“It was strange, having a cock in me that wasn’t Cord’s. Not as thick, but longer and the rhythm was different, and the smell of his skin and his breath, the spread of his hands holding my thighs. He pumped hard, going deep. ‘Look at her boobs bounce!’ he said, admiring like.”
I can well imagine.
“He was getting close, frowning and concentrating, trying to hold back, sweat popping out. Finally, he gave a yelp, jerking and grunting.
“He didn’t even get to catch his breath before Cord practically pushed him out of the way and jumped on top of me, jamming his cock in and pounding away. No sloppy seconds since the guys were using condoms, but Cord felt different in me, already stretched by Darrell. It’s hard to express how powerful it was that he gave me to his friend, bestowed me on him, and watched the guy take me—and how he had to rush to get inside me himself.”
A smug cat-that-licked-the-cream look comes over her face. “I’ve never felt so desirable.”
Breathless, I ask, “Did you climax during any of this?” The action is so incredibly hot that I can’t imagine how she could resist.
“Oh god, yes! But only with Cord’s permission, of course.”
“Of course. Um, will you tell me about that?” She raises a blonde eyebrow, saying archly, “You’re a very thorough interviewer.”
“All in the name of investigative journalism,” I toss back.
“During round two, the guys were doing me at the same time. My butt was in the air with a plug up my ass, one we call Kong, like the dog toy, because of its size—”
“Yikes!” slips out of me. She chuckles.
“Yeah, I felt very full, because Darrell was fucking me from behind. Cord was stretched out, leaning against the headboard, and I was blowing him. It was such an effort to keep from coming that there were tears leaking out of my eyes, but my dom hadn’t given his permission.
“Just when I thought I’d have to disobey and maybe be punished—which honestly wouldn’t have been so bad!—Cord lifted my head and pulled his cock out of my mouth. ‘Now, Star.’ Darrell touched a finger to my clit, and I came so hard I almost blacked out. I could feel Cord’s hot spurts on my face and chest and Darrell still rocking like a madman…” She sighs and closes her eyes.
“And then later—” She stops, looking almost flustered. I lean forward, not wanting the story to end there.
“The guys put me to bed on a pallet in the hallway, between Cord’s room and the guest room, where Darrell was to sleep. Cord told him, ‘You need anything in the night, you know where to come.’ In spite of the uncomfortable bed, I dozed right off because I was so tired by then. It seemed only a minute later that a hand was shaking my shoulder. It was Darrell.
“He took me to his bed and arranged me with my hips on the mattress edge and pillows propped under my head. Then he got on his knees, hooked my thighs over his shoulders and buried his face in my pussy, making mmmmm sounds. My flesh was so tender and sensitive, and his tongue and lips were exquisite, licking and sucking, as good as I always knew he’d be.
“‘Come when you want, Star,’ he whispered, and slid three fingers inside me, stroking deep. I bit the pillow to keep from crying out as I came apart.
“‘I’ve wanted to do that since the day I met you,’ he said. He rested his head on my stomach for a few minutes, with his arms around me, then he took me back to the blankets in the hall.”
How much of this did she tell Cord, I wonder? What would I say to a boyfriend?
“Well, he did tell his friend to, uh, make use of you how he wanted?” I muse aloud.
Her smile is bland, giving nothing away.
“Darrell was gone when I woke up. I was so achy, emotional, dazed, happy. Cord had me come into his bed where he fucked me sweet and slow. Raw and sore as I was, it was so good to have him in me, skin to skin, the way it should be, with no condom in the way. ‘Just so you don’t forget who owns you,’ he said, like he was marking his territory with his come. He cuddled me and put me in the bath and rubbed salve on my bruises. I felt so pampered and cherished by the crazy sex he gave me and all the tenderness later.” She smiles softly, gazing into the distance.
The love she radiates for this man, Cord, is impressive—over and above her descriptions of pleasure with someone else. I’m envious.
“So that’s my story. The night I actually got to fuck enough,” she says, chuckling. Then her face sobers, as if troubled. “But there was one thing…”
“What?” I’m dying to hear.
