Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

by Zane

  For me, life is filled with layers and various nuances that must be taken into account. Maybe under all that deceit lies the heart of a good man … maybe.

  “So, baby, did you think any more about this living arrangement?” He takes a long sip of OJ.

  “Are you planning to move your things into my condo?”

  “Baby, I already told you that you live much farther from my job, and it would make more sense for you to rent out your place since my rent is much cheaper here.”

  “Hamilton, do you hear how crazy that sounds? Renting out my condo that I own to pay rent somewhere else?”

  Carefully, he places his hand on my thigh. I feel my resolve weaken at his simple touch. He leans over and places a light kiss on my forehead. Then he slides those damn soft lips back and shows me the whites of his teeth. His smile is his secret weapon.

  “Baby, don’t worry about it. We’ll make it work.” He turns back to ESPN. I’m not even sure what just happened here. I’m hot at first because I’m mad about what he asked me but, then again, I feel the familiar heat rise between my legs and realize I’m really hot. I have to wait for Sports Center to end before he’ll put out this damn fire.

  As I turn my attention back to the newspaper, I start to pick apart what could have gone awry during his childhood to make him this way. He says he grew up like everyone else. Says Georgia in the sixties was like most any other place in the U.S. But that’s odd to me. Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi were the cradle of the Civil Rights Movement. History was in the making. How could he have missed it? For him, back then, life was about cartoons, football, and endless summers. Simple.

  Just like when he says he loves me. It’s simple. There was no process, no rationale behind his feelings for me. It is what it is. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  As much I love Hamilton, every inch of me hates him. I sit and watch him some nights, asleep without a care in the world. I study him, looking for any flaw to break this ridiculous spell.

  I hate the fact that when he touches me, every cell in my being is awakened. When he’s inside me, I hear the melody of our hearts beating together. Our souls connecting. I love him, but not for the reasons you think I do. I love him simply because I hate him.

  My father once told me that hate and love are one and the same emotion. An odd notion at first, but when you think about it, to hate someone you have to spend time and energy wondering if they are suffering. You’re connected. Still invested in the relationship. So the more intensely I hate him, the more intense my love for him grows. Love is a casualty of war …

  Daddy said the opposite of love is indifference. You’re able to walk away and not look back. You go on through life unaffected by their trials or triumphs. When you’re indifferent, it’s like they never existed. Hamilton has become my existence. I hate him. I love him.

  • • •

  Back at home, I’m comforted being surrounded by my own belongings. My classic black art. My favorite wicker rocker. My office that proudly displays all my certificates, diplomas, and awards. My condo that overlooks the Atlantic Ocean. The home with my name on the deed.

  For a brief moment when I walk in the room, I feel his presence. He wants me to give this up so he can be in control.

  Today’s affirmation reads: Destroy or be destroyed. Today is the day. He’ll arrive here around midnight. Says he has to work late.

  • • •

  The clock displays 12:22 a.m. when I finally hear him turn his key in the lock. We exchanged keys about a month ago; he said he hated having to wake me. I’ve never shared a key with anyone else … but I guess by now you’re not surprised at how easily he talked me into it.

  Tonight, I’m wearing a white lace teddy with matching boy-cut panties—his favorite. He’ll be too distracted watching my ass jiggle under the pressure of the lace undies to think about talking me into giving up my condo. Destroy or be destroyed …

  When he enters my bedroom, he quickly lies across me, wrapping me in his arms. He knows I’m lying in wait for him.

  As he begins to remove his shirt and slacks, I squeeze out thoughts of “Tish.” His hands travel down my abdomen and I erase images of his hands touching her with the same warmth that now drives me crazy.

  His tongue invades my mouth. Hot and desperately, it pleads for me to relent once again. The four bare walls of my room began to fade as he takes my breasts into his mouth. Once again, we’re on the battlefield. My stereo softly sings out Sade’s “Slave Song.” The only things that exist now are his hands, his lips, and the bulging manhood that’s making its way up my thigh. They command me to open my womb to him once again. Despite heart-shaped visions of another woman.

