Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

by Zane

  I let my body drift to the bottom of the pool, but my damn skirt acts like a life preserver, refusing to let me sink.

  What the hell? This is futile. I walk the floor of the pool toward the steps. With each step, the weight of my emotions decreases as less water engulfs me. My nipples harden as the air lays kisses on my wet skin. I take off my skirt and wrench the water from it, grab the rest of my clothes from the ground, and enter the house of loneliness.

  “I thought you were going to stay out there forever.”

  I use my clothes to cover my exposed flesh. “Trevor? I thought you left.”

  “I did. Came back.”

  “Oh” is all I’m able to say.

  Neither of us look at each other, both of us probably feeling a mixture of shame and remorse from where we let our emotions take us a couple of hours ago.

  “Come here,” he instructs with an outstretched hand.

  Still holding on to my clothes, trying to cover as much of my private parts as possible, I take his hand and move to where he is.

  He grabs an orange envelope from the dining room table and walks us over to the fireplace. He removes papers from the envelope, takes our ending in his hands, rips it to pieces. Tosses it on top of wood. Clicks the remote to the gas a few times until the hum of gas kicks in and fire slowly begins to burn what would have been our demise.

  Our hands tighten around each other’s as we watch those divorce papers turn to ashes.

  Trevor turns to me, says, “This is our beginning.” He clicks the remote again to shut the gas off.

  Though the light from the fire diminishes, the light in my eyes glows.

  Hand in hand we walk upstairs. When he opens our bedroom door, several candles are lit. Sheets are pulled back on the bed with rose petals sprinkled over it.

  “Remember our honeymoon?”

  I feel my cheeks spread from ear to ear. “I do.”

  On my pillow, petals form a heart and a letter with my name on it is in the middle of it.

  “Read it,” Trevor says. “When you’re done, join me in the bathroom.”

  We decided not to write our own vows when we married. But my husband surprised me on our wedding night by putting his written vows on my pillow for my eyes only. I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. I went to a printer and had them overlay the vows over one of our wedding pictures. It’s been on my nightstand ever since.

  I unfold the paper to see a resignation letter to his job.

  With the letter in my hand and tears streaming down my face, I join my husband in the bathroom. “You did this for me?” I ask him.

  He helps me in the tub, gets in behind me. Says, “Couldn’t imagine doing it for anyone else.”

  We settle into the tub together. His legs straddle my body. I lean my head back on his chest. “I can’t believe you’re letting your job go.”

  “It needed to be done. In order for this marriage to work, it had to be done.”

  Nothing else needs to be said. I understand him and he understands me.

  He rubs his soapy hands up and down my arms, rubs my neck. Takes a few suds and teases my nipples. He smoothes my curls to the side, whispers in my ear, “I miss making love to my wife.”

  “I miss my husband making love to me.”

  He kisses behind my ear. His lips make love to my burnt-almond skin. He turns my face up toward his and our lips connect. My mouth opens, his tongue greets mine. I can still taste my love on his tongue from earlier. Can feel him hardening against my back as my love below coos.

  “Wait,” Trevor says. He fumbles in the water for a washcloth. He pours my favorite black orchid and velvet hibiscus body wash on it and lathers me up from my neck to my toes. He leaves no skin unclean. I take the washcloth and do the same to him. We jump in the stand-alone shower to rinse the suds off and run water through our hair to get rid of the chlorine. I hand him a bottle of lavender oil for him to rub me down before I pat myself dry. I take the bottle and do the same for him. He squeezes as much water out of his locs as possible, then carries me back into the bedroom.

  Everything about tonight reminds me of our honeymoon. He did the same exact things the night we married.

  He lays me on the bed ever so gently. “Turn over.”

  I do as told.

  He warms oil in his hands and places them on my back. He’s careful around the scratches I got from the pool. Soft kisses apologize to my tender spots. His hands work out every worry in my body, every fear, every doubt. His lips do the same thing to the opposite side of my body, starting with my face. He kisses my forehead, my eyelids, my lips. We stay mouth to mouth for a while, slowly tonguing each other with so much passion. He sucks my bottom lip before heading further south. Locs tickle my skin as his tongue traces the roundness of my nipples. He does one then does the other. Goes back and forth before putting both breasts in his mouth at the same time. He does that and I swear the rivers of life flow from between my thighs.

