Purple Panties

by Zane

  “So tell me about your visit home,” I said. We were drinking cabernet on the loveseat. Jazzy notes from a saxophone player on the stereo floated just above our heads.

  “It was, as always, bittersweet,” Sabela replied.

  “Tell me about the sweetness first.” I flashed a smile. Sabela returned the smile but didn’t immediately speak. I’m not disturbed by her silence ’cause she always weighs her words carefully. Then, as if I had designed the soundtrack, Brian McKnight’s falsetto broke through on cue, singing “Do I Ever Cross Your Mind?” I love that song and Sabela seemed to be moved by his voice, too. So I invited her to dance. Another “yes.” She wrapped her arms around my neck. The smell of coconut in her hair and her hot breath falling on my neck invited me to pull her closer. Our pointed nipples met through the clothing. Her fingertips slowly snaked into the edges of my afro. Somewhere in the distance I heard myself moan. You touch me like you’ve been here before. I pushed a hand under her shirt and ran my fingers along her spine. Her skin was so smooth. Sensing my thirst and quenching her own, she kissed me. Our lips brushed lightly at first. My tongue slowly traced the upper edge of her open lips. Then I sank into the intoxicating warmth of her mouth. Suddenly I was wading waist-deep in a stream of molten desire. Floating, yearning, swirling at a dizzying pace upon the heat and flavor of Sabela’s kiss.

  But she pulled away abruptly. Tried to walk away but I couldn’t let her go so easily.

  “It’s okay,” I consoled, gripping her hand.

  “I know it’s okay,” she said, mimicking my Southern drawl. “I just need to use the bathroom.”

  While she was in the bathroom, I lit the candles around the apartment and set our appetizer on the dining room table. We had chilled slices of pineapples, mangoes, and peaches with a squeeze of lemon juice and a drop of whipped cream. Served in goblets.

  “Everything looks and smells delicious,” Sabela said as she took her seat.

  “I hope it tickles your palate,” I responded. I captured a slice of mango between my fingers and placed it on her waiting tongue. We ate and talked while our eyes spoke their own subtle language. Like the rest of our body parts, they were glad to be together again.

  “So you’re not here to stay, are you?” I asked.

  “You know I came here with a plan to get the necessary knowledge and take it back home.”

  “Yet you’ve been working here for a few years. Has something changed?” My fingers danced along the smooth edges of her armlet.

  “That’s a perceptive question. The more I learn about myself, the more I realize that my parents’ best intentions coincide with my needs. Lately I’ve been wondering if it’s possible to be of the village without being in it.”

  “Does it really matter if you’re living there, if your work still improves the lives of the people the way you intend?”

  “It’s not just that. My mother’s desire to keep me attached to the ‘old village’ customs claims me in ways that make it difficult to…”

  Her voice trailed off and her eyes took on that dreamy stare again. She fingered a dangling cowry shell near her ear. I can’t remember ever wanting so badly to get inside someone’s head before. What is the story behind that stare? She has been so giving of herself, yet she remains so very private and distant at times. Out of nowhere, a thought provoked an unexpected, rumbling jealousy in me. A tingling sensation crept from the meeting of my thighs to the tips of my nipples. To calm myself, I rested a hand on her leg.

  “Do you mean you’ve made some priestly vow?” And then the real suspicion: “Or are you promised to someone there already?”

  Sabela squirmed uncomfortably in her seat so I removed my hand.

  “Not exactly,” she said. “I was initiated into the sacred knowledge when I came of age. It was a gift from the women of the village. I vowed never to share the knowledge and to attend the ceremony when any woman in my family is initiated. It has complicated my life somewhat. I have committed myself to the ancestors and to the generations.”

  “Sacred knowledge? Can you tell me more?”

  “I really like you, Marsalis.”

  Sabela grasped my hand and massaged between my fingers. Not sure what to make of the tinge of sadness in her voice, I instantly contemplated rejection: Is she about to say we can’t be together tonight? This conversation is killing the vibe. I know she wants me. Keep the sacred knowledge. I can be satisfied with just the carnal.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Sabela asked.

