Best Black Women's Erotica 2

by Samiya Bashir

  With the hair finally separated and me seated in the wicker chair, Penninah and Biira gathered around and above me as if I were a baby in a bassinet. While I had had my hair braided before, I had never sensed this energy. Never had I noticed the harmony of movements that were sensually orchestrated to make me beautiful.

  For one minute it was silent in the living room as I watched Biira stroke the first clump of hair with Vaseline until it stiffly matted. After she separated the first small strand and handed it to Penninah, I felt a tiny pinch as Penninah grabbed my first tuft of hair, and their rhythm began.

  “The first part of the braiding takes long,” Penninah reminded me as she introduced the pattern of their work. “We start with the edges and make sure they are dense.”

  Of course this I knew, but Penninah wanted to prevent any prematurely impatient squirming of my ass.

  With each passing of a greased strand from Biira, Penninah twisted the attachment to the base of my hair in a one-two-three rhythm. I felt Penninah’s hands work quickly as she attached and began the twist, leaving the open ends for Biira to finish.

  Biira, smelling of blue soap laundry tablets mixed with sweat, was quiet as she moved in time with Penninah, almost as if she were dancing around the perimeter of the chair in the same one-two-three rhythm. Quietly she fought to keep up with Penninah’s speed. Each twist was a stroke to my scalp that, though it felt tugged slightly, never hurt.

  One-two-three.

  On three, the light seemed to dim even further and within minutes a tapping-thud-patter of the first sprinkle of heavy raindrops hitting the patio sounded through the open window. The rainy season often started this way here, with a quick introduction of rain that only forebode the onset of later, much heavier storms.

  “Eh-eh, it is the first rain,” Biira barely breathed in uncomfortable English. Her words, hitting the back of my neck, raised a shudder.

  “Are you cold, Nicole?” Penninah felt my reaction.

  “Oh, I’m fine. I guess it’s just because the sun went down.”

  As Penninah’s one-two-three came to a complete stop just above my ear, the rain finished. The watchman passed by the window with his late-morning snack of chapatti and tea, and Biira started to finish the second round of twists. She wrapped with a quick motion that made the tips of her fingers sound short tapping noises, which, besides our breathing, was the only sound in the room. I felt the slight rocking vibration of her twists on my scalp as she worked down each shaft of hair.

  Biira was short but not small and as she twisted, starting closer to my scalp and working outward, she brushed my shoulder with her soft, low breasts. I felt her even breath and self-consciously thought that perhaps she and Penninah broke the monotone by conversing among themselves with only their eyes, about the condition of my hair or my scalp.

  One-two-three.

  The women’s rhythm dissolved the morning and welcomed the afternoon. The light of the room repeatedly changed as the sun and the clouds continued to trade places. Their work was silent except for their breath, the shuffle of their shoes as they circled to each new position, and the slight tapping noise their fingertips made with each twist of hair. Left with nothing to do, I closed my eyes to the tempo of the one-two-three rhythm Penninah started and Biira finished, as she twisted each braid to its end.

  We sat in my living room alone. I watched in silence, naked Biira dipping her hands in the Vaseline jar and smearing herself, instead of the strands of hair, with the greasy clumps. She made circular patterns on her skin, one-two-three, as she sat shyly stealing glances at me from my couch. I briefly wondered how I would explain the oily stain she was undoubtedly leaving. I watched the movements of her hands rise up to her neck, and she worked her knobby fingers along her fading cream line. She rubbed in the same one-two-three rhythm, rubbing until the line smeared into the oily massage, as if it were only an ink pen mark, and then disappeared. She sat there finally, completely and smoothly deep, dark brown, holding her breasts just under her slightly contrasting nipples. Her nipples, now standing erect above her fingers, were wide and shiny with oil. I moved to sit next to her full body on the couch as she looked at me through her sleepy eyelids, and again I felt her hush-whisper to me in uncomfortable English, mixed with her native Luganda, “Nyabo lean this way…Nyabo…?”

  “Nicole?”

