After a few minutes, she came back to his car. “You don’t have any warrants or outstanding tickets, so this time I’ll give you a warning,” she said. “But I’ll be keeping my eyes on you, Mr. Miller. Take care of that broken heart.”
“Thanks, officer.” He watched her ass in the rearview mirror as she walked back to her cruiser. He smiled as he pulled away from the curb, and drove the speed limit the rest of the way home. He poured himself a stiff drink as soon as he walked through the door. “The nerve of that woman!” he said aloud. “I’ve got balls? She’s a ball-bustin’ freak.” He sat down and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels and fell asleep in his expensive clothes—drink still in his hand. She rode him in his dreams, and he awoke at four A.M. with a hard-on.
Weeks passed and she continued to creep into his thoughts at the damnedest times, but he always brushed her aside. He tried not to think about her when he masturbated. It seemed that masturbation was becoming a way of life for him.
It took a while, but he finally got her out of his mind. Even though he wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, he had been out on a few dates. Friends and family always had somebody they wanted him to meet. A few of the sisters he had gone out with were fine, and actually seemed to have their lives together.
He was reviewing the financials for tomorrow’s breakfast meeting when the phone rang. “Meet me at the downtown Hilton, Room 1252.”
“What kind of bulls—?” The phone went dead in his hand.
He walked over to the refrigerator and opened a beer. He took a gulp and went into the bathroom. He showered and shaved. I may be crazy, but if I don’t go over there, I’ll never know, he told himself as he pulled on a silk shirt and crisply creased pants. He ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair and splashed on some after-shave before walking out the door.
He knocked on the door of Room 1252, and it opened. He slowly walked inside. The lights were turned down. He took in the large suite, which was permeated with her scent. There was a scotch on the rocks sitting on the table in front of him. He took a sip and sat down. She wasn’t in the living room of the suite. It occurred to him that he didn’t even know her name. “Guess this is another one of those sick games,” he muttered to himself. “I’m gonna drink up and get out of here.”
As he stood up to leave, she came through the door. He sat back down. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to pick up a few things.” She went to him and sat in his lap. She kissed him slowly, moving her tongue in and out of his mouth. As their tongues danced together, she moved her ass around in his lap. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. Kissing her neck, he started to move his tongue down the open collar of her coat.
She stood up and took off her coat. She was naked. He reached for her and she stepped back.
“You’re beautiful. But you know that, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
She went to the bar and poured herself a drink.
She walked back over to him and took a sip.
Then, she poured the rest of the drink across her breasts. He watched the brown liquid slide down her breasts and over her flat stomach. She slid her hand over her stomach and reached her fingers inside.
“Don’t you want to taste it?”
He walked over to her. He circled her nipples with his finger and licked them.
“Tastes good. But you know that too, don’t you?”
He squeezed her breasts together and leaned down to suck her nipples. He licked her breasts and her stomach until the sherry was gone. She tore his shirt open and moved her hands over his chest. She played with his nipples and kissed him again. She fell on her knees and unzipped his pants. She took his dick in her warm hands and squeezed it softly. She kneaded him until he became stiff, admiring the glistening mahogany skin in the dim light. She kissed his dick and circled the tip with her tongue. Slowly she took him in her mouth and sucked until he moaned. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, looking up into his handsome face.
She continued to stroke him with her hand. He moaned and grabbed her head. He moved back and forth in her mouth. He knew his first orgasm was not far off. “Damn, that feels good,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t stop! I’m almost there.”
She got up and walked into the bedroom. He followed her. Just as he approached, she closed the door. He heard the lock turn. He stood there in disbelief. “I’ll call you,” she said through the door.
He finished his drink, and sat down in the chair and shook his head. His dick was still throbbing. He touched himself. He stroked his hard dick. It felt good, and damn, he needed a release. He stroked it harder, faster. He closed his eyes and imagined she was still on her knees in front of him. He imagined that his hand was her warm, full-lipped mouth. He continued to stroke and soon he was jerking off. Spurts of his juices landed on his Allen Edmonds shoes and Hugo Boss pants. He didn’t notice, though. He immersed himself in the release and was surprised by the shudder his body gave as the last of his hot liquid spread over his hand. He moaned and sat back in the chair. After the euphoria passed, he opened his eyes and stood up. He walked over to the bar to wash his hands.
“You’re good at that,” she said as she came up behind him. “Here, let me do that for you.”
She took his arm and turned him around to face her. He glared at her, and his jaw pulsed with the fury he felt. He kept his hands still so that he wouldn’t grab her neck and shake her until she was lifeless.
She took his hand and raised it to her mouth. She slowly sucked his juices from his fingers. “You taste good,” she said. She kept her eyes on him as she licked his palm.
He reached for his zipper. She put her hand on his to stop him from zipping up his pants. She knelt down and took his now-spent dick into her mouth. She slowly sucked and licked, sucked and licked. He fought the urge to give into her, but his manhood had a different agenda. He gave into her.
“I want you. Why don’t you give me some of the pleasure you gave yourself?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. He just stood looking at her.
