by Retha Powers
Tracy adjusted her cap before she answered. “Well, that might make up for your earlier rudeness. It might even get you off on these tickets.” She paused for a moment, as if considering, then continued, “But I think I’ve already met the real you. And she is snotty bitch to the bone. So… I think not.”
Kim was shocked, then insulted, and then angry. “How dare you?” Kim’s hand flew up to slap Tracy’s face, but Tracy was faster. She caught Kim’s wrist, spun her around, and pushed her up against the car.
“Oh really. Now you’re attempting assault on an officer? Very stupid. And common. Is that the way you play?”
Tracy’s voice was low and menacing. “Put your hands on the hood and spread your legs.” When Kim hesitated, Tracy grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head back, hissing in Kim’s ear, “Do it. I won’t ask so nicely again. I’ll just cuff you.”
Kim assumed the position quickly. She was furious, but she didn’t say another word. She knew Tracy would make good her threat. Handcuffs. Kim shivered. She could hear Tracy moving behind her but didn’t dare turn around.
Tracy stopped just behind her. Kim could hear Tracy breathing shallowly and then, a moment later, felt Tracy’s hand softly stroke her neck. Kim’s breath caught at the sudden sensual act. She felt a confused mixture of fear and longing.
When Tracy spoke again, her voice was soft and thoughtful, but still slightly tinged with anger. “Not so high and mighty now, are you… princess?”
Kim felt the fear rising. Her eyes raced across the landscape as she realized her predicament. It was dark, deserted. While driving down the narrow road she hadn’t seen a single car. No one knew she’d left the house. There were no lights, no houses, no one anywhere in view.
Tracy removed her hand from Kim’s neck and knelt behind her. A moment later she started stroking Kim’s bare calves. Kim fought to hold on to the fear and anger that were beginning to dissolve into heated desire. Tracy’s leather-clad hands were moving slowly up Kim’s bare legs, squeezing and stroking as they moved upward.
“Not so mouthy away from your high-flying friends, are you?” Tracy breathed huskily as she inhaled Kim’s reluctantly rising arousal. “Well, I’m not one of your friends or—colleagues who lap up all that princess shit you fling around.”
Her hands gripped the hem of Kim’s skirt and lifted it as she continued making her way up Kim’s thighs… until Kim’s silk-clad ass was revealed to both Tracy and the night sky. Hiking the skirt around Kim’s waist, Tracy squeezed and then smacked Kim’s ass, smiling as Kim groaned deep in her throat. Tracy reached between Kim’s legs, fingering the creamy wetness now staining her expensive panties. She slapped Kim’s ass again, harder. Kim gasped and arched her back.
“Just as I thought. An ass in need of a good spanking. And you know you deserve it. Don’t you? You know you want it.” She slapped the right cheek harder. “Don’t you? You want me to spank that spoiled ass of yours.” Tracy’s voice was pitched to a seductive growl as she pulled Kim’s panties roughly down, forcing Kim to stumble as Tracy lifted one of Kim’s heeled feet, leaving the silken rag around the other ankle.
Tracy parted Kim’s cheeks and then slipped a black kid-covered finger into the crevice, rubbing the soft hide over Kim’s drenched pussy and slipping a digit inside Kim’s pulsing hole.
Kim struggled to keep her knees locked as Tracy’s knuckles teased her swollen flesh. She pumped backward, tightening her inner muscles as she tried to take Tracy in deeper, but Tracy withdrew her finger.
“Are you sure you want this? Sure you want this local trash to fuck your proper ass?”
Tracy’s hands slid along Kim’s trembling inner thighs. “Yeah, you want it, don’t you? You want it right now, don’t you?”
Tracy pushed a finger into Kim and pumped her slowly while her other hand continued to softly massage Kim’s ass. “Answer me, Kimberly. You want it, don’t you?” She pushed a second and then a third finger inside Kim’s pussy and said harshly, “Don’t you?”
It felt as if Tracy’s entire hand was inside of her, filling her, feeling her aching want. An orgasm was rising in Kim. Please don’t stop, Kim begged silently, as she nodded furiously and gasped aloud, “Yes… yes!” Kim thought she’d explode as she rocked into Tracy’s rhythm, her insides clenching and unclenching spasmodically.