  Realizing I had dozed, the pull of the one-two-three twisting brought me back to my living room, but this time with my eyes really open.

  “Nicole, lean to Biira just a little bit.” Penninah’s voice broke through. Biira was now behind me, fully dressed, still half-bleached and steadily working on my crown.

  “Were you sleeping?” Penninah asked.

  I thought that not that much time had passed, but the position of the sun and the cramp of my stomach insisted it was just past lunchtime.

  A mild discomfort dampened my hunger. Now fully awake, the one-two-three rhythm on my scalp vibrated my memory. I tried to twist my head up at Biira to see her face. Was she really there with me? I caught a glimpse of her just as her heavy-lidded eyes grazed mine, and without stopping the rhythm of her twisting she coaxed a soft, silent smile from her lips.

  I guess that was a fantasy I just slipped into about this woman. A fantasy with thoughts that seemingly violated every code of “man loves woman and woman loves man” in Uganda. I quickly tried to dismiss the little episode, blaming boredom, the warmth of the air, and the lulling intimacy of the braiding for coaxing me to this place. To a place where I thought I wanted, for one minute, to forget about both Daudi and “codes” and feel a different sort of passion.

  I shifted my hips to feel whether I was really as wet as I thought.

  “Nicole, it is now three. Are you restless? Do you need to get up?” Penninah, an expert braider, was very keen on the temperaments of her clients, and tried to assess the cause of my anxious movement. I rationalized that there was just no way she and Biira were complicit in my delicious mental wanderings. She just couldn’t imagine the real reason for the shift of my hips.

  “You know, I…I would like to get up for some water and a banana. Can I get you anything?” I asked, as I discovered with a private little rub of my thighs that I really was as wet as I thought.

  One-two-three, Biira’s fingers tapped a twist to its finish, down my cheek.

  Another discussion in Luganda revealed that Biira also wanted a banana and another glass of water. Apparently, Penninah never ate on the job. I got up to move to the kitchen, simultaneously stretching my legs. As I handed the banana and water to Biira I again tried to look her in the eyes to see if she knew what I knew, if she knew about the Vaseline, and the couch. She looked away as she reached for the food and thanked me in Luganda, “Webale nyo.”

  “Just two more hours, Nicole. We have to finish the last section and then do some trimming. OK? We should be finished by 5:30,” Penninah assured me.

  I kept my eyes open and watched and listened to Friday pass on and the sun return through the windows. Lulled into a stupor again with the twisting one-two-three, I felt the heavy slide of my eyelids.

  Biira was leaving. She stood up from the couch to silently leave and then turned to me as I sat where she had left me on the couch. Her body was magnificent, still lightly gleaming from the Vaseline she lowered to her knees as I sat. As she leaned into my body, her slightly folded stomach resting on my shins, I felt her breathing. Biira slowly worked her knobby hand between my still-shut thighs, traveling up my legs slowly.

  One-two-three.

  Again, the watchman passed by the window.

  I looked down to follow her movements and was startled to discover that I, too, was naked. My full brown curls stood from between my legs, slightly damp from perspiration. Shit!…how would I hide the wet spot I was undoubtedly leaving on the cushion? Shit again!…how was this woman making me so wet? Biira reached up to touch me…sliding her still-oiled palms up the length of my now-parted thighs, and I realized we still had not spoken
. I wanted her anyway…. She seemed to read my thoughts. She seemed to know I wanted to feel her mouth on my….

  “Hello? Hey, sweetheart.”

  Biira looked up at me from between my legs with her hooded eyes, but her full lips were still. That accent was not hers; it was not even Ugandan; it was not even a woman’s voice at all.

  Sweetie?…

  I shook awake. “Nicole?”

  My head was bowed and as I opened my eyes I saw through my new hanging twists that the same brown loafers I had sent Daudi away with on Monday were somehow on the floor in front of me.

  One-two-three, Biira never stopped.

  “Babes, you’re back,” I said sleepily. As I came to I felt strangely embarrassed. It took me a minute to realize I was not naked, and apparently I was the only one who knew about my quick affair. Even Biira twisted on, one-two-three, with hardly a hesitation.

