Nympho

by Andrea Blackstone

  Thankfully, my family was not at my place when I returned. They left a note on the fridge that read: WE WILL BE BACK. THERE’S NO FOOD FOR US TO EAT. WE HAVE YOUR SPARE KEY. Thank goodness it was almost time to put the whole scandalous ordeal behind me because I was beginning to feel the weight of so much pressure. In my left hand, I carried my bat for protection, and put my mace on my key ring, just in case I needed to take a nigga down in the dark.

  It almost slipped my mind, but when I was leaving my house I called Tanya and did my best to convince her that Rico was lying to ruin our friendship over what happened before. She didn’t answer at home, and her cell phone went straight to voicemail. I found this to be odd, given that I should’ve heard from my maid of honor the night before my wedding. After all, she did say she didn’t want Rico to come between us. No one is all good or all bad. Although I had done my fair share of stabbing her in the back, I did decide that something would be missing if my girl didn’t show to participate in my wedding, so I left her a message. I knew there was a reason for everything, and I would soon find out what it was. In less than twenty-four hours, everything would be a wrap. It was a good thing because Leslie didn’t know how much more she could take of the mess Innocence got her wrapped up in. And by the way, I won’t mention how I escaped from my chastity belt. It wasn’t pretty . . . but I did.

  22

  Crave

  Upon returning from my place, I called Trey in his room to let him know I had arrived safely after gathering my things. While at home, I threw a monster vibrator into one of the suitcases. It was a new toy, one Rico hadn’t found and destroyed, and I couldn’t wait to take it for a spin. I removed it from the hard plastic packaging and snagged some batteries from the hotel’s TV remote. I inserted the batteries in my toy and began using it on myself. I must admit I was excited to finally lie down on my back and stroke the vibrator gently up my pussy lips and around my clit.

  I longed to share the intense vibration with Trey by stimulating him around his testicles, but I could never even let Trey know I had toys I used to satisfy my sex cravings. He’d never go for it. I wished I could find his million-dollar spot by stroking him with my toy, taking him a half a mile from heaven with me as his penis awakened and rose. I tried to picture him moaning in unison with me as I pumped the vibrator faster and more forcefully moving it in and out of my vagina. I could feel my climax begin to mount as I squeezed my muscles around the large, plastic penis. My moans became repetitive as I forced the vibrator to make love to my body.

  “Trey . . . Trey . . . Finally, baby. You feel so good,” I screamed, fighting to invite my climax to take me to the sweet place where I anticipated landing. Just when I was preparing for the highlight of my journey, the damn batteries died. I was disgusted that too many guests had scanned TV channels and sucked the life out of my impromptu power source. As good as it felt to wrap myself up in my own fantasy all it did was make me crave a real man who could inspire my body to find much-needed relief. I looked at the toy as I squeezed my legs together and dialed Trey’s number on the hotel phone.

  “Please come fuck me!” I said bluntly. “I really, really need a little sumthin’ sumthin’ bad. I need to cum. Bring me some dick, Trey. Come stick me. I’m stressed out about tomorrow, and I need to take the edge off.”

  “Get some sleep, Leslie.”

  “Please let me sit on it and ride you. Let me come to your room for just ten minutes. I promise—just ten minutes and I’ll leave,” I begged.

  “We have a long day tomorrow. You just lost a child and you haven’t even allowed your body time to heal well. There’s plenty of time for sex. I love you,” he replied.

  “You’re right. I love you, too,” I responded, masking my disappointment.

  I hung up the phone, thinking I wasn’t about to let a stupid abortion stop me from getting off as long as I wasn’t experiencing any side effects. I cursed the fact that men could sometimes be so damned selfish. Trey’s blasé attitude was becoming so predictable I didn’t continue trying to figure his lack of libido out. I merely took his response as a green light to please myself.