Suddenly, Tracy smacked Kim’s ass again, hard. Again, harder. All the while she continued a slow manipulation of Kim’s insides. “You don’t cum until I tell you to—understand?” She slapped her again, smiling with satisfaction as she felt the heat rise on Kim’s fleshy flank.
Tracy twisted her hand until her leathered thumb, lubricated with Kim’s cream, rubbed against Kim’s swollen, throbbing clit. She began pumping her harder, deeper, raining spanks on one cheek and then the other with her free hand, the weight of her body keeping Kim’s thrashing, bucking body pinned against the car.
Tracy pulled her hand almost out of Kim and then slammed it back in. Again. And again.
“Please… please… ah... please,” Kim chanted over and over as Tracy spanked her, pumped her, played with her clit. Tracy pressed hard circles on Kim’s hood and then held it, flicking the head back and forth until Kim let out a long keen, her knees buckling beneath her. Tracy pulled her body away from Kim, and Kim reeled and then collapsed against the car, a powerful orgasm sweeping over her.
Tracy stilled her hand as Kim’s hot cunt pulsed around it. She rested her cheek against Kim’s flamed flank and carefully withdrew her fingers, tracing a slick digit through Kim’s tangled pubic hair and cupping the source of Kim’s heat in her palm until the throbbing stopped. Then she stood. She turned Kim to her, smiling slightly as she watched Kim regain some measure of composure. The haughty tilt of her head was gone, her eyes were soft, a little bewildered, her lips wet and parted slightly as she pulled in small gasps of breath.
Tracy took several steps backward, moving from the gravel to the grass, her eyes never leaving Kim’s. She stopped, legs planted firmly, and removed her gun belt. Kim watched as Tracy unzipped her pants and then motioned for her to kneel in front of her. Kim didn’t hesitate. She knew what Tracy wanted.
Kim knelt on the soft grass, her face level with Tracy’s crotch. She rubbed her hands along the khaki trousers, kissing Tracy’s mons as she worked the pants down. Tracy’s engorged clit extended beyond the plump outer lips, peeking through the thick, curling wet hair that usually protected it.
Tracy placed her hands on Kim’s head, her fingers digging in to the scalp as she led Kim’s mouth to her. Kim licked and sucked hungrily, moving in rhythm with Tracy, increasing speed, pressure, as Tracy’s hands dictated. She felt Tracy’s body tense, her clit pulsing on Kim’s tongue. And when Tracy pressed Kim’s face hard into her and held it there, cumming silently, Kim felt the intensity of Tracy’s release and her own body responding in kind.
After a moment Tracy pushed Kim away. Kim sank back on the grass, watching Tracy pull up her pants, reattach her holster and belt. Tracy looked down at Kim, a strange smile on her face, but she said nothing. Kim stood and brushed her dress, then moved toward Tracy.
“That was incredible. I… I have never…”
Tracy’s smile widened. “I know… I guess I will forget the ticket and just issue a warning this time.”
Kim laughed. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re going to give me another chance.” She leaned forward to kiss Tracy, but Tracy sidestepped the gesture, turned, and headed for the cruiser.
“Where are you going?” Kim’s voice rose in confusion as she watched Tracy’s retreating form.
“I’m on duty. Back to my post.”
“So, will I see you tomorrow at breakfast?” Kim came around and stood beside the car as Tracy climbed in and turned on the motor.
“I don’t think so, Kimberly. This was nice, but I think you’re a little rich for my blood.” And with that she pulled away, scattering gravel, made a U-turn, and drove away, leaving Kim standing by the side of the roa
d in the dark.
Popsicles, Donuts, and Reefah
_________________
by Bruce Morrow
When Roy Williams sticks his head in his father’s bedroom, the day nurse is feeding Clarence while watching Regis and Kathie Lee. The room looks and smells like a hospital room, and Roy has to rub his eyes and clear his throat before speaking. He asks, “How’s he doing this morning, Fami?”