  I decided to answer with my body. I slid out of my chair and stood on my knees before her. I pushed myself between her open legs. My hands traveled her outer thighs and hips.

  “Kiss me,” I said in a pleading tone.

  When she bent to oblige, I grabbed her head and plunged my tongue into her balmy mix of wine and pesto. Even then, I could feel a cage of dangerous emotions flinging open. Her leg muscles flexed and released around my waist, making me want to give Sabela a preview of the expert probing that would soon take place. I pushed her gently back into the chair and brushed a hand slowly over one very erect nipple. She did not resist. So I leaned down into her lap and caressed her thighs with my face. I lifted one leg over my shoulder and, as she slid forward, I dragged my teeth over the inner seam of her jeans, roving hungrily toward her zipper.

  “Wait.” Sabela stiffened in the chair and took her leg from me.

  “Did I do something wrong?” I sat back, resting on my heels.

  “No. I just don’t usually move this fast.”

  “Me either, baby (okay sometimes), but you bring something fierce out of me,” I told her. “I feel like a slave to your energy right now…I know you feel it…you make me wanna bare my soul to you…make me wish I could beg in Swahili.”

  That made her smile. Oh yes, you will be mine tonight.

  “Please, Sabela, trust me. I promise we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, okay? Let me love you, baby.” She didn’t readily respond. But first you must be coaxed back into your comfort zone.

  “Okay, let’s dance then,” I said. I stood up, pulled her from her chair and led her into the living room by the hand. The soft sounds of Jonathan Butler’s guitar serenaded us. The living room was darkened; except for the dim twinkling of candles. As I rolled my hips against her, I told her we would need every flat surface in the house to do all the things my mind was conjuring. I kissed her eyelids. Squeezed her ass. My hands roamed her toned curves. She unbuttoned my shirt and the next thing I remember was being on top of her on the sofa. Sweet surrender.

  “I need to tell you something,” Sabela whispered, her urgency scorching my ear.

  “Whatever it is, baby, it won’t change anything. I still want you.”

  She helped me lift her top over her head. She rested on her elbows as my tongue flicked the exposed nipples. As she began to speak again, I covered her mouth with my kiss. This is a dance we do well together. But when I opened the button of her jeans, she snatched my hand away and sat up. Not again.

  “What’s wrong, love?” I tried to sound patient.

  “I just can’t.”

  “Is this your first time?” Maybe it does matter.

  She didn’t answer. Using my failsafe seductive tone, (it has relaxed the most tightly wound of virgins) I said: “We don’t have to do anything. Just let me hold you.”

  It failed. Sabela stood and smoothed her clothes and hair anyway. She moved into the hallway toward the front door.

  “It’s not that,” she said.

  “What then?”

  I leaned close to her face and tried to block the path to the door. She moved around me and reached for the knob. I wrapped my arms around her from behind and nuzzled my face in her mesh of locs. Still wants to be chased, I guessed.

  “I don’t understand why you’re fighting this. You know me,” I said, feeling like an adolescent boy with a hard-on he doesn’t want to have to jerk again tonight. Sabela began to relax in my arms.

&n
bsp; “This is not about sex,” I assured her as I moved us into a face-to-face embrace. “I am concerned about my friend who is clearly upset.”

  I think I meant it. I think I was ready to accept her explanation, once again, for why we would go no further. So imagine my utter surprise when she pulled me into a ravenous kiss. I’m better at this than I think I am. We groped and tore at each other’s clothes until only sweat lay between us.