  His lips continue down to the land of milk and honey. “Baby, you are so wet.”

  “You did that,” I say.

  Instead of draping my legs over his shoulders, I spread them wide, placing one foot on each side of his rib cage. Opens me up something serious, allows him to dive face-first into my heated waters.

  He licks and sucks like I’m a double scoop of ice cream melting down his cone. Surely my juices are dripping down his chin and he doesn’t want to lose one drop to the sheets.

  My husband holds my hips in his hands as my freshly waxed folds grind against his face. He holds me to keep us going in the same pace. His tongue flicks my swollen clit and for a minute I lose my breath. I can’t moan, can’t yell, can’t scream my infamous, “Shit.” I fight to find air, yet I ride his face until he comes up for air.

  On his way up, he stops at my breasts again and perfumes them with the scent of my love.

  I feel my sweet spot revving up again, ready for round two … three … four.

  He kisses me; damn near tongues me down. I try to eat my flavor off his palate. Feel myself grind against his pelvis until I find what I’m looking for. I draw him in like quicksand; feel him hit the bottom of my pit. He makes slow, deep strokes, and enters my soul in a way he never has before.

  Every stroke is an apology to what went down earlier this evening. Saying, “I’m sorry for treating you as anything less than my wife. Sorry for pushing you into the arms of another man.”

  He pulls all the way out to the tip and then glides back in. Every time he does that he promises to never leave me lonely, to always listen to what my heart says, and to be a better husband.

  With every rock of my hips, I apologize for not trusting in his position as the head of this household. Every tilt of my pelvis begs for forgiveness for stepping outside of this marriage for comfort and validation.

  I open my eyes and see my husband’s on me. I tell him, “I promise to never leave your side again.”

  He kisses my tears and reminds me, “This is just the beginning.”

  Party On

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I clutched Phil’s hand lightly, digging my red nails into his palm as we entered and gave our names before being ushered into the decked-out loft space, which had been transformed into a true sex den as befitting the city’s most erotically adventurous. I’d been there for sex parties before, but those felt like they’d taken place in another lifetime; since I’d started dating Phil six months before, it had just been the two of us. He’d swept me off my feet, literally—we’d met at an ice-skating rink, where I’d decided, on a whim, to try it, even though I hadn’t skated since I was a little girl. I felt a little silly in my short skirt, my mocha legs bare, my little red sweater hugging my breasts, but I couldn’t resist the idea of ice skating in downtown L.A. on a gloriously sunny day in a mostly empty rink.

  Once I’d started, I’d found that thrill came back to me, tinged with an edge of something a bit more adult as my short black skirt fluttered in the breeze. As I was s
ailing along, feeling free and happy, a tall, thin white guy had skated over and offered me his hand, then proceeded to make me feel like we were in the Olympics, flying around the rink and then holding me up in a victory pose before lowering me down, our lips almost but not quite meeting.

  The tension had simmered between us for the entire hour we skated. After a while, I stopped thinking about the fact that he was a stranger, that we were in public, that he was white, a rarity in my dating landscape—not because I have anything against white guys. I just don’t tend to meet any I click with that often. His name was Phil and he was a writer, taking a break from being cooped up in his studio to get a little exercise. I’d taken the day off from my job in advertising on a whim. The fact that he was clearly interested in me, but not outright hitting on me endeared him to me.

  By the time we took a break for hot chocolates, I was dying to kiss him, but as confident as I usually was with guys, I’d suddenly turned shy, waiting for him to make the first move. “Do you want to go on a proper date?” he asked as I blew on my drink, the steam heating my cheeks.

  “I’d love to,” I replied.

