Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  Tamara had expelled a breath. Her sister’s reasoning and this conversation had been slowly draining her. She was done with it. Arabia was going to do whatever the hell Arabia wanted to do. This bitch was delusional. End of discussion.

  They’d all blinked at her, then raised eyebrows and stared at her. Bitch, are you serious? they seemed to ask. Arabia stared back, defiant and daring.

  “Well all right then,” Maya finally had said, reaching for the bottle of coconut Ciroc. “It’s time to pour it up. I’ve heard enough from this crazy ho for one damn night.”

  The four of them sat silently for what seemed like an eternity sipping on their respective cocktails, before Arabia’s ringing phone had sliced into each woman’s reverie.

  It’d been one of her married men, of course.

  Arabia sighed, shaking away thoughts of that night with her sisters.

  She had only wanted to share with them, not get talked at and lectured to. They could all lick her ass. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her. But what bothered her most was how she carried herself at Theodore’s gravesite. Underneath it all, she knew she’d been wrong for going there. And she was even more wrong for saying what she’d said to his grieving widow about having his dick in her mouth the day he died. How low of her. It was downright tasteless on her part. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, to have the fight between the two of them go viral on social media was utterly embarrassing.

  What had she been thinking?

  Ghetto and Arabia didn’t fit into the same sentence. And it didn’t exist in the same space as she. She wouldn’t dare mix or mingle with slum-dogs, or their little gutter rats. But, in the blink of an eye, what she’d done by showing up at that gravesite had spiraled into some ghetto-hot-trash brawl with a grieving widow and her family.

  She wasn’t one of those thirsty, weave-wearing, hoochie-coochie mommas from around the block they called thots these days. Nor was she some around-the-way, weed-smoking skank with the stretch marks on her titties and the rug burns on her back and knees to match, either.

  No.

  She prided herself on being a cultured ho. Classy. A ho with morals and standards. And, yes . . . very high expectations.

  And that was exactly why she always preferred men who were cultivated. Polished. Educated. And well-traveled. Men who had large bankrolls and—hopefully, long, hard Magnum-sized cocks to go with all those zeros. And being a little—hell, no. Wait . . . a whole lot of—freaky in the sheets didn’t hurt, either.

  But that stunt she’d pulled in Texas—she shook her head as she replayed it in her head—had been downright ghetto and trifling. She cringed. I would have slapped me, too. Arabia touched the side of her face, then allowed her fingertips to brush over the scratches along her neck. Thank God they were only superficial marks, and there wouldn’t be any permanent scarring.

  She sighed, then shut her eyes and tried to will herself back to that place of hard dicks and heavenly bliss. She reached between her legs and touched her sweet spot. She was still swollen and wet from her late-night fuck, and juicier, now, from her early morning dream. She dipped her middle finger inside her, stroking herself there, imagining her cunt was filled with warm man cream—then pulling out with wet fingers and holding them to her mouth. She licked the tip, then sucked her whole finger into her mouth.

  Mmm-hmm. Finger-licking good . . .

  She moaned inwardly. Pussy this good should be bottled and sold, she mused as she stroked between her legs once more, again coming up with more wetness.

  She smiled at the thought of having her sweet nectar readily available for the masses. If only there were truly a way she could bottle up her cunt juice, then sell it by the case. She’d surely be one rich bitch. Hell, she pondered, if lactating women could sell bottles of their breast milk across the globe, then why couldn’t she sell her pussy juice?

  Her creamy cunt cream was good for the soul.

  She wasn’t conceited by far. She didn’t have to be. The truth lay in between the folds of her slick pussy lips. It was confirmed every time she spread open her long luscious thighs, and welcomed one of her lovers inside her warm, silky walls and heard their breaths hitch in the back of their throats and saw their eyeballs roll up in their heads as she allowed her muscles to milk the nut out of them.

  Arabia was reminded of just how good she was every time she made love to one of her lover’s cock with her mouth, lips, tongue, and hands, swallowing him whole until her neck was full, until his warm babies slid down into her tight, horny throat.