“Just fine,” Fami mutters through a genuine smile. Although she moved to the United States from Haiti more than twenty years ago, she’s still not sure of her English; she smiles a lot and mumbles to cover any chance of mispronunciation. She has a heart-shaped face and thick features, with a hairline that seems to grow too close to her eyebrows. She reminds Roy of a Hershey’s Kiss wrapped in a brightly colored flowered dress instead of silver foil. “Come on. One more,” she says holding a spoon to Clarence’s slack mouth. After each spoonful of oatmeal, she wipes his mouth with a small yellow towel. “That good for you. One more. Come on.” It’s been two months since Roy’s mother’s death and the hiring of Fami, and Roy has never seen Fami lose her patience. But he does sense she’s overburdened. Sometimes on weekends she brings her teenage son, who studies at the kitchen table while his mother works. He’s the only person Roy’s ever met who actually has sickle cell anemia, which might explain the boy’s delicate nature, his careful way of looking away from you without seeming impolite. He’s the stillest person Roy’s ever met—except for his father, who waits and needs to be waited on constantly. Roy tries not to look at his father, the simple look on his face, his gray complexion, his diminishing stature. How could this man who doesn’t look like he could climb out of his bed without assistance have ever scaled up and down bridges, checking suspension wires, fist-size bolts, beams as wide as most buildings are high? Roy could never understand how a bunch of wires could hold up a bridge.
“Fami, I’m running to the store. Need anything?”
“No, I’m okay. Mr. Williams?”
“Roy. Call me Roy.” Mr. Williams is right there, he wanted to add, you just changed his diaper and are now feeding him. Roy wants no part of taking on his father’s identity.
She hesitates. “Okay.” After more than two months of looking after Clarence she still doesn’t want to use Roy’s first name, so she skips over it, doesn’t call him anything. “I was hoping to leave early today. About twelve—noon—instead of three, if that’s all right with you.”
“I guess. It’s a holiday. You going shopping?” Roy has a bad habit of trying to speak in as few words as possible to Fami, as if she won’t understand complete sentences. It makes it sound like he’s being condescending, which makes him think he’s having a tougher time dealing with being served than she is with being a servant. “Nothing crazier than shopping on the day after Thanksgiving.”
“Yes. Maurice is at home. I didn’t want to bring him today. He’s hurting a little. Not much.”
“Oh. I hope he’s all right, Fami. I can take care of everything. Just let me run to the store for a few things and you can go as soon as you want.”
In the gilded mirror in the front hall, he checks his face; his reflection becomes a part of a gameboard of bright yellow light and purple shadow squiggling around the living room of his family’s brownstone in Brooklyn. “I’ll be right back,” he yells up the stairs after putting his jacket on.
It’s a lot colder than he’d imagined. The crystal-clear sky had tricked him but he doesn’t turn around, go back inside, and put on another layer of something warm. With only one or two leaves still miraculously hanging on, even the trees look underdressed for this cold snap, especially the little maples that were recently planted to replace all the diseased elms. Crisp and cold, the thought of another tragedy, his mother’s passing away, his father’s failing health, and the cutting of all those beautiful old trees chills him to the bone, crystallizing, crumbling like the brown leaves under his feet. He picks up his pace, lifts his shoulders to protect his neck from the cold, and watches his breath freeze into streams of mist.
On Flatbush the bustle of shoppers seem to respond to him and he to the forgotten smell of his mother’s favorite perfume, White Shoulders, mixed with the smell of her soft black leather gloves holding his small mittened hand—blown away by a cold wind laced with laughter and candy wrappers. Even though he wants to turn back, he realizes the truth: There’s no need to run, no need to race the wind; nothing will ever be the same. Taste it now. Unwrap life. Lick it, bite it, suck on it like a Popsicle because in the end all that will be left is the stick and the wrapper. Litter if you don’t make it in the can. Garbage if you do.
Even though his hands are cold, he pulls out the little datebook that he keeps in his back pocket and writes down his idea of life being like a Popsicle, sweet, colorful, but always melting away, a mess waiting to happen. He writes furiously. His face disappears in a cloud of frozen breath. Excited and inspired.
