by Zane
“So, what is it that you do, Bronique?”
“I do voice-overs,” she said. The sound of her voice thrilled me.
“Your voice is so sexy.”
“Thank you. You sound pretty sexy yourself.”
I looked into her eyes. They were big and brown with long, flipped up lashes. “No, you don’t understand. Simply hearing you speak is making me hot.”
“Well, let me say more. Maybe I can talk you out of those clothes.”
“I’d like that a lot,” Bronique said.
I emptied my wine glass and put it aside. I turned to Bronique. Our lips met. Hers were hot, soft and full. Soon, my tongue found hers and our kisses deepened. I touched her face. I felt her head. I pulled her closer. We fell back on the bed. Our lips remained locked. I pulled away, looked at her, and said, “Say something.”
“Fuck me,” she said. I moaned, laid on top of her, and, again, I kissed her deeply. She felt my ass through my skirt. She traced the divide of my ass with her fingertips. My pussy watered. I rubbed it against hers. I wanted more. Bronique wanted more. I could tell.
She pushed my skirt down over my ass and hips. Someone, not Bronique, pulled my skirt down the rest of the way. I straddled Bronique and removed my shirt. She felt my breasts through the black satin bra. She ran her hands down the front of my thong, tracing the “V” that made its way between my thighs. She felt my heat. My wetness. I kissed her and pulled off her shirt. I unlatched her bra. Her breasts spilled out and begged to be kissed, sucked, nibbled. I fulfilled every request.
I looked around. I noticed that everyone else had stripped. I got up and removed my thong and bra, but I left my heels on. I felt lustful in them. We were all on the bed naked. Bronique and I were side by side. She pulled me into her arms. I kissed her. Beside me, I heard Sierra and Tammy kissing. Hearing them pleasuring each other filled me with pleasure. A feeling I wanted to share.
I slide my fingers down toward Bronique’s clit. It was hard and she was wet. I slipped three fingers into her pussy. She moaned, rotated her hips and spread her legs wider. I thrust my fingers in and out of her wet pussy and kissed her again. She arched her back to meet each blow. Tammy and Sierra moved closer. I stopped kissing Bronique. I looked over at Tammy. She lay next to Bronique with her legs wide open. I could smell her sex. I was brought back to our encounter on her kitchen counter.
“Fuck me, too, Gail,” Tammy said. “I want you and Sierra to fuck me.”
I reached over and rubbed Tammy’s mound. It was hot, hairy and horny. She wiggled when I entered her. Then Sierra pushed her fingers into Tammy along with mine. Tammy moaned and gyrated. Bronique moved faster. My other hand was deep inside of her. It dripped with her juices. I stroked her faster to match her rhythm. I could tell she was about to climax. I pulled my hand out of Tammy and focused on Bronique.
“Oh, yes,” she said in that sexy voice of hers. “Faster! Faster! Give it to me! Don’t stop! I’m…I’m…coming!”
Warm liquid washed over and down my hand. She called out and gyrated her hips. Her toes curled. She reached for my hand and pulled it further into her pussy. I slipped another finger into her wetness. She moaned loudly and tossed her head from side to side. I pushed my fingers in further. She spread her legs wider in acceptance. I pumped and I prodded. Bronique gyrated and moaned. Her vaginal walls clenched and released, clenched and released around my hand. Her movements slowed. Then she collapsed deeper into the bed.
Tammy fingered me now. “Wait,” I said. I could barely get the words out. “I know a way we can all be satisfied at once.”
I turned Bronique over onto her stomach. I told Sierra to get on top of Bronique. I told Tammy to lie on top of Sierra. I got on top of Tammy. The ultimate sandwich—pussy to ass, pussy to ass. We fucked like a well-oiled train. Tammy’s ass was plump and sweet. I broke a sweat giving it to her from behind. I felt like such a stud. This time, I was the cowboy. Tammy bucked and swayed beneath me. I held on to her waist and rode her ass. The juice from my pussy spread across it. Up and down. Up and down. We moved in unison. As if choreographed, Bronique came first, then Sierra, then Tammy, then me.
Well into the night, we found new ways to satisfy each other until we were spent. We showered, exchanged phone numbers, promised to get together again and kissed each other good-bye.