  My next attempt to calm down my hormones was taking a shower. It seemed like a good idea until I started thinking about unscrewing the showerhead to see what a forceful flow of water could do for me. The hotel was no place for shower massage masturbation, but I’d been hearing about it and wanted to give it a try.

  I brushed my teeth, and tried to get lost within thoughts most every woman dreams of, but fantasizing about the big day didn’t work either. I decided to take my toy on our honeymoon in case Trey planned on doing his usual dead-fish impression, but that was later. At that moment, I wanted to make the annoying feeling of getting so close to what my body wanted go away. Playing with my toy had frustrated me, and all I could think of was getting off.

  Still feeling frenzied, I got dressed and went off in search of some ice, but I found myself taking the elevator to get a drink. That way I could go straight to the bar where ice and drink were in one place. Plus, I could fantasize while looking at men sitting at the bar, instead of tossing and turning all night while feeling lonely.

  After I sat down I noticed a good-looking bartender. I sat on the stool trying to keep a straight face, squeezing my thighs together, and considering what was in every pair of pants in the bar. The bartender was taking too long to serve me, so I walked behind the counter and proceeded to make my own drink. I craved a glass of liquor to dull the reality of a runaway libido that had me feeling as if I could explode. I was hitting rock bottom.

  “Slow down. You can’t do that,” the bartender said. My hand was firmly wrapped around a bottle of vodka.

  “You were taking so long I was beginning to think this was a self-service bar,” I replied, returning the bottle to its place.

  “What’s wrong, Miss?” the bartender asked.

  “Life, that’s what,” I snapped, walking back around toward the other side of the bar.

  “If you need a free ear, I’ll listen. Let’s try this again: what would you like to have?”

  “I don’t know. How about a strong shot of vodka? Obviously, that’s what I had in mind,” I told him.

  He made the drink and set it in front of me. “Calm down and take a deep breath,” he told me. After I did, he added, “What’s eating you?”

  “I’m getting married.”

  “Congratulations!” he told me with a smile.

  “No, don’t congratulate me—please!” I said in between sipping on the vodka. I took one more swallow and added, “Do you tell a man he’s a bad lover or do you just fake it for life? I’m tired of Mr. Impotent.”

  “What?” he asked, looking confused.

  “My fiancé is the world’s worst lover. Trust and believe this much is true,” I sighed.

  “Maybe he’s just a selfish lover. Try telling him what you want. Perhaps communication would help to improve things.”

  “I have. It doesn’t matter. I can’t describe how it is to love someone but not be totally into them. I crave affection and crave certain types of gratification, but I know he’s not the one who can fully give it to me. Don’t men understand that women deserve to be satisfied, too? If sex is bad before marriage, why should I feel it will change just because of two rings? I don’t understand why men feel they should have all of the power in a relationship. I guess it’s the little emperor syndrome, that’s what I call it. Women are supposed to bend over backward to please while accepting whatever from men. Well, we have standards, too,” I ranted.

  “You can do everything right and some women still won’t be satisfied.”

  “Yes, but as a woman, you can do everything right, and a man still won’t completely value what he has. It’s hard for some men to behave as if appreciating what you have to give is a wise thing to feel. Women are supposed to be this, and supposed to be that, like it’s an obligation. Hello, we don’t have to do a damned thing. Men don’t view what we do as privileges, but they should.” />
  “All men aren’t programmed to cheat or behave as little emperors. There are some good ones.”

  “Right. Marriage is so overrated, when you really think it over. Maybe the shacking up game isn’t such a bad idea. When you get sick of each other, you can pack all your belongings in a U-Haul and move on, just like that . . . if you stick to shacking.”

  “Would you keep a man around for sex?” a man next to me asked. Apparently, men at the bar became wrapped up in my conversation with the bartender and I hadn’t noticed.

  “Why? The one I have rations it out and leaves me bored as hell. When I do get it he uses condoms too big for his dick—super-sized Magnums—whatever. It’s wishful thinking, but who am I to tell him he wasn’t blessed with a twelve-incher? If you’re guilty of this, stop it,” I snapped then turned my head back toward the bartender.

