Best Black Women's Erotica 2

by Samiya Bashir

  Sojourner’s Truth

  Ta’Shia Asanti

  The foot-stomping twang of a distant blues guitar strummed through me as I entered the festival grounds. The sound and smell of barbecue sizzling nearby snaked its way up my nostrils. I stepped up to one of the dozen or so food vendors and ordered a grilled corn on the cob. I saturated it with margarine and chili powder and at the last minute decided to sprinkle it with just a dash of cayenne. I casually moved toward the bleachers, corn and ice chest in hand, where the rest of the music lovers were bobbing their heads and clapping their hands to the stank grooves and wicked rhythms coming from the stage.

  Two steps from the entrance I spotted her. My ticket was still in my hand. I shoved it back down in my pocket as my eyes narrowed to take in the magnitude of her statuesque frame. She was absolutely stunning. Her tie-dyed, orange-gold, floor-length dress hugged every curve and fold of her voluptuous body. The cowrie shells that hung from the bottom of her dress shook like the shimmy in a Shekere. Coyly she sat, aiming her buttery thighs and watermelon breasts in my direction. She was slightly rocking, shielded by the shade of a father tree, her straw hat pulled down tight over bronze dreadlocks and cat-eyed sunglasses.

  The reflection of her oval face and oak-colored skin made me simmer like a piping pot of New Orleans jambalaya. I backtracked by her booth, pretending to consider purchasing a purple and gold dashiki from the booth next to hers. I lifted my head slowly, measuring her gaze, conjuring a line in my head that would grab her in the first six words. She glared at me, almost daringly, a challenge I found irresistible. I nodded, hoping she’d say something. Because if she didn’t I was taking my ass home, along with my fantasies and the six-pack of designer beer chilling patiently in my ice chest. I’d sit in the bathtub and dream about her. Picture her there with me. Me pouring lavender oil and cherry wine into the water. Letting the stream of the faucet flow to that spot on her silk, just above the pearl.

  She nodded her head and that was the permission I needed to enter. My ego kicked in. My fantasy expanded as I pimp-strolled over to her booth humming a blues song under my breath: I bet she likes to be loved slow/kissed long and steady/ this wild afrique woman/nothing but moans for music/no jazz or blues/no damn rules/just us moaning an original tune/a song for the rest of our life/a song slow and steady/the dog-gone truth/the dog-gone truth. I kept walking and humming. Seemed like a million years went by. I tried my best to pretend that the pounding in my heart wasn’t about to expose what was going through my mind.

  “The African dolls are seventy-five dollars, the necklaces are twenty and up. Oh yeah, I do psychic readings too. The cost is a love offering of at least twenty-five dollars.” Her deep velvety New York accent swam from her throat and lodged itself in my temple. I shook my head back and forth so that I could beam back to the moment.

  “That was the nicest invitation to spend my hard-earned money I have ever received. Wrap up that necklace with the ankh in the middle. I’ll take that one too—the one to the left of it with the amber stone.” Yeah. I had a few dollars for Ms. Lady. Enough to back up the smooth mack I was getting ready to drop on this syrupy sister.

  “And how much does it cost to take you to dinner?”

  That was more than six words. But it didn’t matter because it seemed to work. She smiled and I realized that what I thought was a cavity was a diamond in one of her front teeth. Sistah must have southern roots.

  Then she answered, “Dinner? I’m a vegetarian. Do you like tofu?”

  Shit, I was thinking about tossing this lovely over some barbecue ribs and potato salad and here she was talking about tofu. Hell, bud I’d eat a bowl of slimy okra to have a shot at her fine round ass. She ran her tongue across the pillows of her lips and began nervously arranging and rearranging the wares on her table. I was close to having her. I inched a bit closer so that I could inhale the sandalwood and ylang-ylang seeping from her skin. She reclined back in the folding chair and let a tiny bounce escape from her legs. That was the deal-clincher. Now I had to taste some of that perfume.

  “Yeah, tofu’s my favorite. I became a vegetarian about… oh, six months ago. May I ask what your name is?”

  “Sojourner Maxwell. And you?”

