by Zane
As if in a trance, Hailey recited over and over again, “Oh, I love you. Oh, I love you,” as Sam ground her pussy deeper and deeper into Hailey’s orgasmic splendor. Numb with pleasure, they screamed out in unison announcing passion at its peak.
Michelle Robinson is the mother of twelve-year-old identical twin boys and resides in New York City. She studied journalism at New York University and is planning to attend film school in 2008. Her erotic short story “Mi Destino” is included in Zane’s New York Times bestseller Caramel Flava. In addition to Caramel Flava, Michelle is also a contributing author to the Zane anthology collections Succulent: Chocolate Flava II with the story “The Quiet Room” and Asian Spice with the story “The Flow of Qi.” She has recently completed work on four novels, Color Me Grey, Pleasure Principle, Serial Typical and You Created a Monster, and is currently working on the screenplay adaptation of “Mi Destino.” Michelle can be reached at [email protected] as well as on www.myspace.com/justef
The Time Tripper
Lucille Gayles
P ussy can make you do some remarkable, crazy, and unthinkable things, but travel across time for it? I don’t know. Time travel just for a quick lay. Love maybe. Once in a lifetime love, definitely. Fucking? Eh, more or less the same in any time. Why stretch the laws of physics for that? I quickly changed my mind after I met Tempest. My name is Seshat, and I am a Black lesbian time-tripper. Nope, not a time traveler. That’s actually a nobler calling. I mean, a sister might actually be able to help some people out and change the world. Or, on the flipside, be diabolical and gain world power. But like most people, I’ve never lived up to my full potential; one way or the other. Thus, I have often sought out brief moments of happiness through inefficient means, like material goods or drugs. Fortunately, happiness found me genetically and spiritually predisposed to the future.
Time-trippin’ is kinda like traveling through time, but on a minor level. You don’t have control over where you’ll end up; in the future or past. Oh, and you don’t get days, months, or even hours. Five minutes is the most I ever heard, and even then, that ain’t in real time. ’Cause in real time it depends on the body. How long the body can remain in the little death. Time-trippin,’ you see, is a high. But not everybody can do it. Not yet anyway. But those of us who can do it, can only do so with others like us, time travelers or time-trippers. That’s where Tempest comes in.
Usually when two people are connected like we were…will be, it’s the past that connects them. But I couldn’t remember her from any childhood memories, and my ancestors had stopped talking to me as soon as I’d begun to ignore them for my interests in the future. Yet, if anyone should understand how much the future is the past and the past the future, my ancestors should. Still, they weren’t talking. Despite my being a sexual astrologist who writes horoscopes for a syndicated magazine column, I wasn’t always the physical displacement of time that I am now. The spatialization of atomic matter is far removed from matters of the spirit that I’d been indoctrinated with. My family is from the south. Good Southern Baptists still clinging to the hidden chicken bones in our Vodun closet. But on a crisp December night, at a party (an overstatement of the evening) in Midtown Atlanta, bored and uninterested in the people that surrounded me, I glanced across the room at someone who seemed…familiar.
Tempest. Dark as midnight and just as beautiful. The white cashmere sweater that clung to her delicate curves illuminated her smooth and nearly flawless skin. Her thin, long dreads were sophisticatedly piled into a bun, with soft curly tendrils spilling from the twisted mane atop her head. As if the smile-induced sharp dimples in an otherwise soft face were not enough to excite, neutral lip gloss went a long way in drawing attention to her full plum-colored mouth. She donned black eyeliner and mascara to play up the shape of her eyes, while chocolate eye shadow brought out the already disarming color of them. I innocently watched as she gave a toothy smile to the Taye Diggs wannabe beside her, and he melted. Who wouldn’t? She was captivating, and at the least, looking at her would be just what I needed to get me through at least another hour.
My attempts to drown out the tediousness of mundane and useless conversation were rewarded with what at first was a curious stare. She looked as if she were trying to place my face, but her inquisitiveness turned into amber waves of playful taunts. I smiled and dared her with my eyes to keep watching me. She did. I got caught up. Her eyes were luminous entries into a soul that seemed to be saying, “You looking at me? Look then, but be ready.” Did she really have amber eyes? Or was it a trick of the light? Was it that her skin was radiant, deep and dark enough to make the brown iris glow? But Tempest wanted me to figure it out for myself. She didn’t seem to care about feigning disinterest in me, or interest in the man still talking to her. I averted my eyes down to the drink in my hand, trying to hide the visceral response that she was eliciting from me.
There I was, a thirty-year-old woman who still looked twenty-something. Grown and sexy, caramel complexion with brown eyes. Confident in my casual short blazer, fitted white-buttoned top and mid-length skirt, but I could feel my face blush and stomach flutter from the way she flirted with me. I looked up again, and she gazed back at me from across the room, as if she had been waiting the entire night for me to see her look at me like…like I was naked, legs spread, and getting myself off just for her. Then, I really saw myself through her eyes: ten pounds lighter, sporting a bushy afro, in some killa ass black leather pumps, with a crazy fine outfit; the vision of me that I was becoming. Ump! I could feel myself slipping into the hiccups of time and space to be seduced by her. She turned her attention back to the dark-skinned brother who continued hanging at her side like a pocketbook.