  “It sounds like he has a big ego,” the bartender said.

  “Don’t you all? If a condom slips off, there’s a reason. Buy your size and stop wasting your money!”

  “Since we’re speaking honestly about the sexes, how about this: Why do women tend to twist and manipulate information to validate an opinion that already existed? You creatures are masters at doing this.”

  “If a woman has an affair, there’s a reason. Men do things just because they can’t control their eyeballs or hands. Take mine for example. I’ve been playing with myself for the last two hours. Unfortunately, it didn’t do a damn thing but make me wet. If I cheat, I have good reason. Shit, I’m sexually frustrated. In towns big and small, all over the globe, there are women in my same position. Maybe it’s time for us to change the rules of the game and have some fun.”

  “Since you put it like that, will you let me have your panties? I’d love to sniff them,” the bartender said.

  I was shocked because he was a blue-eyed, blonde haired white boy. What was he doing publicly flirting with a black chick? I thought my words would be safe with him but they weren’t. Apparently, he was up for openly breaking tradition by offering to mix up the game.

  “I’ll show you where the bathroom is and you can slip them off,” he suggested.

  “Why should I give my twenty dollar Victoria Secret panties to you?” I asked, flirting.

  He removed his wallet from his pants and handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Because I asked for them.”

  “Give me a free refill and I’ll consider it.” He did and that encouraged me to play the field.

  “So what’s your number one fantasy?” he asked.

  I took a sip of my drink, and then set the glass down on the bar. “Getting banged over the kitchen sink by someone I’d had brief conversations with on a few occasions. Maybe a man I’d bumped into in the mall, for example,” I lied. “Fuck it. The truth is I’d get off fucking someone who doesn’t know my first or last name. I’d enjoy every minute of getting slapped, flipped, and rubbed down by a complete stranger with great stamina. I’m sexual, passionate, and freaky. There—I said it.”

  I shut my eyes and grinned as I envisioned Trey’s face watching me as I allowed another man’s hands, who didn’t even know my last name, wander over my body and grip my waist tightly. It felt so real. When the chatter of bar patrons awakened me from my daze, I opened my eyes.

  “Who are you here with?” the bartender asked.

  “My brother.”

  “You ever slept with a white man?”

  “No, but I’d do a good looking one like you,” I told him, I opted not to count getting licked by the S&M guy. “You ever slept with a black woman?” I shot back half flirting.

  “No, but I’d get with a beautiful one like you.”

  A myriad of emotions danced in my head. I’d lusted after Tom Cruise a few times but that’s as far as it went. I thought about all of the black men who sleep with white women. Why the hell not? Why can’t I or any woman of color reach our hand in the Caucasian candy bowl? Slavery was a long time ago and black women needed to lose the hang-ups and give turning to a white boy a try. If white women were sleeping with our men, I saw no reason not to get with theirs.

  “Well, all I’ve got to say is that it’s all true,” I replied after considering where the conversation could lead.

  “What’s all true?”

  “That old saying I’m sure you’ve heard. You know how it goes: the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.”

  His cell phone rang. The bartender talked briefly and ended the call.

  “The girlfriend’s checking in, huh? She must sense another woman is trying to jump on her shit. So white men cheat too, huh?” I joked. “Women have a sixth sense about when their dick is straying and about to introduce itself to a new kitty cat,” I added. He laughed.

  I was tired of squeezing my thighs together in my short skirt. It was time to move in for the kill. I got up from the seat, intentionally flashing him to show off my sister curves.

  “If you want my panties, come to my room and get them yourself. Unless you’re intimidated by a beautiful chocolate woman, you’ll be there. Why are bartenders always so damned good looking?” I smiled flirtatiously, giving his ego a boost.

  “I’m going to get off at 12:00.”