  Sojourner. Sistah has to be conscious calling herself Sojourner. “I’m Tommy. Tommy Williamson. My friends call me Tee. I live here in L.A., but I was born in Louisiana. The Big Easy, you know.”

  “New Orleans, huh? Home of the Voodoo Queen, Marie Laveau. Do you do voodoo, Tommy.”

  “I know enough to know that it’s real, but I don’t practice.”

  “That’s too bad. Voodoo is some powerful shit.”

  Now she was scaring me. I mean, everybody knows a little something, even if it ain’t nothing but how your grandmother used to cure a cold by placing raw onions under your armpits for twenty-four hours. But actually practicing voodoo was different.

  “Some of those root doctors have the wrong intentions,” I said, trying to see what she thought about folks who do wrong with that stuff.

  “That’s not voodoo, that’s hoodoo. That’s something the white man conjured up to demonize African religions.”

  I was slightly relieved. “Oh, OK, so you don’t believe in hurting anybody?” It was a question but it came out like a statement. She never answered me. But I felt better just putting it out there.

  “What time would you like to have dinner?” I asked, trying to close the deal.

  “Did I say I was going to dinner with you?”

  I played her game and didn’t answer.

  “I’ll be done here at six o’clock. There’s a restaurant called Mother’s in West L.A. that’s really nice. Have you been there before?”

  “Am I picking you up?”

  “Depends. Where do you live?” Before I could answer she said, “I tell you what, let’s meet at the restaurant at seven, before the dinner rush.”

  “Cool. I’ll see you at seven, Sojourner.” I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. The light sweat covering her cheek and her translucent face powder coated my lips. My legs were trembling when I straightened up.

  She blushed and batted her eyes. “See you at seven, Tommy.”

  I could barely enjoy the festival after meeting Sojourner. The taste of her skin simply refused to leave my lips. After listening to two bands, I packed up and went home. I showered, spruced up the pad in case I got lucky, and made my way to Mother’s. Luckily, it wasn’t hard to find. When I arrived, Sojourner had a little surprise for me.

  She was sitting at a table with another woman. She was a tad shorter than Sojourner, but wore the same Afrocentric garb. The smell of sandalwood hit me at the door, and once again I was intrigued. Sojourner rose and hugged me, her ample breasts smashing into my chest, causing friction between my legs. Her friend’s name was Rhonda. She just happened to be dining there tonight, and of course Sojourner couldn’t let her eat dinner alone.

  We had a glib dinner and discussed everything from world politics to entertainment gossip. I was still hungry after eating a ton of whatever they ordered. Sojourner suggested that I try the sweet potato pie. The waitress brought me a huge slice, warm right out of the oven, with an overflowing scoop of vanilla yogurt. It was delectable, the best thing on the menu.

  After our rabbity dinner we decided to go back to my place. I’d bragged about my jazz collection during dinner and Sojourner said she’d love to listen to some of her old favorites. Much to my dismay, Rhonda tagged along. As we loaded into the car, Rhonda dragged her breasts across my back as she eased into the back seat. Her thick nipples sent chills up my back. Damn, maybe this was going to be my lucky night. Two for one. It couldn’t get any better than that.

  I put on some Miles to kick off the party, then merged into Billie, slid into Thelonious, and finally settled into some Cassandra. I poured the sistahs an eclectic mixture of sparkling water, fruit juice, and herbal extracts designed to relax our minds and energize our bodies. The perfect aphrodisiac.

&nb
sp; “This shit is good! What’s it called again? Ame?” Sojourner asked me.

  “It’s pronounced ‘Ah-may.’ I’m glad you like it.”

  “Do you have any reefa?” Rhonda asked.

  “I might be able to scrape a little something off of the bottom of the shoebox.”

  I went to my bedroom and checked my stash. I had just enough for one thin joint. Excited and nervous about the night’s possibilities, I took nearly fifteen minutes to gather the leaves and separate them from the dust and seeds in the shoebox. I sealed the cigarette paper with my saliva and let it dry in the breeze of my motion. I came back to the living room with the reed between my lips.