  “Where should we go?” he asked, then blushed, clearly thinking he should’ve been the one to make a plan. But I didn’t mind, and only at the end of that date did he live up to the promise of his full, beautiful lips. When they pressed against mine, I forgot the fact that I’d sworn off serious relationships, not to mention that I was five years older than him, because he made me tingle all the way to my toes with just a look.

  Somehow, he turned me, a thirty-three-year-old woman, into a blushing teenager. I wanted to make out with him for hours, and I did, that day, before we even got a chance to go on our first official date—followed by so much more. He took every step of sex seriously, savoring the time he spent sucking on my breasts, playing with my sex, urging me not to rush when I moved to whisk our clothes off. Most of my other lovers had been eager to get to the main event, but Phil was a revelation. He managed to worship my body in a way that made me feel like a queen, and maybe that’s why I had trouble thinking of him the way I was used to thinking of guys: as potential tops, men who’d treat me like the dirty girl I longed to be.

  With Phil, though, I was too busy having multiple orgasms, my body on an extended high, to miss the more perverted aspects of sex. Even when we weren’t together, he had a way of saying something suggestive that wormed its way into my brain and then simmered down lower and lower. We were having such a good time that I hadn’t thought about adding anyone else to the mix or offering up my truly kinky side. I was beginning to think that part of me was dead until I was cleaning on a rare weekend day I wasn’t spending with Phil and found my stash of porn. It featured women getting spanked by men and women, and the sight of it immediately made my heart race. I love being spanked—the harder, the better.

  It has nothing to do with my upbringing; the first time a man took me across his lap, I was in college. He was ten years older than me, a scholarly black guy who ultimately deemed me too frivolous, but once he got his glasses off, he could really deliver a wallop. I liked that he couldn’t rationalize or intellectualize his interest, either; he just knew he liked the way I squealed when he smacked me, liked how wet it made me.

  I popped in the video, pulled out my favorite rabbit vibrator, and spent the next hour lost in sensation, remembering the feel of the men and women who’d spanked me right here in my bedroom and at the parties I used to attend before Phil. Only when I was done coming did I wonder what Phil would think of those events. First of all, I’d never taken a white guy. There were other interracial couples who attended, and everyone was totally chill. I didn’t think any of them would judge me, but still—was I ready for that? Was I ready to show him that side of me, to take on any baggage he might have?

  I wouldn’t say he put me on a pedestal, exactly—he had no problem pulling my hair while I sucked his cock or occasionally “ordering” me into a certain position—but overall, he did treat me like a queen. He took care of me in bed and out, and to suddenly ask him to show me off like the slut I wanted to be, for the night, anyway, seemed like a bold leap. But I knew if I didn’t ask him, I’d only resent him for holding me back, and that’s not hot at all.

  So the next night, I made him my specialty, linguine with clam sauce, and got a bottle of champagne. “What’s all this?” he asked, leaning down to give me a kiss that seemed to go on forever. I relaxed into his arms, then pulled back.

  “Well, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Uh oh, should I be sitting down?” he asked. I couldn’t totally tell what he was thinking; he has much more of a poker face than I do. Then again, I could’ve been poised to tell him anything from wanting to break up to being knocked up.

  “Sure—but it’s nothing bad, at least, I hope not.” He sat down, and I impulsively decided to sit on his lap. I seem to fit there so well. He put his arm around me and I smiled at him, then bit my lower lip.

  “Well … there’s something I want to share with you. I don’t know exactly why I haven’t already. I guess, because I didn’t want you to judge me. But here goes; I’m into spanking. I mean, I like to be spanked. And I used to go to these sex parties, play parties, really, where people do that, and get tied up, and watch each other. And there’s one coming up on Saturday and I thought maybe we could go together.” I finished the last sentence all in a rush. I was tempted to shut my eyes as I awaited what felt like a verdict, but I didn’t. If I was going to be fully myself with my boyfriend, to let him see all of me, then I had to be bold and brave.

  He looked at me steadily, his blue eyes searching my brown ones. “Oh, honey … that’s your big secret? That’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, I’m, well, I’m interested in it also. I’ve never done it, but I’ve thought about spanking women before. Thought about it a lot.”