“I just wish…” She takes a deep breath. “I wish I could have been a spider on the wall when Cord was pitching the plan to Darrell.” The mischievous look is back.
A split-second slideshow of scenarios flashes through my brain. A shriek erupts from me and we’re off, laughing with near hysteria until we’re both red in the face and teary eyed. It is said that the true power in a D/s relationship rests with the sub, an aphorism I’ve always dismissed as window dressing for the vanilla world. It makes a lot more sense now.
I respect everything about this woman.
We shake hands goodbye, reluctantly on my part. She strides away, self-assured, serene, attracting glances from the men, and quite a few women.
So much to reflect on, and so many things I should have asked, but didn’t. Did the guys make out at all? What was it like to see Darrell after this encounter? What other fantasies does she have? I’m wrung out with wanting and…I don’t know what.
My text tone beeps. It’s Star. The screen shows a selfie of her and Cord.
Meet us for drinks and…? it reads, with an address. My imagination sees a challenge in their smiling faces. I wipe my suddenly sweaty hand on my skirt before replying, C u in 15.
Then I run to the parking lot.
CIGARRO TARDE
Abigail Ekue
Time was running out on finding a place for my friend’s birthday party, so on a rare free weekday afternoon, I met with the owner of a cigar lounge to discuss renting it. On a recent girls-only trip to the Dominican Republic, we got our pussies wet for cigars. My friend was a faster study than I, and she was a total convert by the time we were wheels up. My lungs rebelled when I tried to smoke, so I remained a bystander. My middle-aged Dominican suitor, with the complexion of the Para Ti cigars he rolled, swooped in the first day we were there.
“Como tu ’ta, mi morena?” Each morning he’d meet us at our rental, taking my brown hand in his and kissing it suavely. He was a handsy old-school gentleman who punctuated every chivalrous act with a stolen kiss or squeeze of my ass. “Bembua,” he kept saying to me when we ate or sipped coconut water through a straw. Bembua…
The NYC morning daily did a brief profile on the cigar lounge when it first opened in Bed-Stuy. The pervading attitude was here was yet another white, late-twenty-something gentri-fier opening a business that didn’t “serve” the community. That was six years and thousands of stogies ago. Judging by the Yelp reviews of how hot he was, along with being an awesome host and knowing his shit when it came to cigars, the neighborhood had embraced their latest transplant.
The one promo photo I had seen of him online did him no justice. His presence warmed my insides. He stood a foot taller than my five-foot-three frame and sported the twenty-first-century James Dean uniform. With those looks, I wondered how many of the neighborhood ladies he’d been through. He reacted to me as though he were seeing an old friend. I maintained my business-first demeanor and extended my hand while he swooped in for the hug. It was awkward.
But the brief back rub from him was comfortable.
“Come on in?” He led me into the lounge. “We don’t open for a few hours so we have time to go over your party plans with no interruptions.”
I walked past the cigar store Indian whose nose had been hacked off or perhaps rubbed off over the years. The early afternoon sun was shut out of the windowless room when he closed the door behind me. The space was washed in a sepia filter under the warm-glow lightbulbs. There was a deco
rative tin metal ceiling, the wooden bar was worn like it was plucked straight from a frontier brothel and the Havana and ebony leather armchairs were all aged and comforting, stained by the years.
The room quietly shouted its character. I wandered around as though in a museum, keeping my hands off the cigars resting in honey-washed cedar cases and leaning in for a closer look at the vintage boxing, rodeo and WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE posters. I was sold. We could sign the rental contract for the party now and go on with our days.
The owner had an amused smirk on his face when I turned to him. He looked about the same age as my ex when we first met. We were together for most of my thirties and after changing our minds three times, we decided to stop using birth control and let a baby happen. The attempts for Maya or Xavier were hours-long marathons and clandestine public quickies. After two years of growing older and growing apart, he cheated on me with a girl who was still celebrating tossing her graduation cap in the air. Lord knows, once she experienced his baggage from my miscarriage and our breakup, she rushed back off to wherever she was headed in her quarter-life.