  I was trapped in my doorway, frozen by the sight of Sojourner and Rhonda engaging in one of the most passionate tongue kisses I had ever witnessed. Their tongues danced a song of sensual thirst. They flickered hard and solid, back and forth against each other. Rhonda’s hands were gently pulling and twisting Sojourner’s nipples. Sojourner’s back was arched, her dress above her knees, exposing her honey-cinnamon thighs. When Rhonda slithered her hand up Sojourner’s dress, I cleared my throat to let them know they weren’t alone.

  Rhonda came over to me, turned around with her back facing my front, and slid her ass backward into my crouch. She ground her backside into me in a swirling motion. Sojourner joined Rhonda in front of me, politely edging her to the side so that she could take over. She took the joint from my mouth and lit it. The smoke unfurled from her lips as she inhaled it into her nose and back to her mouth again. She stuck it in my mouth and I took a long drag, taking measures to ensure that the mellow-yellow took me to where I wanted to go.

  Rhonda was next. She stuck the jay in Sojourner’s mouth so that she could blow her an old-school charge. Sojourner simultaneously let the straps to her dress drift off her shoulders. Her thick mountains bounced forward, happy to be released. Drops of saliva dripped from the corner of my mouth as I took her nipples onto my tongue and sucked them like the last flesh of a succulent mango. I embraced her full, round ass with my hands and pulled her to me. She wrapped one of her glorious thighs around me and slammed her pelvis into mine. I damn near came, but I wanted to share that moment with her, so I held back until I could get her where I wanted her.

  The three of us floated into my bedroom, shedding the rest of our clothing as we traveled. I immediately made Sojourner straddle my face while I sucked her into oblivion. Her clit swelled like an angry ocean and crashed onto my lips, creating its own shore. I slid two hungry fingers in and out of Rhonda’s sweltering oven. I felt her orgasm coming so I stopped licking Sojourner and made Rhonda get on board. I locked Rhonda’s pearl in between the small gap I was famous for. I sucked her lightly first, then built to a vibrating pulse that made her scream as her body shuttered with satisfaction. She rolled off my face, her limp body glimmering with beads of sweat.

  Now Sojourner was back for more. I turned her over on her stomach, made her lie across my lap, and spanked her ass while I fingered her volcanic hole with slow precision. When I had her where I wanted her I commanded her to get on all fours. I slid into her and became completely enveloped by her warmth. I spanked her ass hard while I slid in and out of her. The impact of the slaps on her ass vibrated down to her clit. It was driving her crazy and I knew it, but we were helpless to stop. Rhonda licked and sucked my back while I fingered her ass gently. She began to press herself into my ass, stimulating her pearl again. I felt both of them ready to cum again so I took it to the next stage and began loving them with a ferocity that drove them to tears and screams at the same time. I came right along with them, my clitoris quaking like a five-point-four. Miles’ horn screamed along with the three of us as we climaxed together.

  Sojourner unhooked the strap to my chocolate-colored dildo and laid it to the side. She pushed me down on my back. Her eyes promised to thank me profusely for making her feel so good. She placed her lips firmly around my already throbbing clit. Knowing I was sensitive, she simply licked me like a baby kitten until I found my second fire. When I could stand no more I spread my legs like wings and let her take me out of my body into her orbit. And there were no more secrets between us. That night became a story for the stars and the moon. No one but the sky would ever tell it. Spent and intoxicated by our intense loving, we lay together cooled by the summer breeze, connected by a three-way spoon.

  On Sojourner’s backside, right at the bottom of her spine, I noticed a tattoo. When I asked her about it she rubbed it with her fingertips and said, “That is the Voudoun symbol for love. It represents Erzulie, the goddess of love. I asked her to send me a lover today, and when I saw you I knew she’d answered my prayers.”

  All I could do was laugh. I’d been turned out by a voodoo woman and her distant lover. I guess I wasn’t such a mack daddy after all. Before we got dressed, I took Sojourner into my closet and showed her my shrine to Erzulie. Her eyes bulged out in sheer surprise.

  “So, my love,” I said, “who would you say conjured who?”

