Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

by Zane

  I was in a good groove when I happened to look down and notice how my breasts reminded me of cow udders, flopping from side to side as I tried to anchor myself on him. Not wanting to ruin the mood or the visual, I strategically placed my locs over my breasts. That simple move suddenly made me feel like a stripper, but it also gave me the confidence to keep right on movin’. I buried my hips in him and grinded them into his pelvis as if I were churning butter. At times we would synchronize our movements, and at other times, he would do a little off-beat move that would take me by surprise, but all the time never missing a beat.

  After the third round of him saying, “Get your dick, get your dick, get your dick,” I couldn’t stand it anymore and exploded all over his chest. It was warm and plentiful and must have taken him by surprise, because all he could say was, “Oh, girl, cum … I like it!” as he lay back on his arms to bask in the wetness of it all. He didn’t want me to get up right away so he could continue to enjoy the heat coming from our bodies, the wetness coming out of me, and his heartbeat keeping in rhythm with mine. It was at that time that I noticed the open windows in his room and could only imagine how we must have sounded to the people passing by.

  He wouldn’t let me catch my breath, and I wondered, from time to time, what kind of Mandingo Man I was working with, but it was indeed all good. Sister girl could keep up, and the wider I would spread my legs, the deeper he would fall into them. He was like my puppet. No matter what I asked him to do, he was more than eager to oblige. When I told him to pull my hair, he pulled my hair. When I told him to spank my ass, he spanked my ass. When I told him to go slow, he went slow. When I told him to go fast, he would go fast. He was quite obedient and I liked that, but membership does have its privileges and I had to learn to be a good sport as well.

  There were many times when I wanted to say, “Slow your roll,” or “Get your big ass off me,” but being the team player that I was learning to be, I tried to refrain from my usual “I got mine; you got yours to get” mentality and give the man what he wanted. By the time I was finished with him, my mouth was sore, my vagina was swollen, and my knees were bruised, but I hung in there like a champ. Barry never came up for air once and I prayed that he would take a time out, but no such luck. He was in it for the long haul and I had to suck it up like a big girl and count my losses later. This was indeed one of those classic moments when I needed to be careful what I asked for, because in a matter of minutes, I had gotten everything I had ever asked for and then some.

  Lucky me, after about three hours of hard labor, he took a break long enough to wipe the sweat from his body, take a leak, and get in gear for round four. As he walked around his apartment, I noticed how chiseled his body was and how tight his butt was. It was refreshing to see a man with a six-pack that didn’t have to be sucked in on the count of three. He felt comfortable in his nakedness and never lay down the whole time. Sex seemed to invigorate him, almost inspire him to the point where he wanted to play basketball or run around the track. All I wanted to do was take a nap, get something to eat, and start locating my underclothes for the journey home.

  After taking a few deep-knee bends, Barry was ready for round four, or rather, “one for the road,” as he called it. He was amazed at how wet I was and every time he touched me, I seemed to erupt in hot lady lava, so much so that the sounds of wetness were echoing loudly throughout the bedroom. If I wasn’t wet enough, he would take his fingers and make me wetter by working them vigorously in and out of me. When he finished, he would lick his fingers as though he was licking homemade pudding. Being the gentleman that he was, he unselfishly offered me his fingers, one at a time, as he fed me the tasty pudding from my own body.

  I was so hot I could smell the perspiration and feel the heat coming from my own body. If I didn’t have locs, my hair would have been a matted mess. At that point I didn’t care about my breasts, stretch marks, gray pubic hairs, or anything else, for that matter. In the end, I felt like a used-up dishrag and it felt good. I tried not to look as though I was gasping for my last breath, but I was spent, used up, and out of order. The throbbing that was coming from between my legs was both bitter and sweet, hot and cold, pain and pleasure. There was no need for cuddling, small talk, or plans for the future. It was about pure sex, animal lust, doing the nasty, and “gettin’ mine.”

