Best Black Women's Erotica 2

by Samiya Bashir

  “Are you implying that I’m a little stiff?” Kevin countered, mocking a tone of disbelief.

  “Me? Never.”

  Kevin laughed, turned the ignition key, and began angling the car out of the club’s makeshift parking lot. “I had a nice time tonight. Next time, I’ll have to take you to check out some jazz, so you can get a sense of how I flow.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a pretty decent jazz collection myself. Maybe you can come by and check it out.”

  “I’d love to do that one evening.”

  “How ’bout this evening?”

  And there it was: the offer that had gotten him as close to some local pussy as he’d gotten since moving to Detroit. “Yeah, that sounds cool.” Kevin accepted before she had a chance to change her mind.

  Her apartment was awash in earth tones, and a large bank of windows looked out over downtown and the river. Char put a CD into the stereo, lit a few candles, and turned off the lights.

  “Ah, George Benson’s ‘White Rabbit,’” remarked Kevin as the first notes of Alan Rubin’s horn sounded, followed by Benson’s Spanish-inflected guitar picking.

  “Very good.” She joined him on the window seat and spent a few minutes pointing out some nearby attractions: the casino, the GM building, Eastern Market. They could spy people moving around in the twin tower apartment building directly across the way. The thought of being watched by others brought a rise to Kevin’s pants. He wanted to lay Char down and fuck her right there on the window seat, in plain view of several hundred other residents. He moved in and kissed her on her lips. Softly first. Barely a graze. Then he placed his hand on her face and firmly pulled her toward him. The kiss was building now. He was exploring the fullness of her lips; the warm, slow groove of her tongue; its soft underside. Now his hands were underneath her tank top, and he could feel hers skimming the area just below his navel and above his quickly stiffening dick. Char unzipped his pants and slid her hand inside his boxer shorts. She moved her fingers through his pre-cum and began softly rimming the tip of his engorged cock.

  Kevin buried his head into the nape of Char’s neck. He could smell the faint residue of her perfume. She smelled of vanilla and amber. His tongue licked her neck and he could taste the salt left on her body from their evening of dancing. He badly wanted to fuck her, and he knew she wanted him too, but something stopped him. Tamara. Kevin was leaving the next morning to visit her in Atlanta, and he was finally going to break things off with her. Tell her that he thought they should date other people. It was going to be hard enough, and he didn’t need the guilt of fucking another woman on his mind.

  He pulled back and looked into Char’s eyes. He could see her secrets ready to spill forth, and he strongly wanted to become acquainted with them. He wanted to know the sound of her voice when she came and the scream rose from deep within her groin. He wanted to feel the tightening and contracting of her pussy around his dick. He wanted to know the slickness of her when she rode him. But he wanted to know it without reservations.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he lied. “It’s just that I have to get up really early in the morning to catch a flight and if we start this I won’t want to leave.”

  “Oh, I understand.”

  She smiled and pulled her hands out of his pants. She clasped her fingers around his, dropped her head, and let out a frustrated but resigned laugh. Kevin joined her. When they finished laughing, he lifted her chin with his hand. “But I’d like to give you a little something to think about while I’m traveling,” he said. With that, he lay her down on the window seat, shimmied off her pants, and spread her legs. There’s no reason why we both need to be frustrated, he thought as he softly parted the lips of her pussy. He slid his index finger and thumb along the length of her cunt, then gently massaged the lips. His thumb began a rhythmic ride over her clit, while the middle finger of his other hand found its way inside her vagina. Char’s breathing was becoming more audible now, and she inhaled at a quicker pace. She arched her back, then turned her head to look out the window. Kevin looked too. He could see people over in the other apartments. Some were moving around, others were sitting, but he couldn’t tell if anyone actually saw them.

  He stuck two more fingers inside Char and she began to ride him fiercely now. He could hear her screams moving up from that deep place. They were guttural and wild. He could feel her juices on his fingers. Her body began to rack with spasm after spasm. “Oh, fuck!” she screamed right as the final wave hit her.

