Best Black Women's Erotica 2

by Samiya Bashir

  Swimming was a glorious dance of water and human molecules, but I didn’t swim long. I couldn’t wait to go to work! This time, it was not only the heat that influenced my choice of dress. A slew of not-so-innocent thoughts about Marlon whirling through my head, I put on the merest Indian cotton halter, a similarly scant denim skirt, and some sneakers. Vanilla body spray, just because. Threw work gloves and Vaseline into my bag and jumped into the truck.

  I really wanted to get the rest of my stuff unloaded early. After yesterday it was clear Marlon wasn’t the kind of man to let me lift alone, and I felt kind of bad about disrupting his process. I moved around the new space like a dynamo in the morning’s deepening heat, working to finish fast.

  I was wheeling Dolly, empty, back out to my truck when Marlon’s battered blue Cherokee pulled up. He jumped out in an orange T-shirt and khakis, resplendent in the sunlight. Hair tied back tightly in a piece of leather and hanging down to his waist. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

  “Hey, Taya. Heading out or coming in?”

  “Neither,” I said. “I just finished with the last load of stuff from my apartment. I’m taking Dolly back to the truck and then I’m here for the day.”

  He smiled.

  “…So you’re finished moving?”

  I nodded my head, pure joy leaking out of the corners of my grin.

  Marlon stepped to me and spun me right around, gripping my shoulders and upper arms with those amazing hands.

  “Well, then, we’ve got one celebratory welcome massage due in full, don’t we?”

  Dolly stood abandoned in the drive but I was in no condition to move her, having already melted.

  Marlon spread the bright Mexican blanket over his metal-topped work table and topped it with the big round cushion from my chair. With great ceremony he arranged me face down on it and the miracle began.

  He slathered his hands with a cooling peppermint lotion and started on my bare upper back. His fingers were dancing between my muscles, squeezing life into every pore of my skin, deftly untying the back of my halter to stroke down either side of my spine.

  His hands skirted down the outside of my hips and worked the soothing lotion from the backs of my thighs, over the curves of my calves, to the arches of my feet. I chewed on my lip to keep my vocalizations to a minimum, but nothing could completely stop the sighs and occasional groans as he manipulated every fiber of my body.

  My muscles were whirling under the surface of my skin. He chased three days of accumulated work-weariness down each limb and out my fingers, my toes. Pushed strain out from my lower back and up along my ribs. He squeezed and stroked the palms of my hands, the bottoms of my feet, the nape of my neck, my lower back. I fell spinning into a pool of peppermint light.

  I thought I felt the air of a soft laugh against the back my neck. I thought I felt him kiss me, very lightly, behind my ear. But I was asleep five seconds later. So I might have been dreaming.

  I didn’t sleep long. About fifteen minutes, Marlon told me when I awoke with a start. I was sprawled out belly down on the cushion and he was sitting cross-legged on the table an arm’s length away from me, acting like he was resuming a conversation with a participating individual instead of with me, a dazed, catnapped woman just blinking into embarrassed consciousness.

  “It’s a great compliment when someone falls asleep after a session,” he continued. “To me, it means I’ve relaxed you greatly.”

  “You can say that again,” I said, moving my body around experimentally. “I feel like I should have some new magical power, or be glowing or something.”

  “Who says you’re not?” he asked. His eyes swept down me. I crossed my legs a little and perched my chin in my hand. Watched a sliver of colored light slip between the rustling fabric at the windows, slide up Marlon’s arm, over his shoulder, and away. “You are very beautiful, Taya,” he said. “I took the liberty of watching you while you slept, I hope you don’t mind.”

  Under other conditions, I might have blushed, or thought about changing the subject. Instead, I smiled. Laid my head back down on the big round cushion and made a confession of my own.

  “I think it’s kind of sweet. Plus, I have a confession to make, anyway: I watched you while you worked that first day I came to see the place. Almost took a picture, I couldn’t help it. Even your back is beautiful.”