  I saw Barry off and on after that, and each time, the sex was just as “crazy, sexy, cool” as the time before. He’s now thirty-nine and I’m fifty-two, and though he’s getting up in years, I’m not going to hold that against him. He’s worked his way up the educational ladder and I’m proud of him, and he is freakier and as sexually uninhibited as he ever was. He’s tried to talk me into having threesomes and sex parties, but I’m a little more discreet than he is when it comes to things like that. We still play our email games and talk our talk, and between work and grandchildren, I fit him in whenever I can. It’s sometimes weeks or maybe months until I can get with him, but it’s all good whenever we can hook up.

  The maternal side of me is always trying to get him to find a nice lady to settle down with, but Barry’s not trying to hear that at this time, so I let it go. Many times I’m trying to convince him to let me help him clean his rattrap of an apartment, but he likes it just the way it is, so I let it go and bite my tongue. By day, Barry is still very ambitious and is making a prominent name for himself in the field of education, and I admire his drive and dedication. By night, he’s still a “freak of the week” and loves to get his “freak on” whenever he’s not busy trying to change the world of education.

  By the time my sexual empowerment hit me like a ton of bricks, I was already a grandmother. Barry was the catalyst that helped me to see inside myself and unleash those self-inflicted barriers that kept me from fully experiencing my total sexuality and sensuality as a woman. For as long as I can remember, I denied myself full sexual freedom because of preconceived notions about my body image, as well as an overall dislike of myself and inability to understand what I needed or wanted as a sexual being. I was not complete. It’s not enough to be a woman and go through the motions faking it when I should be enjoying it. That’s not living, and no one is being satisfied or fulfilled. I acted like it didn’t matter, but all the time I wanted to break free of myself.

  The first real clitoral orgasm I experienced was with a Bullet and it was so powerful, it scared me. I never thought something so mind-blowing could be self-inflicted. The first real orgasm I had through penetration was with Barry and that was only because I was at the stage in my life when I could let go of all my inhibitions, and allow myself to fully be present in all that I was experiencing. That was a process and, by no means, do I want to give Barry more than his fair share of praise. He was a catalyst for sure, but more important, I had to undergo a revolution in my own thinking to even allow Barry to get with me in the first place.

  Barry’s youthfulness and vitality were indeed a plus for my ego, but there were many times when I prayed that my legs wouldn’t give out on me or secretly wished that I could have a little more wait time than he was allowing me. There were also times when I forgot to cover up my breasts with my locs, only to find one facing east and one facing west. I can laugh about it now and I laughed about it then; the bottom line is, it’s all about the quality of the sex and not about the stretch marks, the body noises, or the gray pubic hairs. It’s all about having the best sex you can have, living in the moment, and being true to yourself and your partner.

  What I experienced with Barry enabled me to carry it over into other caring relationships I have developed with my family and friends. My sex life with my husband is now tolerable and my relationship with my children has become more meaningful. Through these relationships, you can say I am leading by example. Now I am able to give fully and accept fully and in turn I’m getting the same. Whenever I need to jump-start my libido, dial up a “booty call,” or take a walk on the wild side, Barry is always just an email, text, or tweet away and more than ready a
nd able to help a sister out.

  Possessed Penis

  Tiffany L. Smith

  I’m sleeping with the devil. I know he’s a lying, manipulative bastard. But it’s like an addiction. I’m under some kind of mind control. One minute, I’m disgusted and swearing to cut him loose, the next thing I know, my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor and he’s talked me into some bullshit I swore I’d never do.

  This shit is wearing me thin. I’m up at two in the morning checking his cell phone. At work, I’m hacking into his email. I spend a lot of my free time and lose a lot of sleep—searching. Playing amateur detective so I can stay two steps ahead.

  Like today. It’s 2:13 in the freaking morning and I’m tiptoeing around my own damn condo trying to figure out where the hell he left his cell phone. First, I run my hand across the nightstand beside the bed. No luck. Then, carefully, I search the darkness for his pants and reach into his pocket.