She lay back on the floor and spread her legs. She licked her fingers and circled her nipples—they jumped to attention. She licked her fingers again and played with her clit. She looked at him and smiled. Sliding her fingers inside her trim pussy, she moved her broad hips slowly. He could hear her fingers moving in and out of her juicy hole. The sound made him want to plunge inside her, but he stood still. She continued masturbating, and he could see the juices oozing out of her pussy. She arched her back and moaned. She licked her fingers and smiled at him. “Tastes good,” she giggled.
He knelt in front of her and kissed her stomach. He slowly licked her thighs. He moved his mouth to her mound and kissed it. She lay back and he darted his tongue in and out of her pussy. He sucked her clit and put his fingers inside her. She moved to the rhythm of his fingers, and another orgasm spread over his thick fingers. He continued fingering her until she came again. She panted and moaned, moaned and panted. She clutched for his head. He looked at the rise and fall of her breasts. He leaned over her and sucked her nipples. She was writhing under him. “Turn over,” he said.
He licked the juices from her, and massaged her ass with his large hands. He ran his tongue over her ass and kissed it. He smacked her ass a few times and licked some more. She moved her hips back and forth. He could see that her opening was throbbing. She was ready.
“I want you so damned bad,” she moaned.
He stood up, and looked down at her. Damn, she was beautiful. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Call me,” he said as he walked toward the door.
She lay there a moment—not believing he would walk away from this moment, from her. She jumped up and ran to the door. She looked down the hall, but he was already gone.
The Christening
Shawn E. Rhea
It had taken nearly six months, but Kevin’s house was finally in order. It felt good to walk through the door this time and n
ot be greeted by a barrage of boxes and bare walls. He set down his suitcase, swiped a week’s worth of mail off the floor, and headed for his den. Once there, he plopped down on the couch and sank into its plush suede cushions.
The week had been a rough one. Kevin’s firm had assigned him to head up the audit of the municipal books of Canton, Ohio. The city was supposed to have a surplus, but somehow the money had disappeared and the new mayor intended to find out where it had gone. Kevin, together with his team of accountants, had to do more than a little arm twisting and threatening to get straight answers from department managers about some of the city’s expenditures. But they had finally gotten the information, and now a few folks had some serious explaining to do. He was scheduled to be back in Canton first thing Monday morning, and the shit he was wading through only promised to get deeper. But it was Friday, and he at least had the weekend to recharge his battery.
“Bills…credit card offers…refinance your mortgage…more junk,” Kevin mumbled to himself as he sorted through his mail and vaguely considered what he could get into for the weekend. He didn’t know Detroit that well. He hadn’t even wanted to move to the city, but the promotion was too good to pass up. His accounting firm kept the books for a number of major municipalities, and for the past six years he had been moving city-to-city, working on whatever audit team was in need of his expertise. He had developed a reputation for weeding out waste, and it had finally gotten him a major salary increase and a promotion to Midwest manager. He was supervising audits in ten different cities, and Detroit, where his company had a satellite office, was his base.
He hated leaving Atlanta. He loved its warm weather and abundance of beautiful black women. The vibe and pulse of a steamy summer night there—the trees budding with peach blossoms, bare-legged sistas in skimpy sun dresses—was enough to give him an erection just thinking about it. Detroit, on the other hand, had a ridiculously short summer, and in the winter it was too cold to get out much. Besides, Kevin hated driving in the snow. He was a born and bred southern boy with an accent, courtesy of New Orleans, to prove it.
But his hellish week was making him determined to get out and blow off some steam over the weekend. Tamara offered to come visit him from Atlanta, but Kevin managed to squirm his way out of it. Now he was kicking himself. It had been nearly a month since he’d fucked, and hand jobs just weren’t cutting it. What he needed was some good old-fashioned pussy. It had always been good with Tamara, but it was all the other stuff that came along with their relationship that he could no longer handle. She was a beautiful woman. Smart. Sexy as all hell, but he just wasn’t ready to give her what he knew she wanted and deserved. She had started hinting about a year ago that marriage and babies were on her list of priorities. Not that Kevin was totally opposed to getting married and having children. At thirty-six he certainly was old enough and set up enough to handle the responsibility. It’s just that the timing was all wrong. He never knew when his company was going to move him. He had only been in Atlanta for two years and that was longer than he’d been in any of the other six cities that they’d shipped him off to. He just didn’t think it was fair to ask a woman to uproot her life and give up her career every time Caper & Chaney decided to send him somewhere.
In that regard the move to Detroit had been a good thing. It had put some distance between him and Tamara, and finally the relationship was beginning to peter out. He knew that it was hurting her, and he knew that she was hoping her visit might help them find their way back to each other. But he just wouldn’t give her any false hope. That would be even crueler. Kevin had put Tamara off for months now, saying that his house was still a mess, still filled with boxes sitting in the middle of his floor. It hadn’t been a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth of why he didn’t want her to visit. He had visited her several times in Atlanta since his move, but some part of him wanted to keep his new home a Tamara-free zone. Now it had been nearly a month since they’d been together, however, and he was beginning to get a little crazy.