  I looked up in time to catch Daudi’s shoulders bouncing with his teasing, mock laughter.

  “You were out, Bwana.”

  “Hi, I’m Daudi.” He directed his voice above my head to both Biira and Penninah.

  “Hello,” they both replied softly.

  “We are almost done. We just have to trim the hair,” Penninah assured him.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I tried to recover, passing my hands over my lips. “You’re early.”

  As Daudi set his bag down and disappeared for a beer, his voice sailed back to the living room. “I took an earlier flight. Surprise!”

  He returned to sit on the couch across from us while they finished trimming, and then he started chattering something about his week. Even the snipping seemed to clip in the same rhythm, one-two-three.

  I felt exposed, but my visit with Biira was unfinished. Daudi had unknowingly interrupted something terribly delicious. I clearly wasn’t going to be able to get it back with an audience. Especially an audience of my lover.

  Unfortunately, too soon the rhythm of Penninah and Biira ended. They seemed to know they were now unwanted. They briskly cleaned the littering hairs from the floor, collected payment, and breezed out of the door in almost the same way they came in. From the doorstep I stood watching them, especially Biira, as the evening breeze lifted her skirt from her hips. Thanks to the now-shining sun, I could see the slight silhouette of her thighs through the fabric. She didn’t turn, she just disappeared with Penninah through the black iron gate of our compound, and the watchman closed the latch behind them. Clearly my tangle with Biira, albeit purely mental, was nothing, I rationalized. I was obviously just really horny. As the gate clanged shut, I felt Daudi’s familiar hands circle my stomach. “Your hair looks nice.”

  “Thanks,” I said, turning to him.

  Our bodies felt humid as we, against all local social taboos, tongue-kissed publicly on our doorstep. I am sure we drew the horrified stares of our missionary neighbors, but I didn’t really care.

  As I pressed my groin against his, Biira’s tapping fingers seemed to disappear. Perhaps her imagined touch was merely an appetizer as I remembered all the familiarity of this man.

  While it is hard to run upstairs in flip-flops, while stripping naked, we made it to our bedroom just as the pinkening-dusk sky started to stain our white curtains. As we somehow fell sideways on our mattress, I could smell the toxic beginnings of burning garbage seeping through the screen. We lay there for a minute, Daudi’s body cupping my backside, then he slipped his fingers in me, feeling the wet remnants of my adultery. The swell of his dick against my ass assured me he thought it was all about him.

  “Did you miss me, Bwana?” he gruffly whispered against the back of my neck, now covered with braids.

  I didn’t answer, I just rolled backward and lifted my ass so that I could grind my hips on his until he entered me. After some twelve hours of foreplay, making love was out of the question. I needed Daudi to fuck me. Daudi knew my rhythm and asked no questions as he rolled me over with force to enter me from behind. There was absolutely nothing like the way his dick filled every corner of my slick core, the way his balls danced against my ass with each hopeful thrust of his hips.

  “Where are you, Bwana?” I eventually asked, as his middle finger so deftly massaged my clitoris. “I’m not gonna last long,” I warned.

  “I’m at eight,” he huffed. We often played a numbers game: putting numerical values on our proximity to orgasm.

  Good, I thought. As our scale was one to ten, ten being climax, I would not have to feel that little tingle of guilt that sometimes riddled my gut after belting out an orgasm, and leaving him to pump for himself.

  With that encouragement he slid both of his hands to my hanging breasts, gripping them like bicycle handles, and continued to thrust into me. With a twist of my body I gently coaxed him to his back. My swollen pussy needed the attention that only “woman on top” could most often achieve, and I ferociously gripped the wooden headboard as I lowered myself onto his graciously slick and standing dick.

  The corners of Daudi’s eyelids wrinkled with a slight encouraging smirk as he grabbed my hips and aided my undulation. I shut my eyes just as my upper thighs clenched and I felt the rumbling rise of glorious orgasm fan itself from the base of my spine and rise through my ass. With each slurping dig of my pussy my breath took on sound and I stuttered a moan.