  Bingo!

  I slink quietly to the bathroom and ease the door almost shut, allowing the darkness to fold in around me. Ignoring sanity yet again, I scroll through his messages.

  My breath catches in my chest when I come to a picture of my Hamilton, hugged up with some cocoa brown–skinned sister. Putting a face to my nemesis. They’re looking into each other’s eyes the way we do. Connecting. The picture is framed in a heart and there is a voice tag attached.

  I push the door completely closed and lower the volume on the phone. What I hear next makes my stomach sick.

  “Hi, Tish.” Hamilton’s mellow baritone seems to fill the tiny bathroom. The tightening in my chest is causing me to strain for air. “Don’t we make the perfect couple? I miss you and I love you.”

  I’m in a full wheeze now, blinking back tears as they begin to sting my eyes.

  Five … four … three … I slowly count. I’ve got to regain control before the panic sets in.

  How did I become my mother—the woman I despised? I vowed to never be that dumb, loving a cheater … But look at me now.

  I open the cabinet and pull out the small paper I hid when I came home today. When I’m away from Hamilton, I get small snatches of clarity and write things down—affirmations. I hide them around the house, to be able to pull them out and save myself during moments like this.

  Characteristics of a sociopath: manipulative and cunning, incapacity for love, infidelity, incapable of real human attachment to another.

  He’s sick and doesn’t even know it.

  I hear the bed move. Quickly, I shut the phone and wait the sixty seconds for the backlight to go off. (I told you this shit is ridiculous!) I slide the bathroom door open slowly and let silent feet lead me back into the bedroom. I slip his phone back into his pants and pause just a moment before I pull the covers back to get into bed.

  I’m having a very familiar battle inside my head. This has got to end. My head falls gently against the pillow. The fighter in me doesn’t want to give up. This is war.

  I study his face for a long time. He sleeps so peacefully. His silhouette has an auburn glow in the moonlight. Those beautiful eyes rest undisturbed. He is beautiful. The devil himself. The nearness of his caramel skin calls to me. I nestle my head against his chest and slowly pull the sheets all the way back so I can clearly see the outline of his penis in contrast to the room’s darkness. Each time he exhales, it rises almost a full two inches before settling back into its original position. The whole scene is excruciatingly erotic to me.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to shut out the image of him and this “Tish.” The vision of his penis penetrating her with the same piercing pleasure he gives to me causes me to ache all over.

  • • •

  “Aftinn, what is wrong with you, girl?” I can hear Chante’s neck swinging through the phone. “You find out he’s got another chick in the wings, and you acting like it don’t even matter!”

  “I knowwww …” I whine. “I don’t understand. As stupid as it sounds, I just can’t get him out of my system.” I needed Chante to help strengthen my resolve.

  “You know what it is …” She pauses for emphasis. I imagine she’s got her arms folded and is nodding her head like she always does.

  “What?”

  “It’s that PP … Umm hmm … Yep!”

  “What? Girl ain’t no R. Kelly going on over here!”

  “Not that kind. I’m talking about the PP. Possessed Penis! Girl, get out now, before you hurt yourself!” We both fall into laughter.

  “Chante, I’m trying. But every time that negro gets back into this house, it’s like my mind goes blank and I let him lead me straight to Hell. Now he’s hinting that he wants me to move in with him.” I clutch the phone against my left ear and start to rub my temples.

  “What!”

  I didn’t want to tell her, but I had to get it off my chest. “Yesterday, when we were having dinner, he commented on how stupid it is for us to pay for two places when we’re always together.”

  “You better not even be thinking about it …”

  The “or I’ll kick your ass” lingered unspoken between us.

  “I know … It’s stupid! I had to actually shovel food into my mouth to keep from agreeing. It’s like I’m in a trance or something!”

  “Humph. It’s the PP, I’m telling you! You better be careful.”

  “I will,” I tell her. “Listen, I gotta run, but I’ll hit you up later.”