  Right down to the last damn drop!

  She rolled over on her side and stared at her other lover, Wellson Cambridge, while he snored beside her, like a hibernating bear. She’d managed to fuck him down into the mattress last night. And, now, look at him. Sprawled out on his back—naked in her bed, on her plush mattress, atop her 1800-thread-count Egyptian sheets, snoring and drooling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  He’d flown in last night. “I miss you bad, baby. I need to see you,” he’d told her the night prior to his flight. Like all the others, Wellson couldn’t get enough of her wet pussy. And every chance he got—which was about three, maybe four, times a month to sneak off—he was on the first flight out of Scottsdale heading to New York for another dose of her hot juices.

  Men like him—the cheating kind, were so . . .predictable.

  Unhappy.

  Sexually deprived.

  Horny.

  They’d say and do whatever they thought necessary, including a promise of marriage, to slide their dicks inside a warm, tight space. Mmph. Wellson was a damn fool if he thought she’d ever marry him, even if he had given her an engagement ring just two months ago.

  Mmph.

  Of course she took the ring. She always took the jewels. She wasn’t born a fool. Still, Wellson could keep his baldheaded wife. And she’d keep giving him pussy as long as he kept her allowance coming, and showering her with gifts.

  She glanced down at her diamond ring and marveled at the glittering gem.

  Hell. She deserved it.

  “A promise of what’s to come, baby,” he’d told her, before scooping her up in his arms, laying her on the bed, kneeling before her and spreading open her thighs, then sliding his tongue along the slit of her pussy until she melted all over his mouth and tongue.

  For a man in his mid-fifties, sans the gray in his beard, he had a very youthful body and appearance thanks to his obsessive need to be in the gym and that God-awful dye and Murray’s pomade he used in his short-cropped hair that spun around his head in thick ropes of waves.

  Arabia had to admit. His deep waves were beautiful.

  Still . . .

  She reached over and turned on the lamp on her nightstand, then pulled the blanket back and stared at Wellson’s six-foot frame. She gave him a disgusted look, taking in his flaccid dick. It lay limp like a long, brown noodle across his right hip. Her eyes flitted up to his head lying on her pillow. She cringed. He’d leave a nasty stain in her pillowcase, for sure.

  She rolled her eyes.

  How damn inconsiderate!

  I need to start making him wrap his big-ass, greasy head in a plastic bag.

  She sighed.

  Another pillowcase ruined.

  Wellson groaned and stretched, pulling Arabia from her thoughts. Aside from a muscled body, his meaty dick was an impressive nine inches when—with the help of Viagra—fully hard. And when it wasn’t at its full potential, his long tongue worked wonders on her clit and all over her pussy lips. However, floppy dick or not, Wellson’s tongue and six-figure salary made up for his occasional erectile disappointments.

  She slid her fingers through her silky shoulder-length wrap, then gave him another long stare. Her hard gaze skimmed back down to his dick. She blinked, then a smile eased over her lips. His cock had come alive. He was rock-hard. And re
ady.

  Never one to let a hard dick go to waste, Arabia contemplated taking it into her mouth and swallowing it whole. But there was something more pressing that had to be done first. So she eased her body up over his and grabbed the headboard with both hands.

  “Rise ‘n’ shine, Sleepy Head,” she prompted, shaking the bed. “Momma’s got a treat for you.”

  Wellson slowly opened his eyes, blinked, and finally looked up at the sight before him. He groaned, then smiled. “Mmm. What a beautiful view, baby.”

  “Good morning to you, boo,” she cooed. “Are you ready for your early morning feeding?”

  No words were necessary. He lolled his tongue out as Arabia pulled open the swelling folds of her cunt, and slowly lowered herself onto his face. He grasped her waist. And then thrust his tongue inside her, his tongue fucking her swiftly, urgently. The frenzied licking drove her quickly toward an orgasm. He pulled her harder on to his mouth. He licked over her pussy, repeatedly, his tongue flat and firm; licking and licking and licking right over her juicy hole. Then came the sucking and slurping. He tasted her sweat heat and wanted more of it—all of it, so he opened her up with his mouth and lapped at every part of her outer and inner lips while she gasped and moaned on top of him. He captured her clit in his mouth and sucked on it. Then growled, and the vibrations sent shivers through her. Ooh, what a greedy pussy eater he was.