He walks past the grocery store and heads for his favorite donut shop. Bowties all around, he wants to announce when he enters the door, but he’s silenced by the familiar sweet smell of powdered sugar, vanilla, yeast, and something else. Oregano? His mouth waters too much to talk. Though the little old mustached Italian guy behind the counter immediately recognizes Roy, Roy tries not to make a big deal of his return and quickly orders his usual two bowties and one jelly donut for his father. The old man doesn’t press Roy for news of his family or school. He’s busy with other customers steadily coming and going, for one thing and, for another, he’s being respectful of Roy’s privacy; everybody in the neighborhood must know that his mother, one of their best-loved customers, just died. Roy and the old man stand on opposite sides of the counter with shelves of donuts on display between them. Rows of glazed donuts, chocolate donuts, honey dipped, jelly stuffed, and cream filled with red and blue sprinkles on top. The old man is waiting for a fresh batch of bowties to be brought out for Roy. He tells Roy that his mother was such a lovely lady, a woman with a sense of humor, always suggesting that he make his crullers longer and sell them by the inch. The bakers laughs too much at this, which makes Roy think there’s something else going on, a little sexual innuendo. “Ten cents an inch. Lovely woman,” the donut maker laughs. Roy nods and smiles. She would say something like that, test the edge of decency to make sure she got that extra donut slipped into her bag each and every time. With his mother’s good graces, maybe an extra bowtie will be slipped in his bag, too.
“Ah, and what can I get for the little Reefah today? Two chocolate-dipped crullers, coming up.” The old baker oozes with sweet stickiness. “For you, Reefah, anything.”
Roy expects to see his old friend Luna’s little girl in braids and knee-high socks standing behind him. But what he finds is a very beautiful young woman with shiny black hair that matches her shiny black eyes, dressed in a black down jacket and black mini skirt, with, sure enough, black above-the-knee socks that leave exposed a thick band of tanned thigh, just enough to make Roy imagine he’s seeing the rest.
“Hey, what’s up?” he says.
She nods and quickly steps back and to the side to let him by.
“You might not remember me,” he starts but decides to change tack after looking at that tan band of thigh again; in a situation like this, it’s not going to help to mention a girl’s father. “Wish they had this donut shop back at college. I could use a jolt of fresh bowties to help me pull an all-nighter.” Awkward, but it got the right information across.
“College boy. I guess I’m getting impressed. Is that what you wanted?”
A stab in his left side. “No. Well, yes. Make a good first impression, always helps. Roy. Roy Williams.”
“So what’s up with you? I guess you’re back home for turkey and stuffing.”
He hesitates, not wanting to talk about his mother’s recent death and funeral. “Yeah. Thanksgiving break,” he says, bending the truth. She’ll be impressed with his college credentials and keep talking to him. It�
�s only a short leave of absence from school. He’ll be back next semester, he thinks, even though he doesn’t know for sure. How old could Luna’s little girl be? Fifteen. Sixteen. Doesn’t fucking matter when she’s got it going on like that. Big time. Some Asian-Latina fried rice and plantains. Her father’s Rican eyebrows and cheekbones and her mom’s tight little Japanese body. He’d run into Luna and his wife over the years, always rushing off to some important appointment or event—sans daughter.
Roy’s fresh hot right-from-the-oven bowties are bagged and ready to go now, and he feels the other customers behind him pushing forward for their orders. “Take it easy,” he says casually, almost under his breath—suggestively, he hopes—to Reefah and maneuvers through the crowd and out the door.
The first bite melts into sweet vanilla pudding in his mouth. Standing in the middle of the sun-soaked sidewalk, he closes his eyes for more than a blink and sways. Swoons. The sun has finally melted away the morning chill and is now slipping behind the cornices of buildings. But for now the street is soaked in vanilla custard sun. In shop windows Christmas decorations glitter silver and gold, cherry red and pine green. Bursts of white light bounce off the windshields of passing cars, blinding Roy for brief moments, hiding him in sunshine. He closes his eyes again for more than a blink. Again. And again. Passersby step around him. In the broad stripes of sun, a steady stream of life rolls by, on leash, on foot, on bicycles, in rusted Chevys and new BMWs with tinted windows and chrome mag wheels—funny-looking dogs and grouchy old women, but mostly groups of bouncing boys wearing baseball caps and down jackets that look like quilted balloons. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, he trembles in the sunlight that seems to be shining from within.
Reefah, who’s been watching him with a knowing smile, laughs; a flash of silver disappears in her mouth. “Sure beats Dunkin’ Donuts.”