When I got home it was one o’clock. I put on my pajamas and eased into bed. My husband was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. Besides, I was dead tired. My husband turned on his side.
“How was moms’ night out?” His voice was groggy.
“It was great,” I said. “We’re going to do it again next month.”
“That’s nice, honey.” I heard him snoring before he finished the sentence. I smiled and fell asleep.
Regina Jamison has been writing since she was twelve years old. She has always dreamed of becoming a writer. Her love of language led her on the path to speech therapy. She is now a speech therapist by day and a writer by night. She is finally finishing her first novel.
Woman of the Year
Charlotte Dare
O utside the luxurious Bay Side Inn, morning fog hovers over San Francisco Bay as a haze of sun tries nudging through. The conference room overlooking the city’s famous Fisherman’s Wharf bustles with an eclectic array of business-women gathered for the annual event honoring the achievements we sisters have long struggled to attain in this man’s world. Ladies of all shapes and sizes, creeds, colors and zip codes descend upon the spread of tofu omelets, bagels, croissants, fruit salad and yogurt dip like squirrels stockpiling food supplies for a New England winter. Who could blame them?
The National Association of Female Small Business Owners spared no expense in making guests feel they’re getting every penny’s worth of the registration fee for the weekend celebration. More than just a schmooze-fest, the convention offers a plethora of networking possibilities, support services and plenty of female bonding, all culminating in the awards brunch late Sunday morning in which one highly accomplished, trailblazing American businesswoman is honored for her stellar contributions.
A female small business owner myself, I’m always game for a weekend hailing the successes of my overachieving, go-getter colleagues provided the buffet is long, the speeches short, and I can get a plane out by two p.m. Sunday. I’d gorged myself on the vegetarian welcoming dinner the night before, yet this morning, oddly enough, I’m famished. As I inch along the line at the refreshment table, I grumble to myself about how these shindigs always feature the Queen’s ransom in breakfast but set tiny little plates onto which guests must either pile a precarious tower of food or make four separate trips for refills.
“We havin’ fun yet?” she drawls, leaning into my arm as she pours a stream of hot coffee from a towering percolator. I laugh before I even glance over at the face producing the quip. It’s a relief to learn I’m not the only female who finds the annual festival of upwardly mobile sisterhood somewhat of a bore.
“A blast.” I grin, turn away from the fruit salad ladle and feast my eyes on the most exotic beauty I’ve ever seen roaming earth among mortals.
“Girl, they should hold this event in Vegas each year. At least we can jaunt down to a crap table when it gets really hard to stay awake.” She stirs half a packet of Equal into her coffee and reveals a shiny row of impossibly perfect teeth. “I’m Poetess Andrews,” she says, extending long, brown fingers with French-manicured nails. “Of Andrews Travel in D.C., specializing in business, pleasure, and any exotic locale near or far, recently voted the Beltway’s number one travel planner.”
“After a pitch like that I would’ve guessed you’re in advertising. I’m ready to book.” I shake her hand gently, snapping myself out of an awkward gaze.
Her smooth, rich caramel skin frames a set of piercing amber eyes and full, raspberry-glossed lips wrap gingerly around the rim of her steaming cup of coffee. For the first time in months, I praise Aphrodite for keeping me single for so long.
“So what brings you here?” she asks, eyeing the mixed fruit I piled high atop a wheat bagel. “Business woman or did you just hear there’d be a bunch of party girls crammed into one big-ass convention room for the weekend?”
“Gee, and I thought I was so good at passing,” I joke, stuffing a square of honeydew melon in my mouth.
“Gee, I didn’t know twenty-first century white girls had reason to try,” she fires back, her wit nearly upstaging a radiant smile.
“I run an online catalogue company,” I reply, trying to mimic Poetess’ cool. “I sell action figures, T-shirts, calendars. Whatever unnecessary item you need, just go to Tammy’s Trinkets dot com, your one-stop, shop-at-home crap superstore.”
She swallows and snorts a laugh simultaneously, covering her mouth to avoid showering me with coffee. I wouldn’t have minded. It would make a wildly authentic excuse to prolong the dialogue.