  By now I’m intoxicated and the sounds of Sade fill the spaces between our slurping kisses. When I’m alone, I have no trouble defining the insanity of our situation. But as soon as he’s near me, I’m sucked back into that vacuum, where time, space, and reality don’t exist.

  Slowly he undresses me. I watch his eyes travel down my breasts, to my stomach, and then to my hips, fighting my desire.

  “You are so beautiful.” He looks into my eyes and I pull him close to invade his mouth with my tongue. I need him. No … I want him. I try to see this distinction clearly.

  Eventually, he breaks free of my embrace and resumes his visual inspection. “I just can’t get enough of your chocolate skin.” I decide it’s definitely his eyes. They pierce through the layers of my skin. He knows my secrets. He’s studied every one.

  Carefully, he slides my boy-cut panties down. I can feel his warmth. I wiggle with eagerness, trying to direct him to the center of my craving. When he finally slides the fabric over my ankles, I open my legs and welcome him home. He presses his face against my left thigh and gently slides my lips apart. The anticipation is driving me crazy. I want him to taste my sweet nectar.

  “I love you, baby.” His voice is low and coarse. He dives in and his tongue begins a slow dance with my clit. Round and round. Slower and more deliberate with each stroke. The waves gradually rise from my toes into my legs. My heart quickens its dance as the tide washes over my hips and abdomen. When the waves reach my chest, I’m a wild woman. I want to wrap my legs around his face and smother him with my juices.

  Deftly, Hamilton rises and pulls me close to his heart. My tongue seeks his again. I hungrily suck at his mouth, enjoying my taste on his lips. He turns me over and, without hesitation or fanfare, inserts himself into me. He has me where he wants me.

  I have to bury my face in the pillow to muffle my cries. Filled with pain and pleasure, I press my backside into him forcefully with each firm stroke. He runs his fingers through my hair. Grabbing a handful, he lifts my face into his so we can kiss again. This is the way it always is. Soft and loving, then rising quickly into a heated battle.

  “Aftinn,” he whispers into my ear. “I want you to move in with me.” He punctuates his request with a slap against my ass. It stings, sending a thrill through me that makes me wiggle harder. A moan is my only response. He feels so damn good in-side me.

  I make a deep arch in my back and pull my legs under me the way I know he likes. Counterattack. I can feel him swell and drive deeper with each thrust. He’s weakening.

  “Did you hear me?” He grabs my face and turns me to look into his eyes. “I want you to move in with me.” We kiss softly. Deeply. Then he throws my face back into the pillow and grips both my ass cheeks in his hands as he guides himself right to that spot that takes me over the edge. Full-on assault.

  His strokes are in rapid succession now. I tense from the pain and thrust my rear back harder to bring him with me in the throes of ecstasy. I feel him explode just as my own muscles begin to contract and expand around him.

  Hamilton falls against my back; sweat dripping all over me. We both lie in a heap of exhaustion. I’m full with the warmth of his loving, yet I feel terribly empty inside. I turn to wrap my arms around him. I feel his heart struggling to resume its normal pattern. This time, when
I press my lips to his, his eyes are closed. His breathing becomes even and steady.

  “I’ll talk with the realtor tomorrow …” My voice sounds strange in the darkness. I’m not even sure when that decision formed in my head. Now the words were released into the air. He brushes the hair out of my face, placing a small peck on my nose.

  “Baby, I love you.” He lets out a slow breath. The coolness makes the fresh tears on my cheek tingle. “We make the perfect couple.” His words sting.

  Darkness begins to envelop us. I lay silently, praying for a miracle. Sade’s “Slave Song” now plays in my head.

  Tears will come that fall like rain …

  So many times …

  So many times.

  The Rules of Sheets

  Scott G.

  I had recently taken the job, and within two weeks, I was traveling with my boss. I would like to preface this by saying I am definitely all man, and my boss is definitely all woman. And we are both married.