  Shared Heat

  Tracy Price-Thompson

  This desert night, like all the others before it, is scalding. Lingering waves of humidity drift across the diamond-lit sky and create a kaleidoscope of sparkling movement. My cocoa-colored military-issue T-shirt is molded to my cinnamon frame; the salt of my moisture clings to my skin and pools between my unbound breasts before forming a puddle in the sloping well of my navel.

  We are at war, and fraternization is strictly forbidden in this strange land. Yours is an infantry combat unit, and there are no female troops in this border region. The landscape is witness to little activity save for the desert peddlers draped in flowing robes and light headdress, their women covered from head to toe in seeming miles of sheer material, their curious eyes mere slits behind dark, Arabian folds.

  As America’s first female combat photographer I consider these feeble attempts at sexual suppression among the troops absurd, and though my feet are broiling and my clothing damp, I watch closely as you trudge valiantly ahead of your riflemen through the shifting sand. Your broad shoulders are starched-straight and ramrod; there is power in your lengthy stride. My breathing is strained and heavy as your muscular buttocks flex visibly through the fabric of your uniform, their curvature sending carnal desire pumping deliciously through my veins, ebbing and flowing with the pounding of my heart.

  Nearing the perimeter of our encampment, you command us to trickle single-file through the maze of concrete barricades. From the dark walls of a bunker emerges a terrified sentinel. He barks a verbal challenge and you respond with the appropriate password.

  Blackness descends and blankets the desert floor as we enter the compound. Your men are relieved to be back at camp, their backs bent with exhaustion, heavily laden with smoldering weapons of death, weary after toiling away in the pliant sand of this heat-filled crevice of the earth.

  Regretful that our night’s work of probing and reconnoitering has come to a close, I free the tangle of braids from my banded ponytail. I allow them to spill unfettered down my back and sigh in frustration as you march past me without a sideways glance, your chin prominently chiseled in profile. You gather your maps and radios to prepare for the night’s briefing, and I am left alone to return to the solitude of my sleeping tent.

  It has been several weeks since I replaced an aging Brit whose nerves finally wore out after months of witnessing the death and carnage of battle after bloody battle. Weeks for me, but long months for you and your men. I force myself to quiet the clicking shutters of my camera, to cease the endless snapshots required of me. My job is to satisfy the public’s shameless bloodlust while immortalizing the essence of this desert war.

  You balked at my presence as I rode into your camp, my arms overflowing with equipment, my press credentials dangling between my breasts.

  A female, you spat bitterly, in the midst of hundreds of war-weary fighting men. She will cause distraction, you warned. She will require special consideration. She will bear watch
ing.

  You refused to address me, yet through the voice of your First Sergeant you isolated my sleeping tent. You forbade me entrance to the bivouac area and banished me to the perimeters of the operation, far away from the searching eyes and midnight dreams of the hundreds of combat-worn, virile young men.

  This is not an easy assignment for you, a black infantry-commander. A leader of troops, you sleep in harm’s way. Each casualty is like a hot knife plunged into your gut. Every soldier blasted to bits by land mines and hand grenades is your very own son. Death creeps nearer each time a missile explodes into the dark night, and danger lurks in every rustle of the wind, prowls in cryptic shifts of the sand.

  It is only during these night reconnoiters, while the lens of my camera records and bears witness to the scores of broken bodies scattered across the sand, that I am bid entrance to your world. Unlike mine, your job is to fight and to die, and it is a near-certain death, this occupation of yours. Yet, as with me, the uncertainty of survival has rendered you ravenous, held you hostage from your desires.

  We do not exchange words, you and I. Your ivory teeth flash like lightning against the midnight of your skin as you pretend not to notice me. The curly hairs teasing your upper lip dismiss me as you bark orders at your men, life-or-death tension making your words terse, causing your brow to furl and unfurl in a series of fierce scowls.

  I am not deceived. I notice how your eyes, shielded by dark lashes, seem to suckle from me. To drink from my ebony curves of life. I take my fill from you as well, wondering what it would be like to drown in the quicksand of your love. My nose detects the scent of your manhood. My eyes roam over the telltale rising that occurs in your groin whenever I am near, and I smile inwardly as I bide my time.