  Back in the living room, I bent Sabela’s graceful nakedness over the back of the loveseat. As I made my way to a kneeling position on the floor behind her, my nipples traveled the salty trail of her back. She spread her legs. Welcomed me. On my knees, I rubbed my face across the smoothness of her ass. I pressed my face into it. My tongue penetrated her soft, warm tunnel. Tickled the puckered edges. Charged relentlessly in and around the canal. Sabela made incoherent sounds into the cushions of the loveseat. Her knees buckled a little when my fingers moved up toward the opening of her pussy. I was meandering through the wetness, lost in the aroma and texture of it all when I realized that Sabela’s clitoris tip was…flattened? Not completely flat, it felt like a cushy knuckle lay just beneath the skin. Still, she didn’t have a whole clit. I didn’t want to stop but, honestly, I didn’t really know how to go on. She must have sensed the hesitation in my movements because she quickly unfolded herself and stood over me.

  “Why did you stop!?!” It wasn’t really a question. It was more of an accusation. She spoke in a cool, hardened tone I hadn’t heard her use before.

  “I am just a little surprised.” I cleared my throat and gulped too loudly.

  “I see.” Sabela replied, her tone still cool. She began pacing back and forth in semicircles around my kneeling stature. “And now you want to stop?”

  Sabela seemed angry. I was confused.

  “Was that the initiation?” I asked, trying to stand.

  But she wasn’t having it. She pushed me back to my knees and—get this—stepped on my hand. She had something in store for me.

  “‘I’ll still want you, baby.’ Isn’t that right?” Sabela was mimicking me again, but there was a titillating wickedness in her voice.

  “You are standing on my—”

  “You’re a slave to my energy, right?”

  “Yes, I said that. What—?”

  “Quiet!” Sabela pointed a manicured fingernail in my face. “You’ve been luring, taunting, even coercing me into your life, into your bed. You will learn now that I only let you think you were in control of the game.”

  “It was not a game. I really—”

  “You will only speak with permission!” She punctuated “permission” by pushing her fingertip into my forehead. The ferocity of it infused me with new lust.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Heat gathered between my legs.

  “Don’t ‘ma’am’ me! You will not think, act, or breathe without my sayso. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  I was dazed by the craving this game provoked. She freed my hand and helped me up.

  “Now get over here and serve me.”

  On command, I harnessed my curved black dildo to my waist. Sabela pressed her bare body against the sliding glass door in the den. Told me to enter her from behind. We rocked slowly at first and then built momentum until each stroke caused a sloshing, slapping sound. Sabela clutched the cold metal locks for balance as her breasts flopped against the pane. By force of habit I slid two fingers over the cushy place where her clit used to reside. Her sharp fingernails cut deep into my wrist to chastise me. Even in pain I knew I couldn’t stop thrusting.

  “Not without permission,” she reminded me. “Now back off me,” she ordered.

  I slid the dildo out of her wetness. She spread her sleek body across the long, rectangular coffee table.

  “Take that off and get that book you were telling me about yesterday,” Sabela demanded.

  I retrieved Woman, Thou Art Loosed from the shelf. My clit throbbed as I watched the book’s rounded edges glide through her pussy lips. Against her un-clit. Back and forth. She glossed it with her juices.

  “Are you ready for real knowledge?” she asked, tossing the book aside. “Speak.”

  “Yes.”

  She directed me to drape myself over her, 69-style. Her open legs dangled over the corners of the table. With delicate determination, my tongue danced inside her. She gripped my open thighs and sucked my clit in what felt like slow motion.

  “Use your teeth,” she instructed.

  I raked my teeth over her sacred secret. Her hips jerked and my waves rose with her. Felt like I was floating toward my climax. Back and forth. She raised her hips and I dipped as far inside her as my tongue would reach. Wanted to take her with me. It worked. She clamped her thighs tightly around my neck and I tried to swallow every sweet drop of her. Her tongue tapped wildly inside me, pulling me under. Suddenly I was submerged in orgasm. Suffocating and ejaculating. Pushed to the peak of pleasure, I exploded into a million electric sparks.

  That’s when she took me to the next level: she bit me. There. Stinging ecstasy shot through me in every direction. My entire body spasmed as she held me entangled. That shocking bite, the soft insistent sucking that followed, and her slick, swollen pussy gyrating in my mouth sent me into sensory overload. Ripples of orgasms drained me until I collapsed. Game over.