“I’ll have to check it out some time,” she says, moving down to grab a smear of cream cheese for her blueberry bagel.
“That’s an interesting name…Poetess. Is one of your parents a writer?”
“My father’s a professor at Georgetown. He teaches the Harlem Renaissance. Huge fan of Langston Hughes but never did have a son he could name Langston. Guess the Man upstairs was looking out for me on that one.”
I smile as she nibbles the tip of a strawberry impaled on a plastic fork.
“You here with anyone?” she asks, examining the unbitten portion.
Small talk or reconnaissance? I can’t tell, but I guess I can hope anyway. “No, I’m here alone. Just needed a little tax-deductible weekend away from everything.”
She sucks the rest of the strawberry off her fork with narrowed eyes. I think I just got my answer. “Well come on then,” she commands with a tilt of her head. “Let’s go grab us a table near the exit.” Her tailored Donna Karan pantsuit hugs every inch of her tall, slender frame. I trail a few steps behind, deciding the best sight San Francisco has to offer is wiggling right in front of me.
By four p.m., I’m squirming in my seat. The speeches are running long and out of the ten thousand glances at Poetess I’ve stolen since lunch, she was nodding off during at least two of them.
“Hey, Poetess,” I whisper as guest speaker, Lois Rothchild, senior editor of Women in Business, drones on about the insidiousness of the glass ceiling in corporate America. “Wake up. Gloria Steinem is gonna lead the group in stoning a corrupt male corporate executive.”
Stifling a yawn, she discreetly clasps her fingers and stretches stiff arms toward the floor. “Tammy, what in the hell are we doing growing moldy in here? I mean we’re in ’Frisco, girl.”
Next thing I know we’re slipping out the side exit, Poetess leading the way with an impromptu plan to take over the city. We stop off at her room first so she can change into something outrageous for the evening.
“I’m a travel agent. I know where enough five-star restaurants and dyke bars are to keep us living large for a year,” she brags, turning to unbutton her silky blouse after tossing the suit jacket on the bed.
She absently faces the mirror as she pulls the blouse out from her pants. I catch a glimpse of her candy-apple bra displaying tight, magnificent cleavage above firm, chocolaty abs. A tingle ripples between my legs. She smiles back at me from her reflection. I whip myself around toward the door to hide my complexion, which by now is more crimson than her bra, erasing any doubt as to whether I’d enjoyed the view.
“Uh, Poetess, I think I’ll go press the elevator button,” I mumble, eyes tracing sage and purple rectangles in the carpet.
“Tam, pull up a chair if you want. I used to model underwear for catalogues. It doesn’t bother me a bit.” She grins as she slips off her dress pants.
Who needs Vegas? I’ve hit the jackpot right there in ’Frisco. I smile at her free spiritedness. “Sorry for leering,” I confess, “but you do have an amazing body.”
“Thanks.” She winks as though she’d heard that one a million times. She then draws up a clingy black Vera Wang, jumps into a pair of sparkly silver Manolo Blahniks and runs her fingers through wild jet curls. “Outrageous enough?”
“For both of us, which is good because charcoal gray and pink are as wild as I get,” I reply, feeling more like Poetess’ bodyguard than her dinner companion.
“We’ll see about that,” she drawls, grabbing my hand and nearly tugging my arm from its socket.
The Café is the Castro neighborhood’s premier gay/lesbian dance club featuring three bars of top-shelf booze, a jam-packed dance floor, an outdoor patio, and of course, a line snaking out to the curb on weekends. In that outfit, all Poetess needed was her faux supermodel attitude, and we sashayed from the back of the crowd right through the front doors. Heads collided as we entered, and I knew they weren’t gaping at me, or were they? Throughout dinner at Charanga, which consisted of a multitude of unpronounceable tapas or appetizers, I sipped sangria and drove myself to distraction wondering why she was wasting her weekend with me, Clammy Tammy, as I was known in high school. Here she is, this vibrant, exotic woman and she sticks herself with a bland, self-conscious gal from Paramus bent on kicking her own ass for letting her tanning membership lapse.