I had been hoping that she wasn’t straight. To say that Tempest was a fine-ass sister would be an understatement. It was clear that she possessed some unnamable magic that merely enhanced her physical beauty. Tempest was the kind of woman I hated seeing go to waste on account of some man. She was strong, comfortable, and poised. Powerful and graceful at the same time. Whatever she’s got we all want to taste, to imitate, to be blessed with, and sanctified by! Men can’t really appreciate a woman like that ’cause they’ll always want only to own her and change her until she looks the same, but really is an inferior version of her original self. Yeah, when I saw Tempest all I could think about was how some other woman had been cheated out of her helping of the sexuality she exuded, and was walking around all womanless because she done got a second helping in the line.
I shook my head, took a swallow of my gin and tonic, and tried to lose myself in the conversation that had started around me. But she was glowing, and if I had wanted to ignore her, I couldn’t. I caught myself gazing at her again. She continued conversing with a woman who had joined them. I spied her checkin’ for me again. My heart raced excitedly to let my body know what my spirit had already figured out. For I literally saw my future in a universe of mysterious brown and flecked yellows of green; painted harshly by the hands of desire. In that color of time, we were not strangers as we were moments before. We were flesh melding and melting into each other. I was having visions of her that came with smells and sensations. My imagination was creating a sniff and lick Afronomical lesbian zodiac poster in my mind. I was drunk, but, thanks to her, the party was getting a lot better.
I walked over to the swarm of enamored men and women hanging on her every word and unceremoniously joined the crowd of admirers. She was an academic, a professor of physics writing a book on what she called “black people’s future time paradox.”
“The future has a way of gettin’ all up in your face when it wants to get a message across, doesn’t it,” Tempest said directly to me, acknowledging my presence in a lazy manner that belied the intense way she had been ogling me before I’d come over. My mouth was dry so I didn’t immediately respond to her. I nervously licked my lips, and she seemed to study that action before suggesting to her rapt audience that “the body is the ultimate future technology t
hat humanity still has not mastered.”
Technology was a force that had eluded me for some time. I was completely inept at any of the sciences and mathematics, but the future had come to me as a Black woman, not a computer.
“You’re vibrating,” she said, looking at me.
I know, I thought.
I was enthralled by her presence and the consideration she was now giving to me. I dumbly pulled my cell phone out of my interior jacket pocket. I looked down and attempted to collect a voice mail, but I saw only a symbol that I did not understand. Tempest must have seen the confusion on my face, and she boldly grasped my hand on its way to place the phone back into the inside pocket of the blazer I wore. Her touch electrified. Not unlike the rest of my body, my breast responded by offering a protruding and straining nipple to the brief contact she’d slyly insisted upon.
“It’s not voicemail or a text message. Somebody sent you an image to download,” Tempest said, using my ineptness as an opportunity to turn her back to the group of people she had just been talking to.
“Is that what that thing means?” I asked, and she proceeded to show me how to download the image. She stood close to me, at an angle, with her breast pressed against my arm.
“Black people kill me, getting technologically advanced shit and then they won’t figure out how to work it.” She spoke quietly, without looking at me.
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind, next time I’m trying to download to that iPod that I haven’t been able to figure out for a couple of months.”
“Look at you!” she exclaimed, showing me the picture that one of my friends had taken of me a week ago. “I guess you look this hot all the time.”
She openly took in my five-foot-five frame in much the same way she had my lips. She slid the phone back inside my pocket and deliberately brushed against my nipple this time.
“What’s your name? I think I missed the introductions.”
“Tempest. And you are?”
“Seshat,” I answered.
“Egyptian goddess of the night sky and history,” she said.
“Nah, sexual astrologist for the insomniac and psychic friends,” I coyly revealed to her and she laughed, dimples and all.
Tempest was all fishnets, garters, and high heels with bohemian sex appeal that made me forget my ennui. Where I was crunk: unpolished, thick and curvy, she was jazz and soul: sophisticated, svelte, and shapely. I had already taken in every inch of her body. I knew that I would zig where she zagged. We would fit each other in the most utterly compelling intimacy.
“This is gonna sound like a line, but I swear to God that I know you.”
She leaned into me and, with her lips pressed against my ear, whispered, “Maybe we’re meeting in a past life or something.”
I caught a whiff of her perfume, but under that light floral scent she smelled even more divine.
Forget the past and the present. The future was fucking me into oblivion. Tempest had invited me out to her car to, “Get high,” she said. The backseat of the Chrysler 300 SI we slid into was roomy enough for two women to stretch out.
“Nice,” I said, running my hand over the plush fabric of the backseat, but all nervous banter halted the moment I placed my hand on her stocking-covered thigh.
“I didn’t come all across time for flirting, coy looks, and soft touches,” she said, intrepidly unbuttoning my blouse enough to expose one of my naked B-cup breasts to the warmth of her small hands.