  “You have?” I asked, shyly. Why was it so much harder to bare one’s innermost thoughts than to bare one’s body?

  “Yes, and let me just say that you have the most gorgeous ass I’ve ever seen. As a guy, though, it’s a tough topic to bring up, and the one time I did, my girlfriend looked at me like I was a monster.”

  I couldn’t help giggling; that was the last reaction I’d ever have. “Thank you. I guess it’s just a little hard to say, ‘I want a spanking.’ Especially because I’ve never dated a white guy before. I don’t know why it’s different; I was just nervous. You treated me with such respect it seemed rude to almost ask you to, well, do the opposite.” I did know why, deep down—I had fears, buried so deep I almost couldn’t access them, that he’d suddenly decide I wasn’t the kind of girl he wanted to be with, that spanking would be pushing things too far. I’ve had those thoughts with black guys, too, but I always got over them. Maybe I was just so into Phil I didn’t want to mess things up.

  “So … what do we do now?” I asked timidly, daring to face him once more.

  “I think you know exactly what to do, Christine.” Suddenly his voice was much deeper than usual, stern, almost like someone else’s. When I didn’t move, he said, “You’re going to take off every stitch of clothing you have on and get on your hands and knees right here. You’re going to show me what’s between those pretty legs and especially show me that nice, juicy ass of yours, the one you so badly want me to spank.”

  And just like that, all my nervousness about him being uptight or judgmental melted away. I was trembling, but with excitement. This was Phil, my Phil, but with an edge, a toughness that made me want to see how far I could push him. I stood up and began slowly, sensuously, removing my clothes, making sure he was watching my every move. I wasn’t wearing much, so it didn’t take long, and then I got on the ground, on all fours, as he’d instructed me. This is the part that always makes me the wettest, even more than being spanked—exposing myself.

  “I see all of you, Christine. I see your pink pussy lips between your legs. I see how you’ve got your sweet ass in the air, just waiti
ng for me. Smack that pretty bottom for me with your hand.” I did it instinctively, shocked at how doing as he said turned me on, a prelude to the present he was about to give me. Soon Phil was on the floor with me, pulling me across his lap. He was clothed, I was naked, but somehow it felt so right. “I want you to count for me, baby, but I’m not going to tell you how many smacks you’re going to get. You’ll just have to trust that I know what you want. Say ‘halt’ if you want me to stop; that’s your safe word.”

  “Okay, sir,” I said, the word slipping out. I’d figured that would be too loaded, too much, but Phil wasn’t just any white guy; he was my white guy. He knew me inside out by then, and I was ready to go there with him.

  “One!” I called out as the pain settled into my bottom, quickly morphing into pleasure. Someone who doesn’t like to be spanked would only feel the former, but for me it feels like heaven.

  “Two!” I shouted, and struggled to keep up as the next few land fast and furiously. By the time we got to twenty, I was tingling, aching, unsure whether I wanted more or a break. He gave me the latter, lifting me up and carrying me into my bedroom. He licked my pussy, telling me how much he loved spanking me. “I love how you feel when I hit you,” he said, then, for good measure, landed an extra blow to my sweet spot, the part where my cheeks meet, before planting me on top of him, grabbing my hips, and slamming me down onto his very hard dick. The combination of his forcefulness and the way my ass ached brought me over the edge, and I came as he filled me all the way. His hands crafted my warm cheeks as he continued until he couldn’t hold back any longer, giving me his hot cream right where I wanted it.

  • • •

  So there we were, our worlds voluntarily colliding, as my fingers pressed into his hand and I ushered him into my kinky home away from home. I was grateful we’d been practicing our role-playing; much more than spanking was going on in the room. There were floggings, men and women on leashes, and a woman being dripped with hot wax—with a ball gag in her mouth! A tremor of excitement ran through me at what I was witnessing, maximized by the fact that I got to share it with Phil. With the reassurance of his hand clutched in mine, I forgot about what anyone might think. I was with the man I loved, and if someone had a problem with that, it was precisely their problem, not mine.