  “Yeah. Sure you will.” She knows once I get within ten feet of Hamilton, it’s a wrap. I don’t make calls or take calls from anyone.

  After returning the phone to its cradle, I sit a few moments to think about what she’d said. Maybe she is right. Maybe his penis has some kind of voodoo power. How else can I explain this shit?

  I’ve had plenty of men. Cute, rich, and famous.

  Hell, I’ve had good dick before—sex so good, I was curled up in the fetal position, sucking my damn thumb afterward! But this is different. I don’t know how, exactly, but Hamilton has a way of using his eyes to look through me. I’m back to being Daddy’s little girl. Back to a time when a smile from Daddy’s eyes could make everything better.

  I’ve convinced myself that if only Hamilton could rid himself of all those other women, we would be happy. Somewhere deep inside him, I believe he loves me. And frighteningly enough, I sound just as dumb as my mother, praying that the lying, cheating man will one day change his ways. But wasn’t it Daddy who said a leopard never changes his spots? Ever?

  • • •

  This morning after he left, I opened all the windows and threw the sheets off my bed. It’s a feeble attempt to rid myself of him. Stupid, I know, but this is my ritual when he leaves. Somehow, I feel doing this will erase him from my life.

  I vacuum the carpet and scrub down every inch of my bathroom. I am hurt, and try hard as I may, I can’t get the vision of “Tish” with her arm wrapped around my man out of my mind. I’m not sure if it hurts more to see him with her, or that despite all of my efforts, nothing I do can stop this man from sharing what I love so much with someone else. She looked into his eyes just like I once did. The thought makes me vomit.

  After I change the sheets and dust every corner of my bedroom, I still feel his presence. I jump into the shower and try in vain to remove the memory of his touch from my body.

  I soap up the breasts he’s caressed a million times. My nipples stand alert, seeking the warmth from his lips and tongue again. I let the bubbles run down my abdomen between my legs. I close my eyes and visions of him moving slowly in and out of me invade my thoughts. I allow the water to wash over me as my hands travel to the places he’s discovered.

  My obsession with Hamilton is like a disease that has infected my entire life. I’m consumed with images of his smile that reflect in his eyes. Memories of his butterfly kisses that set my soul ablaze. Thoughts of him fluidly filling me, stroke by stroke, until I burst into a million tiny unrecognizable pieces of myself.

  • • •

 
It’s Sunday morning and the sun is peeking through his blinds, tapping me on my shoulder. I hear the sounds of pots rattling in the kitchen and the familiar smell of bacon and eggs waft into his bedroom. This is what I love so much about him. It is also what makes this so difficult for me. For every time he’s come home late, smelling of someone else’s Rapture perfume, for every time he’s silenced his cell phone in the middle of the night, I can recall a time when he’s offered me a crisp, white calla lily as a thoughtful gesture, or has just been the solid kind of man I need.

  Lying in his king-sized bed, lost within the sheets and goose-down blanket, I feel him surrounding me on all sides. I have to steel myself against him. I reach into my purse and pull out that folded piece of paper. Today’s affirmation reads: You determine your own destiny … with or without him. Love is just a casualty of war.

  I close my eyes and feel myself sinking into his domain. When we make love, he likes when I call him “King.” I can’t help but wonder how many others have fallen under his reign.

  Quickly, I wash those doubts out of my mind and pull his oversized T-shirt over my body. He walks in with a tray full of breakfast and plants a cheerful kiss on my forehead. He plops down on the bed, grinning like a kid. I think for a moment that he doesn’t even realize we’re at war. But then I blink and, for a second, I see the devil rise again in his eyes.

  He hands me the newspaper and switches on the TV to ESPN. This is how we spend Sunday mornings; me reading about tragedy around the world and him watching sports.

  Life is simple that way for him. Sports—you win or lose. Work—it pays the bills. Love—here today, gone tomorrow. Life—you live and then you die.