  I reached out lazily and briefly interlaced my fingers with his. Brushed the roughened surface of his palm with my thumb, ran my small, square fingers in and out of his larger, squarer ones. I turned it over and traced the veins on the back of his hand and asked about a small scar there. For a number of minutes, we talked across arm’s distance, squashed flat by the midday heat and all my muscles feeling like rubber bands. Electricity crackled between us, almost visible, running up our arms like lightning.

  “What’s the name of that fellowship you’re on, Taya? The Ford?”

  “The Newcombe,” I said. “They call the program the Roaming Residency.”

  “And you could’ve gone anywhere you wanted?”

  I nodded. His hands were moving up my forearm now, chasing the electricity up past my elbow. I watched in pure wonderment as he worked his way up to my shoulder.

  “What made you choose Taos? So far away from everyone you know?”

  His face. His chest. His sleepy-looking eyes. His dancing, twisting metal work. I kept watching his hands on the skin of my arm. Little shocks shook my flesh.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just wanted to be alone.”

  I sensed the little smile before I even saw it play across his face. I looked up, saw the dimple; it was gone; there it was again.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

  Marlon raised my hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, softly, squarely in its center. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue darted out, painting delight down my lifeline. He bared his teeth and bit succulently at the flesh padding the base of my fingers, ran his tongue briefly between each joint, watching my face with open eyes. I never knew my hand could make me feel so good.

  I think I breathed that last out loud.

  To prove that my hand could feel even better, he slipped two of my fingers joint-deep into his mouth and I lost all will to breathe. Surprising myself, I accomplished my most superhuman feat of strength ever: I wrenched enough energy together to untie my halter with my free hand. Spent, I rolled over and looked up at Marlon, framed in rainbow light and kneeling above me with a look of smiling anticipation.

  I had already surrendered my body to this man and with oil and pressure he’d put me to sleep. Now, with tingling electric touch he was waking me up. His hands were suddenly everywhere, chasing little jolts of awareness down my back, up my stomach, behind my knees, over my nipples, between my thighs. I hardly knew where to focus my attention, I felt so surrounded by him. I couldn’t move a muscle except in reaction to his touch—which means I was thrashing all over the cushion.

  And he was only just beginning. Marlon kneeled between my thighs, and ran his finger down the front of my cotton thong, hovering over the moist heat at my center. He sucked my middle and ring fingers back into his mouth, biting their tips, scraping rough, hard licks down their fronts, planting wet slurps at the base. One of his fingers dove under the elastic between my thighs and painted swirls around my clit. He plunged his finger into my pussy and, at the same time, scissored hard between my fingers with his tongue.

  I had no bones in my body.

  My underwear was gone. My thighs were rubber, wide open and trembling worthlessly for all their much-admired latent muscle power. I coalesced, became a point of dense liquid swirling around his hands. He curved his finger upward, pushed slowly in and out of me, my walls yielding juicily to its calloused grain.

  He let my hand out of his mouth and folded over me, hungry, chewing, sucking on one of my nipples and pinching the other. My fingers felt so abandoned that I thrust them into his hair: rough and warm on the top of his head; wiry, soft,
and hot near his scalp. I untied his leather cord and a thousand tickling tentacles fell forward onto my breasts, shoulders, throat, smelling like frankincense where they fell onto my face. I writhed, gasping, as his hair cascaded around me, changing the light into a rough and shadowed thing. He slid another finger into me alongside the first.

  I got my muscles to move.

  Some of them, anyway. Legs were still worthless, splayed wide and quaking around Marlon’s diving fingers, but control of my hands was returning. I unbuckled the belt of his jeans in a hurry, opened the button, lowered the zipper. He raised his kissing, nibbling head from my rib cage and kissed me, seriously kissed me, while I coaxed his heavy dick out of his clothes with both hands.