“This is a really cool space.” I wanted to maintain eye contact but continued to study the details in the room.
“It is, isn’t it?” He was taking pleasure in impressing me already. “When I found it, I snapped it up immediately.”
“You came to New York specifically to open a cigar bar?”
“Yeah. Back home I was just a peddler on the weekends, at fairs. Then I started filling orders online while I traveled, but I wanted a space. A place I could come together with my cigar brothers, you know?” There was a suggestive lilt in his voice as he described connecting with locals during the post-graduation years he spent traveling.
So far, I was happy this country boy from Amarillo had settled in Brooklyn, even if it was so I could stare at him for a few moments.
He placed his hand on the small of my back and eased past me to get behind the bar. “Make yourself comfortable.” He motioned to the elevated bench across from the bar. I put my bag down and removed my jacket. The fuchsia top I wore was the loudest thing in the room.
“Okay, full disclosure,” he said when I made my way back to the bar. “I wanna put on some music, but I can’t remember the password for the iPad,” he admitted, smiling. “But don’t worry, you’ll be able to have music on the night you’re here.”
I signaled that it was okay and pointed at the dress box on the bar. “Are these Dominican?”
The lounge owner joined me in front of the bar. “Yeah, they are. You smoke?”
“No.” I maintained eye contact this time. “My friend and I went to the DR and she smoked these. I took a few puffs but couldn’t stop coughing.” I shrugged at my failure, and smiled at thoughts of Adalberto. When I started dating again, getting to third base was a huge deal. The night we made out like teenagers, I freaked out like a scared virgin. He kneed my thighs apart and I promptly sent him away, only to go to town on myself. My friend was with her vacay beau so I could be as loud as I wanted. I wasn’t back to the point where I could let loose like that with a man.
The lounge owner took a Don Diego out of the case. He dragged the cigar under his nose for the bouquet, the same way he’d sniff his finger for the lingering scent of a woman.
“Isn’t that wonderful? That you’re never too old to be new at something?” His eyes took a trip down the length of my body before turning his attention back to the cigar. “These are one of my favorites. It’s one we use to introduce newbies to cigars.”
I wanna pull off your pants, push you onto that couch and climb on board, but we have business to discuss first. What I wouldn’t give to be the type of woman who still said those things…and acted on them. I’m at a place now where I’m looking for someone to go halfsies on quality time and orgasms.
He walked me through the anatomy of the cigar from foot to cap. I still couldn’t reconcile the soulful baritone that escaped his lips, one I equated with men of my parents’ generation and race. “Do you mind if I…?”
I urged him on. There was no hesitation as he bit off the cap and placed the cigar between his lips. He wet the foot of the cigar with the lighter flame, handling the cylinder deftly. Not having sex for the past nine months was getting the best of me.
“Sit, let’s talk.” He sunk into the leather of the two-seater as his thighs relaxed apart. I liked the style in which he conducted business. He threw his left arm along the top of the sofa behind me. He was that cool kid at school I was playing hooky with to rummage through Daddy’s liquor cabinet and gawk at Vanessa Del Rio on VHS. He raised his chin to allow the smoke to glide out, his tender neck enticing me.
“How long does it take to smoke one of those?”
He only lowered his eyes to answer me. “An hour or so.” He took another drag of the cigar and released the cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “If I take my time.” I looked away from him.
I had to or I’d have been straddling him without invitation.
“So is this party you’re having a fiftieth birthday?”
My eyebrows shot up at how on point he was. “Well the party’s for my friend. She’s turning forty-seven. I’m forty-nine.” I had a good fifteen years on him. He obviously knew that.
He smoked like he and Don Diego were the only two in the world.
No doubt he could maintain stiffness like the cigars he so coveted.
“Wanna try again?” He held the cigar across his body, waiting for me to take it. “You should enjoy yourself at the party too.” I jumped at the chance and took the cigar between my lips.