I responded by slowly pressing my lips to hers, afraid that once I kissed her she would be gone or I would wake up. And when I realized we were both still in the here and now, I brushed my mouth against hers, again and again. With each breathless kiss, my lips gently touched and demurely suckled Tempest’s halfway-parted lips as she passionately whispered, “Fucking tease,” repeatedly against the pressure of my lips. She caressed my nipples with the palm of her hands.
“You’re a fucking tease,” I moaned, right before my tongue tasted and fully parted her lips into a heady kiss that forced our bodies down onto the backseat.
What had slowly started as soft and sensual had quickly turned hard and nasty. Tempest expertly sought out my lips, and her tongue plunged in and out my mouth in a way that left me panting and hotter still. I tore away the stockings covering her legs so that I could feel the sweltering heat rising from her skin. My fingers inched toward her inner thighs, parting them until I came into contact with wet heat. Her hands were everywhere and nowhere. Not at all concerned about who might see through the fogged windows of the car, we undressed until we were both completely naked and writhing alongside each other. I rubbed my slick cunt against her hand in wild abandon, and she lowered her mouth to one of my breasts and ardently used her tongue to lavish my areolas with jolting sensations that made me wetter. As I crept nearer to the edge, I watched her from under hooded lids talk dirty to me and revel in my debauchery. This is what I’d seen in her eyes across the room. Desire and hunger that could consume and ignite at the same time. She’d seen it in me, too.
When I was as close as I could be, Tempest stopped talking. She ceased stroking, and she contorted us both into a position in which she could glide her sopping wet pussy against my eager mouth. She smelled like wet moss and musk. It was painful and uncomfortable, but the feel of her silken thighs on each side of my face made me ache for the taste of her, so much so that I didn’t protest when she roughly bruised my mouth and suffocated me with the swollen lips of her cunt. She felt smooth. I caressed and palmed her ass while I lapped at her bald lips and girl-hood. Outside she tasted like good curry, flavorful and exotic. And the rest like oysters. I morphed my tongue into a spongy dick that she fucked so thoroughly, I thought it would shoot a load.
“Feels good,” she gushed and whimpered in response to the way my tongue penetrated the inside of her. “Lick it. Lick it good,” she hungrily commanded as my tongue lapped her protruding clitoris into a rigid and raw mass of painful longing. “Christ, there’s never enough time with you!” she exclaimed, and I damn near choked; trying to swallow the juices from her climax.
It was all for her. Time had stopped just so that she could get off. At least that’s how it seemed when she was approaching her third orgasm of the night. She was quick, but I had yet to be released from my state of sexual animation. I lay completely naked under her, feverish and animalistic, uninhibited in the way I reached up to touch her hair, face, and neck as she straddled my thigh. And when I thought I could get some control over the havoc she was wreaking on me, she bent over, leaned in and whispered in my ear, “You don’t even know where you’re taking me; where you’re going.”
I didn’t understand her words. What I did know was the heat from her body, her breath against my ear, and the way her pussy had created a slip and slide of my leg, along with those words, made me feel like I was going to burst into liquid flames at any moment. I greedily lifted up and tasted the blackberry-colored nipples jutting from her breasts. My pussy jumped in retort to the stream of obscenities pouring from her mouth as she lost herself to the thigh-ride.
She seemed ready to hit her stride again, but paused a moment before maneuvering my body into a position in which she could slide between my legs. We half-lay, half-sat, scissor-like, opposing each other without moving. A wave of longing shot through my gut as I tried to catch my breath. I gasped at the feel of her engorged pussy, now delicately touching my own. I moaned at the agonizing stillness before losing myself to the first thrust against her. We fit each other in all the ways I could have ever imagined. It began as an unhurried steady grind. I could feel the definition of her outer lips, how they gave way to the cavernous hole of hot interior flesh. I felt my hood slicken and sloppily yield to the dewy velvet smoothness of her hood. Pussy to pussy, I lost track of time and found it again, using the throbbing and swelling heaviness of her clitoris mashed against mine. We gyrated strokes and cunt-fondled each other like the bitches in heat that we were. The car felt like a sauna. The smell intoxicat
ing. And nothing, not the impending cramps, nor the threat of being caught, could make us let go of each other until we let go of time.
I wanted to get under her skin, merge my whole body into the molasses that was Tempest’s black hole. Nothing I did could get me as close to her as I wanted to be, but I didn’t stop trying. She clawed at me and I reached for her, all without breaking the torrid connection of our timeless fuck. I caressed the nape of her neck. She tugged my hair while thrusting herself up and down against me. In my frenetic physical state and desire-clouded mind, I nonchalantly placed my fingers at the base of her neck. As she continued to buck against my pussy, the caresses of my fingers gave way to deliberate hands that pressured and encircled her neck each time she sighed “yeah” or groaned “fuck me.” And when I decreased the force or moved my hand to tease an erect nipple, she would painfully gaze at me with want for the weight of my small hands wrapping around her neck. Through some unspoken communication delivered via her eyes, as well as her pussy popping and clamping down against my snatch, I applied and reapplied pressure and squeezed her neck, understanding that it would bring me closer to the orgasmic frenzy I sought.