in that book.”
I took a deep breath. I was quite accustomed to talking in front of a group, and quite accustomed to indulging in sexual fantasies—but I was not at all accustomed to combining the two.
“Keep it coming.” Tammy was definitely an appreciative audience when I gave her what she wanted.
“Yes,” I continued, “Ellen is horny this morning—as horny as we are.” I didn’t necessarily believe this, but it was the narrative that we were both depending on. “Her luxurious pussy is so slippery, so tingly.”
Tammy growled like a velvet-coated motor as I rubbed her rear pocket. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her rip open the top button of her jeans.
“I believe that Ellen won’t be able to relax—be able even to sit still—until she’s awarded herself a vivid orgasm.”
“ ‘Vivid,’ ” Tammy repeated. “That’s nice.” Her free hand buried itself inside her fly, popping additional buttons on the way in.
“So as soon as Ellen has finished her breakfast, she’s going to face the inevitable, Tammy. She’ll postpone her parents’ errands and hasten home.”
Tammy chortled. “No one says ‘hasten.’ ” But her fingers continued to grow more insistent in my pants.
“She’ll lock the door to her room and draw the curtains.”
I paused again, my head reeling from the delirious chemistry of the scenario I was creating about Ellen and the sensations of having Tammy’s hand on my cock, and my hand on Tammy’s bottom. Furthermore, while Tammy’s left hand had been busy fondling me, her right hand had evidently found its treasured place within her panties. Her hips were shimmying, and her jeans brushed my thigh with each gyration, nudging me further into arousal. I started kneading fistfuls of her ass, my hand hungry for more of her.
“Go on,” she breathed. “Go the fuck on, already.”
My speech came more haltingly—though my enthusiasm was waxing, my control was waning. “She’ll . . . yank her pretty underwear . . . down to her knees. It’s . . . it’s . . . her favorite moment of the day.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Tammy. The arc of her grinding pattern increased.
I seemed to have run out of recherché vocabulary. “She’ll . . . cup . . . one of her breasts . . . under her top, and . . . tw-twist her own nipple.”
Oblivious to my words—and yet it was as if she’d somehow been affected by them—Ellen shifted sensuously in her chair while turning the page in her novel. A tremor ran through all the nerves of my cock, reverberating against Tammy’s fingers.
In a series of swift, sudden motions, Tammy ejected her other hand from her jeans, snatched my hand off her rear, and relocated my itchy fingers to the front of her body, practically shoving them inside the damp panties her own hand had just vacated. “Touch me, professor. Touch me like she’s going to touch herself.”
Reciprocating, I moved Tammy’s left hand from the outside to the inside of my briefs so that she was clasping my nakedness as I fingered hers. The parallel feasts were overwhelming: Here was her deft touch all over my tensing hardness, while there was her slick, dribbling softness engulfing my digits.
We began to sway in sync, left to right to left, doing a grotesquely beautiful dance of mutual masturbation.
And when Ellen got up and walked away, it didn’t matter. The fantasy had already done its job . . . but much more important, I realized in that moment, was the fact that Tammy had become far sexier to me than the estimable Ellen Sanderson.
She was writhing on my palm, and the raw smell of her excitement was filling the small space we shared. I pivoted away from the window now to glue myself to Tammy, turning her toward me so we could meld, front to front. I rocketed my free arm up her syrup-stained T-shirt to tickle her warm breasts, fucking her in earnest now with the hand stationed below—grazing her clit with the heel while the fingers burrowed and wiggled. My cock, drunk and bloated with pleasure, twitched in time with her strokes, and I knew that both of us were going to come soon.
Ellen might have been a peach that morning, but Tammy in climax was a fruit far more succulent. As her cunt pulsed around my fingers, her fresh-squeezed juice soaked me. She pumped and trickled longer than I’d ever known a woman to do, washing me in shuddering spoonfuls of her sauce. The wet heat in her pants made me manic with lust, and I clamped her breast hard as my morning’s worth of male desire spurted impassioned streams all over her clutching fingertips.
Our lurching, spastic dance gradually slowed. Finally we were still, and we each reclaimed our hands, leaving the other’s dampened underpants in privacy. We stood there for a minute, laughing, breathing hard, then laughing some more.
“So, professor, it’s a shame you didn’t click with Ellen Sanderson,” said Tammy.
I shrugged.
“Are you gonna click with me?”
“I think I already did,” I replied.
“Good man,” said Tammy.
So Much for Rules
W. Biddle Street
I still don’t know why I went to Jerome’s house that day. I had a decent boyfriend who was just a few months away from asking me to marry him. Yet there I was, driving over to Jerome’s place knowing that he wanted to fuck me. And I’d kind of given him signals that I might finally let him. Which doesn’t make sense because I had always been a one-man-at-a-time woman.
I’d known Jerome since Michael Jackson was black. He was with me through kindergarten and grade school. He was with me from my homely girl stage right up through becoming homecoming queen back when it was still cool to be an HC queen. I was with him through his geek stage. He was always a good friend, just not my type.
I had a brand-new black teddy in my bag just in case I couldn’t come up with a way to get out of letting him do me. He had invited me over on the pretense of a home-cooked meal and a little wine before he left for Tennessee. He had a job in Memphis and was leaving Baltimore for good.
True to his word, just like the gentleman that he was, he had a fine meal waiting for me when I arrived. We ate and made small talk. He talked about getting to live in the city where Stax Records was born. The city that was home to Carla Thomas, Otis Redding, Booker T. & the MG’s, Sam & Dave, Isaac Hayes, and many lesser-known stars. He said he was excited about the chance to see the newly renovated Stax recording studio museum. He was excited all right, but I don’t think it was about going to Memphis. His dick was hard. I could see it doubling up in his crouch.
I wanted to give him some but didn’t know if I should, so I started talking off-the-wall shit about being a campaign manager for a state house candidate and how much fun it was being involved in elective politics. We were not really talking to each other. We were just sending words into the air, trying to buy time and avoid the obvious. Neither one of us wanted to make first contact.
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.