  When it was over, Char tightened her thighs around his hands and buried her very satisfied face into the crook of her arm. A second later, when her breathing had returned to normal, she sat up, took his face into her hands, and softly kissed him on the lips.

  “That was incredible,” she said. “Very generous. I can’t wait to return the favor.”

  Kevin stood up, and Char shimmied back into her pants. He grabbed his coat off the couch, gave her a final kiss, and promised to call her when he got back from Atlanta. He had to jack off that night just to get to sleep. He drifted off inhaling the mingled scent of both their bodies on his hand.

  Even after Kevin showered and dressed the next morning, the smell of Char stayed with him. He was certain that once he reached Atlanta Tamara would hug him, take one whiff of his skin, and know instinctively what he had come to tell her: that they both needed to move on, that he had already begun the journey. But if Tamara knew she did not let on, so the weekend had been one big exercise in denial for Kevin. For two days he laughed at all the right moments, stared longingly into Tamara’s eyes when they made love, and played the committed boyfriend while they were together with mutual friends. He willfully beat back any surfacing feelings of guilt whenever he thought about how he planned to break the news to Tamara just before she took him to the airport on Sunday. No need to ruin the weekend, he kept telling himself.

  She cried when he told her it was over, and Kevin said “no” when she asked if he had met another woman. “I’m simply not prepared to change my life the way you need me to,” he said before kissing her cheek and brushing a tear-soaked strand of hair from her eye. His answer was not exactly a lie. Kevin had made up his mind to end things long before he met Char. But he had thought of her often, too often, even while making love to Tamara.

  He called Char the Wednesday after he returned from Atlanta. The message on her home machine said she’d be out of town for a week on assignment. Between her story deadlines and his business travel they had been playing telephone tag and taking rain checks for nearly a month now, neither of their schedules jibing with the others. Kevin had given up hope that they would ever hook up, but now her name had shown up on his caller ID. He dialed his voicemail and paged through the messages until he reached hers.

  “Hello, You, this is Char. We seem to be having the damndest time catching up with each other, but I thought I’d call on the off chance that you are going to be around this weekend. Maybe we can get together and I can repay that favor I owe you. Give me a call if you’d like to.”

  Kevin hung up the receiver and smiled. He looked around the room and nodded his head in approval of the way his house had come together. It was finally beginning to feel like home. All it needed was an official christening. He walked into the kitchen, pulled two bottles of champagne from the wine rack, and stuck them into the refrigerator to chill. He picked up the phone and dialed Char’s number.

  “Hello?” a voice answered.

  “Char?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Kevin. How would you like to help christen my house?”

  Seeing Stars

  Samiya A. Bashir

  Z thought she would never survive the noise. She’d traveled thousands of miles from home to get to the West, to America, to New York City, and absorbing the crisp, piquant language was not a problem. She’d been well warned of the cold, and while it was worse than she could have imagined, she’d at least felt prepared. Even the immensity of
so many different kinds of faces flying super-speed all around her wasn’t as unsettling as the unremitting brightness—and the noise.

  The first words she said to her aunt, T, after the greetings, hugs and kisses, exchange of news, were: These people, they must be very afraid of the dark. Her aunt laughed; her young American cousins shook their heads, not getting the joke. After sitting for hours with immigration, they carted her trunk and bags, heavy with gifts, to the car. She was quiet for most of the ride into Brooklyn, jaw dropped as she tried to take everything in.

  Pictures were no match for the enormity of everything around her. Z could see the lights of the Empire State Building in the distance, but her attention was broken each time she tried to stare by the constant darting of cars in and out of the traffic around them. The road was huge. The cars were huge. The people in the cars were huge. The sky, a bright gray, was huge; but no matter how hard she tried to block out everything around her, Z couldn’t find a single star.