  We sat apart on the plane; we had to save money for the company. That meant flying in one of those flying casket planes—you know, where if you crash, your family doesn’t have to buy you a coffin.

  I stand about six foot five, a cool 350 pounds of mostly muscle … mostly. So the flight was bad enough, squeezing into the space.

  My boss, Jamilah, stands a mere five foot six with heels on. I am sure, with her thin, but not-too-thin frame, that she weighs 120 on a wet, rainy day. Anyway, she sat ever so comfortably in the seat right behind me. “It’s killing me to see you suffer like this, Carl; move your seat back since I have plenty of room.”

  She was so nice to suggest that I let my seat back, but I declined since it’s not polite to crush your boss to death.

  “I’m good, but thank you anyway.” Besides, after the first hour, my legs had become extremely numb, so I was good to go since I couldn’t feel the pain anymore.

  After the flight, we had to go right to the office to meet folks in our department since I was the new guy to the group. I was uncomfortable; I am what is called, in medical terms, a sweaty type of person. In laymen’s terms, I believe it’s interpreted exactly the same way. I have to change clothes if there is a possibility that I will exert more than a couple minutes of energy. Coming to Houston in the summer, where it’s a sweltering 95 degrees in the shade, I was in trouble from the time I stood up to get off the plane, get my bags, and walk to where the rental car was located.

  Although I had changed clothes when I arrived, I’d accidentally pulled a tank top out of my suitcase, blindly, and I did not have enough time to pull out everything to find a proper T-shirt. So I did the best I could. Tank tops don’t welcome the automatic absorbency that a T-shirt provides. It wasn’t pretty when I went to introduce myself to my colleagues, but I grinned and beared it like they did. At least I will be remembered in Houston. “Ah, yes, Sweaty McSmelly.”

  Thankfully, the workday finally ended, and we were able to go to the hotel and get cleaned up. My boss went to her room, and I went to mine. We met back in the lobby for dinner an hour later.

  It wasn’t awkward between us; we are each comfortably married. This allowed us to have a good time talking about life in general without having to worry about anything happening. I love my wife, and she loves her husband. It was good to see two black people coming up in a white man’s business world. Victories, however small, are still victories nonetheless.

  As the evening was settling on the horizon, we had gotten a very nice view of the skyline, had shared experiences, and laughed at the thought of how happy we were in our respective lives. She had shared how she met her husband. It was a great story. While watching her tell it, with a shine in her eyes, I was picturing myself in the story as the lucky man who would get to bed her regularly. She is a very beautiful woman.

  Although I am truly happy, and in total love with my wife, it’s automatic for men to do this. Any chance we have to put sex in our minds, it’s going to happen. If we are deathly ill, we’ll imagine that a buxom nurse will come give us a bath and spend more time in our crotches. If we are consoling a friend whose dog has died, we would somehow find our hands on her breasts to console her. How that happens, we don’t ask, we just do this in our heads, jack off, and go about our business.

  As she was recounting her experiences leading up to marriage, I was becoming heavy under the table, so I am glad that I had a very generous napkin covering my crotch. I am also glad that I was wearing dark slacks. The more energy that was given to the thought of sex, the more energy was given to the eye of my dick and letting out an involuntary spurt of juice.

  Now I am not sure that my boss had the same issue when I was recollecting my story of unbridled love, but I am smart enough to know that I, at least, had her attention. She kept great eye contact throughout my story of meeting my sweetheart.

  Throughout the evening, we enjoyed great music, great company, and great wine. Unfortunately, my boss had a lotta (not a typo) too much to drink, so I had to drive us back to the hotel. She swore up and down that she would be fine to get back to her room, but being the gentleman that I am, I insisted that I would see that she at least made it into her room, and I would be on my way. She frustratingly agreed.

  The awkwardness was rising up for me, but it was no big deal. I kept my mind furthest from the Zane anthological possibilities to which my mind could have easily wandered.