  His cock fell free into my palms and I could tell that it was sweet. Didn’t even have to sneak a look. I dove my tongue around his mouth and stroked his rigid length with both my hands. When I ran my thumb up over the head I slid into a pearl of slickness. My favorite. I brought my thumb into my mouth to taste him while I smoothed my other hand over the slippery head of his dick. A tremor went through his body, starting at his hips and ending when he dropped his head back into our kiss.

  Sucking on his tongue, I placed the head of his cock at my entrance. The first of its inches pressed in easily. He stayed there a moment, a solid surprise, then gripped my shoulders and drove deeper, steady, rocking, carving himself in gradually and resting only when the base of his pelvis pressed against mine. I wanted to say something—“Bravo!” “Pleased to meet you!” “Thank you, sir, may I have another?” …Something. But my mind was completely blank for the moment. Marlon hung over me with a pleased, slightly expectant expression, looking like he was about to do a push-up. We stared at each other inside the curtain of his hair.

  Then we laughed. He moved down onto his elbows and I clenched my vaginal muscles around the heat of his dick, and didn’t have to say anything.

  He started to push in and out of me, slowly. “Rock-hard” meant something different now that I’d felt him inside. He slid out repeatedly, keeping just his head between my lips and then running his solid length back up into me. Each time our pelvises met, my pussy got happier, taking his size with growing enthusiasm, gobbling his dick completely. Succulent noises squelched between us.

  Marlon’s hand reached down and cupped my ass, lifted one leg up toward his shoulder. He stroked inside me so deep it made my eyes cross. His face was inches from mine but I couldn’t see him. I gnashed my teeth together and bit on the ends of his locks, clawed my neat, filed nails across his magnificent back, tried to drag him deeper inside me. He scooped me up, pulled my torso inches off the table where I hovered, sustained by and centered on his plowing dick, supported by his iron arms.

  I was nothing but an orgasm, shrieking and moaning. My arms were spread open, flung wide on the table’s blanketed surface. I rode my wild climax, bucking. I was still coming when Marlon put me down on the cushion with my hips at its edge and slammed his cock forcefully from an inviting new angle. I swung my legs upward and held them at the ankles, giving him an eyeful of his dick plunging in and out. No man I’d ever been with hadn’t liked to watch, and I was fucking a man I’d just met in our shared place of business. I figured, why go halfway with it? I wrapped two fingers around the base of his cock and massaged my engorged clit with my thumb.

  Marlon clutched my hips and started twisting his waist, churning into me and, unbelievably, growing even stiffer. I wrung the last of my climax off on his magnificent dick.

  With my pussy still clenching from my peak, I swung upward, sliding off Marlon’s ready shaft and wrapping my lips around it before he could say anything. I sank that thick thing as far into my throat as it would go and folded my hands around the rest. I drank the taste of my pussy from his flesh and milked it with my tongue, lips, fingers. Marlon put his hand on the back of my head, not rough but insistent, and I fucked my mouth up and down on him until I felt that jerk/ pulse/quiver that meant he was coming.

  I stroked his cock firmly and kissed the very tip, whirling my tongue around the head and keeping my lips parted. I let him see it shoot into my mouth a little before I dove down onto him, feeling his cum splash warm down my throat. His hands dug into my shoulders and back as I drank his juices down—not at all like a trained masseuse.

  That time, we both fell asleep.

  Palimpsest

  R. Erica Doyle

  You are a third-generation beast in a first-generation world of open legs. You were six when you read your mother’s Marquis de Sade. It explained so much about things in the house. Kama Sutra at seven, but you remained unimpressed. Likewise, at eight, by the flaccid illustrations in The Joy of Sex. However, the paintings of Shoji at nine—the kimonos parted over thick white penises, the arc of them shining into pleated vulvas—excited you.