  The electricity in the air was so heavy she could feel it. Her first nights in the city, it seemed as if the sun never set. She was nauseated, the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood straight. The lights never dimmed enough for her to find her favorite stars, the touchstones that would keep her from feeling too far from home. Z was shaken by the omen she saw in the sky. Her mother, her grandmother, her sisters were in hiding behind the manufactured light, and she knew they were out there reaching toward her. But this new place spun like a sparkling force field erected to keep her from feeling safe.

  Her aunt had thankfully given Z a week to get acclimated before she started the job that had been arranged for her. T was a nurse at the hospital and had arranged for her niece to work in maintenance while she attended school. That week, she mostly lay in her room, reaching for quiet. Giving up, she sometimes watched television with her cousins. They took her out to see some of the sights once, but she became overwhelmed by the quickness of everything. Fast walking, fast talking, fast driving. The bicyclists rode as if they were racing. Fifty-foot televisions blared from the sides of buildings. Her cousins teased her for her skittishness.

  Z found a patch of grass, a couple of blocks from the house, where she spent afternoons just listening to people talk. She was wooed by the different languages and looks black people had here. Some looked like they were from back home, but when they opened their mouths they sounded like everyone else. Each night she sat at her window and looked for her stars. She found one on the second night. A few nights later she saw a few more, but there were never more than a tiny handful fighting through the bright night sky.

  Once she started work, she had less time for reflection. She worked the graveyard shift at first, but picked up as many doubles as she could. She liked the people she worked with, and found herself daydreaming over the rhythmic pull of the mop over the floor. While the paper towel wiped cleanser off of windows and counters, she grew her English by listening to the television dramas playing full blast in every patient’s room. Z picked up pieces from people talking all around her and found comfort in knowing she wasn’t alone in her struggle to communicate.

  On the long days when she stayed over for an afternoon shift, Z was kept awake by Reagan, a young orderly who kept her in stitches with tales of her wild life. Through Reagan, Z learned about things like pantylines and body shots, rave parties, shotgun tokes, hip-hop concerts, wonder bras, and the best quiet spots in the library to read both alone and with someone else. Reagan was two years younger than Z but lived on her own. Although she moved to the city to be a singer, Reagan still hadn’t sung much outside of karaoke bars and back alleyways.

  Z loved listening to Reagan talk and scheduled as many afternoon double shifts as she could. She needed the money; she was still repaying her aunt for the airfare she borrowed to get here. But more than that, hanging out with Reagan was a periodic cure for the loneliness that dragged behind her like September storm clouds. Z felt completely out of place here, in this jungle, where everyone else seemed so wild and free. She didn’t have a thing in common with her own cousins. They were still just kids, and their big concerns were school and those video games they played all day and night. They had only been back home once, and couldn’t imagine life without television or a million grams of sugar a day.

  She was in no hurry to be rushed into marriage, like her aunt’s friends would have her do. She had come to go to school, to try to make a new life. Even if Z wasn’t sure what that meant yet, she was beginning to get an idea. She started going for long walks, sometimes even walking to and from work. She would look around at the houses and the people, pass by the restaurants and sidewalk cafés. In the park large groups of men played football, just like back home.

  Over the months, Z slowly started to relax into her new environment. She was comfortable with her job. She had repaid her aunt, and was sending money home to her mother and sisters. She was also saving money to start school and had even begun going out to movies and parties with Reagan. Usually she just sat in the corner and watched everything that went on. Sometimes people would come and talk to her, but she was so shy she didn’t quite know what to say. Z felt as if she was carrying a big secret that no one here—no one who wasn’t from home—would understand.

  Reagan pushed her to go on dates, but Z always playfully changed the subject. One afternoon they decided to have lunch together in the park by the hospital. Reagan spread out a sheet she’d copped from the supply closet, and they lay down and spread out their food. Reagan was midway through the dramatic story of her date last night with one ex when another showed up at the same party.