“Take a puff…”
My eyes stayed on him as I did as I was told.
“Now remember, don’t inhale. Just hold the smoke in your mouth…” He put his finger to my lips. He didn’t let on that he noticed I puckered slightly against his touch. “Now open.”
I dropped my bottom jaw and the smoke bellowed out. My lips curled into a smile when I didn’t cough.
“Did you taste it?” he asked.
Not yet, I thought thinking about him. I shook my head to answer his question.
“Okay, let’s try it again.” He sat forward. “This time take a bigger drag and roll the smoke around in your mouth.”
I puffed on the cigar with my eyes closed this time. I had been enthralled watching the Dominican men light up and sink into the high of a cigar. Now I lived it. I worked my tongue through the smoke in my mouth and along his neck in my imagination. When I opened my eyes, he nodded the go-ahead. I released the milky smoke.
On the next puff, I locked eyes with him. I formed an O with my lips and the smoke snaked out. “One more?” I wanted this to last as long as possible before I relinquished this new source of pleasure back to him.
He put up his hand, showing he had no intention of taking the cigar from me.
I concentrated on my puff technique, looking down the length of the cigar watching the white ash.
“Your lips…”
“Are they wrong?” Smoke punctuated my question.
“Absolutely not. They look like they belong on that cigar.” He dared me with his eyes.
“ Bembua…”
He acknowledged my Spanish with a sly smile. “You are.”
I responded with an even bigger questioning smile.
“Yeah, I’m a white boy who speaks Spanish.” He took control of the cigar. I opened my lips so he could slip it between them. “ Bella bembua…” he said when I sealed my lips around the cigar.
He formed a little o with his lips and I mirrored him. As the creamy smoke floated from my mouth, he brought his face ever so close to mine and trapped the smoke in his mouth. I shut my lips and waited for him to inhale all the smoke between us.
I released more smoke, and he was there to receive it.
I could concentrate on nothing other than his heat. The butterflies in my stomach were all tied up. Swapping smoke with him was the crash course I needed to fucking feel something again.
A clump of ash fell on my thigh. I rubbed the spot until the indigo of my jeans reappeared. Next I brushed away the ash that landed on the sliver of leather between us, grazing his thigh.
None of the ash had landed on his jeans but I brushed his thigh anyway.
He grabbed the crotch of his jeans, pulling it away from his body while he shifted on the leather.
He smirked, ready to say something, but put the cigar in his mouth instead. With his head thrown back, the thick plume of smoke wafted from his mouth. He blindly reached for my hand and placed it on his semi-firm, warm body.
He waited and I didn’t pull my hand away. He slid his hips forward, relaxing into my touch. I traced my finger from where his body met the leather up to the waistband of his jeans.
“You should open it…” He slipped his thumb under the button of his jeans and flicked the denim. “Take it out…”
He moved his hands out of the way as I went for him. He was a member of Team Button-Fly, which was a prudent choice considering he didn’t wear underwear. “I shaved a little…” He trailed off expectantly. He stopped short of asking if I liked it but the question was in his eyes. I neither approved nor disapproved of his hairstyle. I unbuttoned two more buttons to reveal him. He possessed one of the dicks I didn’t think existed anymore— full bodied, a smidge over seven inches but not terrifying.
One I’d put my mouth on with little negotiation.
That day, I was enjoying just looking and touching. I wrapped my fingers around him with the grace of a hand model and luxuriated in his soft, blemish-free skin. I had no desire to jerk it as it grew in my hand. I revered it, never imagining the first dick to be served to me in almost a year would be a younger white one. I drew the @ sign with my thumb on the underside of his head and to my delight his breath quickened.
“What’s that?” My eyes lit up. I lifted his shaft to see the lorum piercing adorning his pretty penis.
His reaction to my excitement was to kick off his Nike Waffle trainers and step out of his pants. He sunk back into the leather, placing his back against the armrest, his legs outstretched in opposite directions. He lifted his dick, pulling up on the loose skin at the base to show off his jewelry.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 2 Page 18