  “And I need to get off now. So what’s it going to be?”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Well in that case, I’m looking forward to doing something I’ve never done before. I hope you are, too. And if I like you, I’m down for almost anything, including making you cum while those toes curl.” I pressed my breasts against the bar, leaned close to him, and whispered my room number in his ear. All of the men watched me leave the bar. My nipples hardened from the mere thought of all of the attention I was getting. Innocence hadn’t lost her touch. In fact, it was improving every day.

  I showered and waited for the bartender to come and play with me. By 12:05, I felt like a hungry wolf on the move. I needed some quick relief so badly that I was nearly salivating over the thought of having my fun by getting my party started with a white man. One light tap at the door signaled me to get up and unlock it. Once I did, the man didn’t waste his words trying to get to know much more about me.

  “You’ve got a wonderful body. And that ass—I’ve never seen anything like it,” he told me.

  “So you like this pretty round brown, huh? How about some chocolate dessert?” I teased, undressing down to my birthday suit. “Come lick it from the back and then let me be your whore.” When the bartender didn’t react after I undressed I said, “Don’t you have a sweet tooth for something exotic, white boy?” I teased, holding a box of Trojan condoms in my hand.

  He started inserting his finger into my vagina while talking dirty in my ear. I loved it.

  “Don’t you want to fuck me?” I asked, hoping to keep his boldness flowing. I set the box of condoms down on a nightstand, lay on the bed, then continued grinding my hips in slow circular motions while grabbing his penis.

  “No, I just want you to feel good.” He turned me down. I couldn’t believe it.

  “You know what freaks like me want. Get undressed and let’s fuck,” I insisted.

  “You know what I’d really like?”

  “What?”

  “To watch you masturbate.”

  “Why are you playing so hard to get? Masturbate! I’m trying to suck and fuck something. You acted like you were down to play at first,” I said, getting annoyed.

  “I am down. I’m just into voyeurism. It’s my thing.”

  Usually, I have to beat men off with a stick when Innocence is doing her thing. His nonchalant attitude frustrated me and made me want him more. I didn’t ask his permission to unbuckle his pants to free his dick—I just started doing my thing. Next, I inserted my vibrator inside of myself with one hand and sucked my fingers with the other. After I did, his hands started roaming over my nude body, and he began to massage my back. It was so intense that I began working my hips into the sheet covering the mattress while grinding, grinding, grinding and continuing to
yank on his penis. The more he hardened, the more I stared at it and smacked my hips against the bed like a machine. I imagined his tall erect twelve-incher could lead me to a place where I longed to be—orgasm city. My stereotype regarding little, itty-bitty, white men went flying out of the window. All black men aren’t well endowed, and I guessed not all white men are packing pencil peckers. The proof was wrapped around the fingers of my left hand. A dick is a dick.

  The stranger continued massaging my back, digging his hands into it. I couldn’t manage to get off with no penetration or licking, so I resumed smacking my hips against the bed, salivating and imagining that the bartender’s large tool was giving me something worth losing my mind over. I picked up the box of condoms, pushed one in his direction, and closed my eyes, expecting him to change his mind about merely watching my body react to being teased.

  “I have one small suggestion for you to sleep on tonight—don’t get married,” he told me. My eyes sprung open and my mouth shut. I felt the tension in my back collect. “How would your man feel if he were here to see what you were up to? If your heart isn’t in it, don’t do it. Obviously you haven’t gotten the idea of cheating out of your system.”

  I let go of his penis and was about to respond but his phone rang. He merely listened to the caller while never saying more than, “I’ll be there in a minute, babe.”

  I wiped the saliva from the left corner of my mouth, too shocked to say anything. The man hung up his phone and placed it on the night table. I began to feel powerless and frustrated, when he chided me.

  “When you play games with love, someone’s gonna end up hurt. Marriage is a serious commitment. I know I don’t know you, but I feel like I can tell you this. Something tells me you aren’t here with your brother. If you don’t think you’re compatible with your intended, be honest about it. Things will get real ugly if you don’t get a grip,” he said.