  Her cunt juices pooled out of her and coated his lips and chin, and Wellson greedily drank her in. Dragging her nails over her headboard, Arabia looked down at him and decided not to let his dyed, greasy-ass hair irk her.

  After all, it was only a pillowcase.

  She threw her head back, and let out the softest sigh of pleasure. Then drowned him in her juices.

  Eleven

  One of the conveniences of living in an upscale condo was the on-site fitness center. At five in the morning, Cruze had the facility to himself and he appreciated the privacy. Working on his chest and triceps, he started off with barbell bench presses. He wasn’t motivated at first, but by the time he was midway into his routine, working on his second set of standing dumbbell flys, he’d finally gotten into a zone—a Zen-like-state where his mind was trouble free. For Cruze, working out was therapy. An outlet for all the toxic emotions that had been building up over the past year.

  Pushing himself past his limit, he became so focused on the movement of the exercises, he didn’t notice the gym door opening, or realize he wasn’t alone until he heard the voices of a man and a woman.

  A distinctive scent permeated the air, and without having to turn his head, he knew that the Hamiltons had entered the gym.

  “Good morning, young fella,” greeted Morris. “You’re up bright and early.”

  “Buongiorno,” Valentina said, speaking in Italian. Cruze had no idea what the bitch had said and didn’t care. “Good morning,” she interpreted, giving him a sly smile.

  Valentina looked flawless early in the morning. Wearing fashionable workout gear and with her hair in a high bun that was accentuated with an intricately knotted leopard-print scarf, she looked like a model for women’s athletic wear.

  Cruze hadn’t come to the gym to socialize, and so he offered the couple only a curt head nod and continued his grueling workout.

  “Come along, dearest. We have less than an hour to get in our ten thousand steps,” Morris said, looking down at the activity tracker on his wrist. Taking the hint that Cruze didn’t want to be bothered, Morris ushered his wife toward the row of treadmills, leaving Cruze in peace.

  He tried to get his momentum going again, but with the annoying couple chatting away as they fast-walked on the treadmill, he was having a hard time getting back into the zone. It wasn’t solely their chatter that he found bothersome. Valentina’s sensuous accent and the sexy perfume of hers was fucking with his concentration.

  Irked by the intrusion, he gripped the set of dumbbells so hard his knuckles paled. Gritting his teeth and grunting, he completed the sets. When he finished working out with the dumbbells, he headed over to the chest pullover machine and positioned himself in the seat. Refusing to rest between repetitions, he switched to supersets, emitting loud grunts as he punished his body.

  Seated with his eyes squeezed shut, he didn’t see Valentina sidling up to him, but he smelled her, her floral scent tantalizing his senses and alerting him of her presence. He pushed himself harder, refused to open his eyes and give the perky-tit bitch the satisfaction of knowing she was disrupting his flow. However, every muscle and cell in his body reacted to her body heat and her bold intrusion of his personal space. Cruze’s nostrils flared and his eyes snapped open just as Valentina eyed her husband, and then slyly dropped the towel that hung around her neck.

  Cruze eyed her as she slowly, deliberately bent over—as if she were retrieving her towel—and slyly slithered her hand to his crotch, stroking him, and then brazenly gathering his balls in her hand.

  Heat instantly blazed through his body. Reflexively, he smacked Valentina’s hand away—but not before his dick had hardened into a piece of concrete.

  Valentina licked her lips and lifted herself upward with her towel in hand, then sauntered back over toward her husband as if she hadn’t just fondled his goddamn dick. Livid, Cruze snatched his towel from the back of the equipment, got up, and stormed toward the door.

  “Have a good day,” Morris called out cheerfully.

  With his dick throbbing in his shorts, Cruze rushed out of the gym without as much as a backward glance at Morris or his out-of-control wife.