“I love how that v-neck contours your body. Why don’t you lose this jacket,” Poetess insists. In the middle of the dance floor, she peels it off my shoulders, wraps it around me and uses the sleeves to draw me against her.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dance with a woman with some rhythm? There’s a nice pick over there,” I suggest, pointing to a chic African-American lovely undulating in a cheetah print spandex one-piece and a spectacular afro like Link’s from The Mod Squad.
“Are you generalizing all white folks as bottom-lip-biting, vanilla robots on the dance floor?”
“Not all white folks, just this one. See?” I bite my bottom lip and twist stiffly, knowing it will elicit from her that sexy, throaty laugh I’d discovered she had during dinner.
She starts grinding against me as Aretha’s “Pride (A Deeper Love)” pounds from the speakers. Her hot, fruity Cosmopolitan breath steams up the front of my neck as her fingers creep up the back and twirl tresses of hair bobbing at my t-shirt collar. Sweaty air, pulsating rhythm, and flashing strobe lights fade like clouds of dry ice vapors. All I can smell is Poetess’s enticing musk perfume, feel her soft, tight body pushing against mine, her hypnotic amber eyes boring holes through my inhibition.
“How much longer are you going to tease me,” she breathes in my ear, sliding her hands down my back, halting them just short of my ass.
“My mistake,” I joke, dying for them to keep sliding. “From where I’m standing, I’m the one being teased.”
“Well, I know only one way we can resolve this debate.” She locks her thigh between mine and we sway to the beat.
“What’s that? Allow six inches of interpersonal space while we dance?”
“Uh, no,” she sings, loosening the jacket sleeves knotted around my waist. “Go back to my room.”
She has my jacket off again before the door to her room slams shut. Her plump lips lunge for mine as she tears at my belt buckle and swerves me toward the bed. I caress her soft brown arms and shoulders before falling to the cushy designer bedspread.
“Get out of those pants,” she demands. She then lurches upright, crosses her arms and rips off her slinky black Vera Wang, revealing a candy-apple bra and matching thong.
I’m ashamed of myself, drooling over her all evening like a horny high school boy. Then suddenly I feel sympathy for the little creeps. This evening I’d learned how frustrating it is to want someone so badly. I obey her by squirming out of my dress pants and shirt in time to feel her warm, lanky body push mine back down. As she nibbles my ear and neck, her fingers sneak in through the side of my low-rise bikinis and stroke my aching clit.
“That feels nice,” I exhale in her ear and bite a sumptuous shoulder that had tempted me all night from spaghetti straps. Her long finger
s penetrate, jolting me with pleasure. I gasp and grab her head as the fingers move slowly in and out. I’m so hot for her, I feel like I’ll cum at any second.
“Not yet, baby,” she says, pulling her hand out and divesting herself of her thong and bra. She sits up and stretches her long, naked body back, rubbing herself all over. She then begins slowly caressing her clit with one hand and fondling a maroon nipple with the other as I lie tortured, permitted to touch only the tops of her thighs.
“Let me, ’Tess,” I beg, trying to pull her pelvis toward me. She slides up my body and offers my mouth her shaved treasure. I clutch at her firm cheeks and swirl my tongue around her ready clit. She lowers herself fully onto my face and throws her head back as I lick and tease her.
“Aw, yeah, Tammy, do it, do it,” she moans.
I slip my tongue inside her and she shrieks with delight. Her breasts reach toward the ceiling and she claws at the bedspread as her climax begins. I rivet her clit as fast as I can while her groans fill the finely appointed room. She slowly thrusts against my tongue as an orgasm gathers force in the distance. I’m working her firm and steady, and suddenly feel fingers slide down over my clit, then up, then down again. This woman must be a gymnast. My own climax begins rumbling through, reverberating out to every limb, every organ. I struggle to hold my tongue in place on Poetess as a fierce climax roars in, giving way to an orgasm perfectly-timed with hers. We shudder together in an erotic heap reminiscent of an experimental live art exhibit I saw at some dive gallery in Newark last year.
Poetess then slithers down on top of me and gently kisses my lips, face and neck, all the tenderness skipped in our frantic foreplay. I wrap my arms around her silky torso and one of her long black tendrils falls across my face.
“I’m glad you hit on me this morning,” I joke, running the tips of my fingernails down her sides.
“Yeah, right. You were all over my shit the second I snatched my bagel.”