  You fuck artfully, are disappointed by graceless fumblings. You give them one more chance, just to placate your horrified friends. To say, I fucked her twice, avoid the one-night-stand hisses. Not that the PR helps your reputation or your sex life. Some things do not improve with time.

  You talk to them first, pay close attention to details, are interested and easily amused. Women like that. Always a voracious reader, you turn their pages, memorize the deep structure of their grammar, their adjectival clauses. A question in private that puts them off guard. Women are so polite. So crisscrossed with borders. Sometimes it’s like stealing. Taking something you don’t really want just to. Get away with it. Sometimes you tell them you love them. Sometimes, not often, this is true.

  You hold back enough to keep them curious. Women like that. You are wounded enough to be salvageable. Women like that too—fixing things. Taking in the broken wing you drag like a decoy.

  You are hungry. Each one tastes different. You lavish your tongue wherever they push your mouth. Creases slick with sweat and hair and the particular liquid of an armpit. You are not clean. You are not fresh. You are not pleased with extended foreplay. You want the fuck. Your hands as full of cunt as the stretch can dare, the edge of pain and fear. Their screams delicious bells pealing, their small large rough soft hands grabbing. Sometimes you make an offering of yourself. They think they take and you open wide to swallow them whole.

  You are not generous.

  One holds herself away from you and fucks your cunt dry with the thick black cock, sweat rain, and, unrelenting, fucks your ass, then slathers the lube and turns you over again and again.

  One pushes your fist away. You rewind and tease her clit until she begs for it, kneels ass moon full. A difficult position, but you oblige, blood spilling from your wrist and aching fingers.

  One stumbles in the shower against your soap-slick arm, gasps choking on the water full in a mouth turned away from you, a tongue you sucked on for hours. A shining slap and push through to the cervix soft circle.

  One you coax and beg and cajole. She doesn’t say yes but she doesn’t say no. You suck her asshole until her cunt is wet and fuck her with your tongue until she sighs.

  You do not make promises. You do not plan to keep. You are not conjunctive.

  One sits on your cock while you think about her boyfriend.

  You are perfect.

  One cries from her urethra while you suck her clit.

  You are dangerous.

  One’s anus spirals out around your finger.

  You are unapologetic.

  One’s youth gives beneath your knee, crisp indentations.

  You are born.

  When you can’t fuck, hunger makes you walk the streets alone and weep. If the moon is full your womb is an aching crater. The doctor says your hormones are fucked up. She wants you to take pills to stabilize them. They make you feel pregnant and bitter and you won’t stop smoking. You quit taking them, though it means you will get cancer. The eggs struggle against the membrane and wait to be let out, die, and decay there, festering cysts. On the sonogram, your ovaries look like asteroids against the tulips of your fallopian tubes.


  When you can’t fuck, you write about not fucking. You plan the next escapade, have dreams where you hook up with blue-eyed Australian men. You kiss women young enough to be your daughters, masturbate several times a day, and get no work done. Your friends say that this is good for you, that you need to stop fucking so much. That if you do it less you will think about it less. They are lying, as usual. You think they are jealous of how you feed, how they repress their own gluttony. You think of sins, of church, of priests, of how the hood of the clitoris is like the nave of a cathedral.

  You are not penitent.

  When you haven’t fucked for long enough, you make bad fuck judgments.

  You fuck a lawyer who has never fucked a woman before. “Women are so kind,” says the virgin. “Women are sensitive and caring.” Her hope is a virus. You say nothing. She makes good rum cake and wants to watch TV. You fuck her tiny cunt with three fingers while you patiently suck her clit. You are unceremonious. You disabuse.

  You fuck an insipid poet who is too fat for your taste. She sends you poems you claim were never received. She calls the night you are fucking the lawyer. You tell her—I am fucking the lawyer, we’ll talk tomorrow—and turn off the ringer. Let the answering machine take her eighteen pleas.

  You fuck your best friend the night before your father’s funeral.

  You fuck your ex’s best friend the week before you get back together with your ex.