  Daudi’s hands kneading my ass onto his dick got more vigorous as the final convulsion of orgasm swept me to lower to his chest, allowing our nipples to play a sticky form of tag. As my entire body quivered, he pounded and purred in perfect rhythm, “I’ve got you, Bwana, I’ve got you.”

  I felt his familiar rising moan with my chin at the base of his neck, and he got louder as he came in me in short thrusts of his thick, warm fluid. I relaxed into a full collapse on his chest and measured his racing heart with my sternum while he circled my dripping back with his arms.

  As we lay, I nearly felt the commencing first storm of the rainy season as the tapping-thud of heavy raindrops rose to rapid-fire thunder on the balcony outside our door. The rain simultaneously washed away sunset, the stench of the trash, and the conflict of my philandering thoughts. Another tapping rhythm—one-two-three—brought on evening in Kampala, as I listened to the rise of Daudi’s soft snore.

  Kai Does Red…Again

  Kiini Ibura Salaam

  Kai felt a hand nudge her in the small of her back. She turned to see Red standing there, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, a Cheshire cat, or anything with more teeth than mouth. She smiled, then looked away, knowing he would want to know where was that phone call she had promised him when he was deep inside her making her gasp for breath and hold down the sounds that she knew would wake her roommates. Over his shoulder, she could see the bodies humping and jerking on the dance floor. He waited silently as she pushed her hair back and fastened her eyes on his chest. She felt him searching her face for answers as her eyes wandered down his body, stopping finally at his feet.

  “Look at those shoes,” she said.

  “D’ya like them? They’re so comfortable,” he said, eyes pleading, mouth still cracked in two.

  “They’re kind of strange,” she said and paused. Her gaze left the shoes, ran up his legs, and hovered over the flat brown stomach peeking out beneath his shirt. “But I like your pants.”

  “My shoes, my pants. Woman, is that all you have to say?”

  Kai threw a darting glance into the expectation hovering over his face, then tilted her face up to the ceiling. She shrugged her shoulders and shifted uncomfortably. He continued grinning. She could feel his energy reaching for her, could feel the tension radiating from his body. She leaned back and rested her hip against the bar. A skinny, glossy girl with a lit cigarette and an overflowing cosmopolitan wedged her way between them. Red grabbed Kai by the waist as soon as the girl had slithered past. His hands on her waist were solid and confident, as they had been when he was dragging her across her futon, lifting her knees, spreading her open, guiding her into one position after another. Kai obeyed the
pressure of Red’s hands and squeezed through the sweaty crowd. Situating herself in a quiet corner near the restroom, she turned to face Red with crossed arms and raised eyebrows.

  “Talk to me,” Red said.

  Kai looked straight into his eyes and said nothing. How do you tell a man his dick is sweet but you don’t quite like the rest of him? A smirk slipped over her lips as her mind maniacally worked through phrases and explanations.

  “Kai,” Red said.

  Kai snapped out of her thoughts and focused on Red again. His dark chocolate skin, his glimmering eyes, his wide grin, the disarming energy that overwhelmed her—all threatened to swallow her whole.

  “Listen, what happened last week was good, but it was… totally…unexpected, and I thought I’d just let it ride.”

  The words came slowly, in hesitant spurts, then tumbled out in a quick jumble of words.

  “What do you mean, let it ride?” Red asked, gently hooking his finger into the front pocket of Kai’s jean skirt.

  “I mean,” Kai said, letting out a heavy breath, “let it be a one-time thing.”

  Red drew away from her, his bright eyes momentarily falling dark.

  “You mean not do it again?”

  Kai shook her head.

  “But it was good, Kai, too good. You trying to tell me you wasn’t feeling it?”

  “I was feeling it, I was. I….”

  Kai broke into a smile and stepped away from Red.

  “What’s up, baby? How you?” she asked, giving a short, dreadlocked man a hug.

  “Chillin’,” he whispered, placing a kiss full on her mouth. “You’re looking scrumptious.”