Kevin tossed the mail on top of the coffee table and headed over to the phone to check his messages. He hit the caller ID button and paged through the numbers: his mom; his boy, Lance; the dry cleaners—probably reminding him to pick up his shirts—and Char Westin. “Char Westin,” Kevin said out loud. A sly smile crept over his face. Maybe the weekend was looking up after all.
Char Westin was a writer for the city’s weekly newspaper. It was a liberal rag that survived mostly on personal ads and club listings, but threw in enough political coverage to make itself legitimate. Char was an investigative reporter, but she had told him her real love was fiction and essay writing. She’d had several pieces anthologized and now her agent was shopping a collection of her work around to the publishing houses. “I may never get rich doing this shit, but I love my work,” she’d told Kevin that first night they were introduced by Lance at his birthday party.
On the surface they were total opposites. Kevin, with his clean-cut looks and button-down shirts, was much more practical than Char. He truly couldn’t understand why anyone would choose a profession that didn’t promise a fat bank account. Char, by contrast, admitted that she sometimes went weeks without balancing her checkbook. Normally a revelation like that would have made Kevin write a woman off as an airhead and sent him scrambling to the other end of the party looking for the bar. But there was something about Char Westin. Something in the tone of her voice, something in the way she could break down the political dynamics of Arab-and African-American relations in Detroit—a city that had a large population of both groups—that told him she was far from being an airhead. And besides, the girl had a high, tight ass that could seriously fill out a pair of jeans, and intense eyes that hinted at secrets that would only be revealed in private. So he stayed and he talked to her.
Kevin had taken Char out for the first time just about a month ago. They had gone to a reggae club—not something that Kevin would normally have opted to do. He was more of a jazz man himself. But she had insisted, and Kevin had not had a chance to check out much of Detroit, so it wasn’t as if he had a list of spots to hit. What the hell, he thought when she suggested that they go.
The club was thick with the scent of reefer, a smell he had never particularly cared for. But he quickly forgot his disdain once Char took off her ski jacket. She was wearing a pair of tight black pants that just covered the upper curve of her ass. There was a rhinestone navel ring peeking out from her belly button. It was the dead of winter but she was wearing a black tank top. Char handed her jacket to the coat check attendant, then turned toward Kevin. He quickly averted his eyes away from the direction of her lower extremities. It was too late, though. She had seen him. “Oh, you’ll see in a minute why I dressed like this. It’s very warm in there,” she said unapologetically. She smiled, waited for him to check his coat, then grabbed his hand and led him into the club.
Char had been right. Even for a southern boy it was uncomfortably warm in the club. Red and green lights illuminated the cramped dance floor. Kevin, with his pressed corduroys and hairless face, felt slightly out of place in a club full of dreadlocks and low-slung, baggy jeans. Young women with braids, locks, and afros were in back-bending positions, winding against their partners, riding their pelvises, seemingly holding on for dear life.
“So, what do you think?” Char asked him. She touched his arm and positioned her body right in front of him. Even in the dark he was aware of her eyes staring into his, hinting at those secrets that he was dying to hear, touch, taste.
“It’s cool,” he said, smiling.
She took his hand and began a slow wind to the music’s rhythm. Kevin tried to mimic her moves, but he had never been much of a dancer. She moved her hands down toward his hips and attempted to loosen up his wind. Kevin laughed t his own stiffness—both the one in his hips and the other one growing in another part of his body. He tried to follow her lead, but he only managed more movement from his legs. Nothing from his hips.
“It starts here,” Char explained, placing a hand over his heart, “and travels down here”—now she was moving her ring-adorned finger down the center of his torso—“and explodes right here,” she finished, gripping both hands around his hips again.
“I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’,” he insisted.
They danced through one more song before Kevin suggested that they hit the bar for a drink. “Red Stripe,” he ordered.
“I’ll have a shot of Cuervo on the rocks with a lime.”
Char took a sip from her drink. “So tell me, Kevin Ashby, how do you like Detroit so far?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not feelin’ it too much.”
“I know what you mean. This can be a hard city if you don’t know people. I grew up here, and coming back and reconnecting with folks has been a major adjustment.”
“Well, I’ve been traveling for my job so much that I really haven’t had a chance to make the effort. But how exactly does a brotha connect with folks around here?”
“Well, you’ve already made one important connection,” Char said, looking him dead in his eyes and taking another sip from her drink.
She was using those intense eyes to flirt with him. They were power and she knew it. They were a challenge, saying, Can you step up? He damn sure could. He stared back, placed his hand on her knee, and moved toward her face. “And that would be you, I take it?” He added a devilish smile for emphasis.
“But of course. There are things I could show you.”
“What things?”
“Some things are better experienced than told.” With that Char threw back the rest of her tequila, stepped up from the bar, and dragged him off toward the dance floor.
They were sweaty and about seven sheets to the wind apiece by the time they left the club. Kevin’s hips were decidedly looser, and he had nearly mastered a slow wind.
“Not bad for a buttoned-up corporate boy,” Char joked as she slid into the passenger side of his SUV.
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