  “Was that my initiation?” I asked later.

  “No, silly.” She laughed. “That was the erasure of every woman before me and the measure for any after. Still, don’t ever disclose the secret of my body. One slip and we’re done.”

  Yeah, I know what’s at stake. But I had to give you my side of things.

  Born and raised in Texas, Raquel Moore is currently a graduate student in Florida. When she is not writing her dissertation, she nurtures her soul with hot sex, the company of friends, or a good book. She thanks the ancestors, especially Audre Lorde and James Baldwin, for showing us how to turn suffering and pleasure into equally powerful weapons of resistance. You continue to move us all toward liberation. She also thanks the S.I. for their very special contributions to this story. It belongs to all of us.

  Sensei ni Rei

  Tigress Healy

  F rankie screeched into the parking lot, jerked the car to a stop, and rushed inside to try to explain her lateness again. At this hour, there were no sparring children to avoid, no sneakers to trip over, and worst of all, no students left but her son.

  “Darryl,” she called through the one-story building. “Darryl, honey, I’m—”

  “I’m right here,” he said, exiting the dressing room in his street clothes. His earphones blasted the latest hip-hop song. He didn’t look happy to see his mother.

  “Where’s your instructor? I need to talk to him.”

  “Ma’am?” Darryl asked, pulling the left speaker out of his ear.

  “Turn it down so you can hear me. I asked about your instructor.”

  Irritably, the boy pointed toward the office.

  “Watch your attitude, boy!”

  “Ma, why you startin’ with me already? I ain’t even do nothin’ to you. I’m the one been sittin’ here two hours.”

  “Go wait for me in the car. I just wanna go in and apologize.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said, replacing the dangling earphone.

  “What’s his name?” Frankie yelled.

  “Sensei Reid,” Darryl replied on his way outside. Frankie rapped on the door and waited for permission to enter. A bit taken aback by the instructor, she ignored the frustrated facial expression, surveyed the trophies, photos, and certificates, and finally said, “Listen, I’m sorry for running late. I got caught up at work with—”

  The athletically built black woman raised her hand in protest. She then leaned back in her massive black chair and said, “I hear where you’re coming from but we don’t tolerate excuses from parents or students. The records show you’ve been late almost every night since Darryl’s enrollment. We don’t want to punish him for your beh
avior but we can’t continue to stay late to supervise him.”

  “Well, you don’t really have to stay late or supervise him. I mean, he’s twelve years old. He can look after himself.”

  “Ms. Greene, it is my responsibility to ensure the building is empty when I leave.”

  “I know, and again, I apologize for the—”

  “Yame!” the sensei exclaimed.

  “Excuse me? I don’t eat sweet potato!”

  “Yame means ‘stop’ in Japanese. I need you to just stop talking.”

  Frankie crossed her arms and sucked her teeth. Rolled her eyes and neck like oats. “I think it’s nice you’re teaching the kids respect, concentration, goals, and all that along with the karate but you can’t talk to me like that. I ain’t one of your goddamn students!”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have the time or money to—” Frankie stopped herself. “Why am I explaining myself to you? You ain’t nobody!”

  “Okay, have a seat. We may have started on the wrong foot. Call me Rita for now, but in public or if I’m ever your instructor, call me Sensei Reid. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Frankie and I’ll stand. Darryl’s in the car.”

  Rita looked at Frankie earnestly. “Do you have a second for a quick sistah-to-sistah talk?”

  “I don’t see what there is to talk about and I don’t like you talking to me like I’m a child. I’m late, I apologized, and that’s that!”

  “Iya!”

  “Bless you!”

  “Frankie, I didn’t sneeze! ‘Iya’ means ‘no’! It’s not, ‘I apologized and that’s that.’ Your lateness inconveniences everyone. Besides, how can you help your son with karate if you don’t know the commands or the basic principles of respect?”