  Back in his apartment, he headed straight for the shower to cool off and contemplate. His reaction to Valentina confused him. He’d never felt such conflicted emotions before. He couldn’t stand the uppity bitch, yet he was fiercely attracted to her. And that nut-ass husband of hers . . . Cruze shook his head. Dude seemed clueless to the fact that his wife was shamelessly chasing dick right in his face.

  Fuck both those assholes. If I expect to get a good, uninterrupted workout, then I’ll have to go to a public gym.

  Standing beneath the rainfall showerhead enjoying the sensation of warm water cascading over his head and shoulders and running down his back, he lathered soap onto his rock-solid, cut forearms and biceps, while the scene from the gym flashed in his mind: Valentina making her desires crystal-clear as she ran her palm across his crotch and squeezed his nuts. He wasn’t sure what kind of games she was playing, but he wasn’t interested in getting caught up in any of her bullshit.

  Obviously, the bitch was accustomed to getting what she wanted and the memory made him angry and horny at the same time. Cruze didn’t understand how he could feel violated, and so turned on at the same time. It caused his dick to bob up and down in an attention-seeking manner. Breathing hard, he clamped a soapy hand around his lengthening cock, and began to pacify it with gentle strokes. With his long fingers closed around his shaft, he thrust upward, slowly pumping dick in and out, and letting his cock meat glide smoothly across his slippery palm.

  His entire body throbbed as his hand twisted around the crown of his dick, collecting a gooey mixture of soap and pre-cum. His muscular thighs flexed and his balls clenched with need, but he didn’t want to cum too quickly. Prolonging the pleasure, he gripped the base of his throbbing cock and held it tightly. Then, switching to a lazier pace, he slid his palm up and down his straining cock. Feeling the blood surging up his shaft, his hips jerked forward as he picked up speed, his cock jumping in his hand as he jerked eagerly, hungrily. Need clawed its way up from his balls. Ready for the rush of release, he groaned and violently drove his turgid flesh into his tightly closed fist, imagining it was that Italian bitch’s cunt he was pounding. Fuck yeah—he’d fuck her until her ovaries shook loose, fuck her until she passed out.

  In his head, he heard her begging him to fuck her. Heard her telling him how badly she needed his dick. Chest heaving, pleasure soared as he fuck
ed his fist. His face twisted in a grimace. His heart knocked against his ribcage, he was almost there. Almost, almost . . .unh, shit—

  The sound of the door chime interrupted him, mid-thrust.

  Fuck! He ignored the chime and continued with quickened strokes that were angry and forceful, his rhythm and hold almost brutal.

  The bell rang again, followed by frantic pounding.

  Who da fuck?! Cruze brusquely turned off the water and yanked open the shower door. He snatched a towel off the rack and tied it around his waist. As he stalked to the living room with soap suds and water beads speckling his brawny chest, there was a clear imprint of his long, hard dick beneath the towel.

  Looking through the peephole, a part of him wasn’t surprised to see Valentina standing on the other side of the door. She stood there holding the handle of a large gift basket and wearing a trench coat and red fuck-me heels. This arrogant, persistent bitch!

  He swung open the door, intending to curse Valentina out, but when her coat parted, revealing bare, cinnamon-colored thighs, Cruze’s dick began to thump.

  Noticing the anaconda that writhed agitatedly beneath the towel, Valentina blinked and moistened her lips. “Hello, darling. I come bearing gifts.” She held up the basket, her coat splitting open wider.

  His baser instincts taking over, Cruze was no longer able to remotely resemble a civilized man. “Yo, why you keep fuckin’ with me?” he growled. Lapsing into caveman mode, he jerked her toward him forcibly—surprise and shock registering on her face.

  “Oh, my,” she uttered, the basket slipping from her grasp, and its contents spilling out and rolling in various directions across the floor. Not giving a damn about the gift basket, Cruze kicked it out of his way. Grabbing Valentina by the collar, he ripped off the coat, popping off buttons and revealing her radiant nakedness. As he pressed Valentina against the wall, he flung her coat to the other side of the room.