  Now, you remember that Dylan dumped me because I was cheating on him with Shakira? That was, like, a year ago, but we talked it all out. You remember, I told you about it a few weeks ago, how we sat up all night watching the Twilight Zone marathon and talked all about our relationship and how we were both responsible for the breakdown in communication— Z knew it was pointless to try to get a word in once Reagan got going, so she just nodded for her to go on.

  Yeah, so I was sitting there having a drink with Dylan, and we’re just talking about this film we went to see—you have got to see it, but I’ll tell you in a minute—and in walks Shakira. She’s with her new girl friend and they both look so totally hot I almost dropped my drink. I stopped talking mid-sentence and just stared. I’m telling you, I totally forgot where I even was and that I was talking, much less what I was supposed to be talking about. And Dylan sees this. And all of Dylan’s friends see this. And Dylan gets all pissed and tries to start an argument with me but, like, I’m not trying to have an argument with him, all in front of everybody. Especially not in front of Shakira.

  Reagan thinks about what to say next, just long enough to put a forkful of salad into her mouth, chew it, swallow it, and reach for another. So anyway, we have to leave and it becomes a big hairy deal, like I was just telling you, until, of course, we wind up in bed having the best sex ever.

  You mean, Z pipes in, since last week.

  Yeah. Oh wow, yeah. Last week was off the hook. But last night was even better. I’m telling you. He was so passionate. By the time we got there he was feeling all sorry and apologizing for even getting mad and talking about how grateful he was to have me back with him and all that. You know, kissing my ass just like I like it…and I just really let go.

  They sat quiet for a while after that. Z was trying to imagine what it would feel like to have her ass kissed. Reagan was daydreaming about the sun as it rose over Dylan’s sweaty back. She stretched a smile across her face as she remembered how high it had risen by the time they finally went to sleep. Yeah, Z, she said with a wink and a smile. You should’ve been there.

  Z laughed along with her friend and finished her sandwich. She was just polishing off the last drops of tea from her thermos when she steeled herself to ask the question she’d been holding in for so long. Reagan?

  Yeah?

  I was wondering…could you tell me…I mean…what�
�s it like?

  Reagan always seemed a bit amused that Z was a virgin. She got the whole thing about where she was from, and Z’d told her about the arranged marriages and how she wasn’t ready for anything like that. Reagan had even tried to get her to go out on dates, offering to double, but Z seemed petrified by the idea of letting anyone close to her. I mean, there’s virgin, thought Reagan, and then there’s VIRGIN. Z acted as as if she didn’t even know what it was like to kiss a guy. Reagan filled her mouth with a huge bite of her sandwich and leaned back on the grass. She was just daydreaming and chewing, daydreaming and chewing with this sneaky, lusty expression on her face that drew Z closer. It was as if she could sniff the excitement radiating from Reagan’s body into her own.

  When she finished chewing, Reagan swallowed slowly, licking all around her mouth and wiping both lips before she began. Well, when I’m with a man, I feel like the most extraordinary gift. She checked Z’s face for a reaction, then continued. I feel wrapped completely in the beautiful paper of his skin. His arms strong around me. His head buried in my neck or planting kisses across my face, my chest, my fingers. The smell of a man gets all over you, Z—inside and through you like a cloud of honor. It feels like he’s worshipping me, like somehow I’m worthy of worship. And when I let him inside of me, it’s as if I’m returning the favor, enveloping him in my warmth, wrapping him in the flow of my juices.

  I circle my legs and arms around him and draw him closer and closer. And we’re both covering each other with kisses now, and burrowing our heads in each other’s necks, and when we’re both as close as we can possibly be—it’s like fireworks. It’s the most extraordinary kind of love burst. Yeah. That’s it. It feels like it would if you could concentrate all the love in the world into a tight ball that could barely stretch enough to contain it. And once you crammed that last bit of love inside, it burst, and set all the love rushing free again.