  As we walked down the hall, my boss said that she didn’t feel well and was about to barf all over the hall. We were about ten suites away from her room, so I grabbed her key and swept her up with my right arm. Because I had to have the key ready for immediate entry, I had to grab her around the waist and slam her against my body.

  She noticed in the process that I was, well, excited. She made a comment about something hard and big poking her. I immediately, and embarrassingly, pulled her away from me. She automatically pulled herself back into position, and said, “I didn’t say I minded it!” Her flirting quickly turned to green on her face.

  I got her to the door, got the card in the slot, and opened the door just in time for her to decorate the front of her dress, my clothes, and the floor immediately inside the room.

  She felt horrible about what had happened, and told me to sit down. She had to finish in the bathroom what she had already started in the entryway. I felt obligated to stay because she did not feel well. Of course, with the grossness of it all, there was no more uncomfortable feeling. Sex was the furthest thing from either of our minds. At least, so I thought.

  I began using the amazingly unusual amount of towels available to clean up the floor while she tended to herself. The sounds coming out of the bathroom were horrendous. I asked her if she was okay. She told me that she had drunk too much, and would be fine soon. She sounded like this was not her first time getting blitzed. So I felt better that she was going to be okay.

  I told her that I had cleaned up the floor as best as I could and that since she was going to be okay, I was going to head upstairs to my room to get cleaned up. She insisted that I wait until she came out to help me clean up. I told her that I was a big boy and that I could take care of myself. She jokingly said she knew I was a big boy already.

  I laughed uncomfortably, but didn’t worry about it. I figured that I would head toward the door so as I was saying good night, the door would be closing on her argument against me leaving. I was about to open the entry door when she emerged from the bathroom.

  She came out in a towel. My gaze immediately moved to the left and right to avoid staring at her and wondering if she had anything on under that towel. She walked toward me, and again, the uncomfortable feeling left when she began speaking and her breath was exuding negative memories of puke. To get the point across faster, I asked her if she had a toothbrush handy. She now shared the uncomfortable laugh that I had earlier. She told me not to leave yet and she brushed right in front of me. When she bent down to spit into the surprisingly low sink, her towel cropped up in the back to confir
m my earlier thought. Yep, no panties whatsoever … Look at that beautiful, caramel, no-dimple-havin’ ass! This was going bad places quickly.

  I emphasized how I was the only one not clean and that I needed to go take care of it immediately. She walked up to me and said that it was not polite to let her employee walk out of her room looking a terrible mess and that it was all her fault.

  She said, “We can either get you cleaned up in my room, or in your room, but it’s my responsibility.”

  I began to get nervous again, and my little head must have heard what she said. He was standing at as much attention as he could through my underwear and pants. It was aching that my dick was being obstructed from rising to its full potential. But my boss immediately grabbed my zipper and let it free.

  She said that I needed to get out of my clothes immediately so she could soak them and get the vomit out. She made sure not to touch my dick but she examined it with her breath as she pulled off my pants and underwear.

  She told me to take a shower and then she would give me a towel. I did as I was told. All the time, I am remembering that we are both married. I realize that this is sooooooooooo wrong, and I would prefer to just leave with my wallet, towel, and key to my room, and I would forget the clothes. This was in order to save both our marriages from any more unfaithful actions.

  When I came out in my towel, my boss was totally naked. And she approached me. My towel was the only thing between us. She grabbed my obviously hard apparatus, towel included, and guided me to the bed. I was in big dick trouble now.

  I couldn’t resist the advances, even though everything in me was telling me not to do it. Would I, who stood six foot five, cave to a woman who was five foot six? I hoped not, but it was feeling that way.

  She pulled me to the bed. My towel came off, and we were both standing there, butt … ass … naked.

  I told her, “We can’t do this.”

  She motioned for me to be quiet. Again, who was the man in this relationship? She handed me a sheet to cover myself. She took another sheet and covered herself.