Between My Thighs: An Urban Erotic Tale

by Naija

  The online broker who’d shown me those nasty apartments before finally found me a nice place in Park Slope. It was inside a gorgeous brownstone. I had about fifteen hundred square feet with two bedrooms. I made one my home office. It truly was a blessing to make the move. Everything had fallen into place perfectly.

  The first person I ran into while at the supermarket was Jason, Troy’s friend. He looked both stunned and delighted to see me. He approached, asking what I was doing in the store.

  Laughing, I said, “I’m an official New Yorker, and I’m buying groceries.”

  His reception startled me. I thought for sure he held a grudge or some level of animosity about my relationship with Troy. After all, he’d been chasing me for months before Troy told him we were fucking.

  “Long time no see,” he said.

  “Likewise. How have you been?”

  Jason looked nice. He was a clean-cut guy who didn’t get his hands dirty, the exact opposite of Troy.

  “I’ve been alright,” he said, hugging me.

  “That’s good. I’m glad all is well. It was good seeing you. Take care of yourself.” I smiled and continued shopping.

  Jason was elated to see me. I’m not sure what sparked his excitement. I knew it would be a matter of time before he notified Dallas or Troy that I was living in Brooklyn.

  I was at a crossroad in my life. I didn’t sleep that night, admiring the walls of my new corridor. The block was quiet, and I felt safe but discouraged, reminiscing on the moments I once shared with Troy. Part of me suffered being in New York without him.

  The next morning, Troy left a message on my business line. I wasn’t even amazed. It was the only number that hadn’t changed and his only method for getting in touch with me. He was bullshitting on my voice mail as usual, talking about he needed some graphic design work done and was hoping I could help. He knew I dabbled in freelance design, but I wasn’t helping him and didn’t return his call.

  One of my clients put me in touch with a media mogul in the city. I aimed to secure contracts for my public relations firm. I wasn’t advertising my psychiatric services and only accepted patients who were referred directly to me. I rented commercial space on Park Avenue South, close to Union Square. That location served as the primary operation for both of my businesses.

  I spent a day in Manhattan, meeting with potential clients and arranging my office. At the end of the day, I had secured four major contracts, all seeking publicity, promotional, and design services. Proud of my accomplishments, I popped open a bottle of Asti Spumante and celebrated, pampering myself in smooth jazz, city lights, and aromatherapy.

  It was just after nine o’clock when I packed up and headed for the subway. The station was across from my office. I had practiced the transit system, familiarizing myself with the surroundings. The subway car was scarce. Three men ran on just as the doors were closing, talking loud about bitches this and bitches that.

  Shortly, chaos surrounded and hovered above me. For some reason, I inherently clutched my belongings, observing the thugs who appeared to either have just gotten out of the joint or were on the way for the crime they were about to commit.

  One man had on a red T-shirt and never took his eyes off me. The others spoke loudly and violently about taking some pussy. I overheard one make reference to my Prada handbag. It was at that point when the conversation became unclear.

  Another sister on the train witnessed the conspiracy and moved to the opposite end of the car, leaving me alone to fend for myself. The tension was thick as the thugs collaborated on whether to make a move on me now or later. In my mind, when the train stopped, I was going to jump off and back on into another car to get away from those clowns.

  They had the interior door blocked to cross over into another car from inside the train, so when the train slowed, approaching Canal Street, I darted out and ran down the platform, never looking back to face the thugs.

  I was moving so fast, everyone on the train focused in my direction as my feet pounded the floor from my quick strides. As I attempted to catch my breath and sit down, the thug in the red shirt bumped into me.

  “Sorry,” he said as him and his boys walked to the other end of the train.

  They had chased me. I’d run my ass off, leaving them in the other subway car, yet they were still behind me.

  While the train sat on the Manhattan Bridge, the gangsters taunted me from the opposite end of the car. I searched for someone with whom to connect, having no intention of getting off at my stop, knowing I was being followed.

  There was a statuesque brother sitting across from me. Maybe it was my paranoia, but he seemed to be watching me too. It didn’t matter. I approached him under the assumption it was easier to deal with one wacko than three. Something about him seemed gentle and reassuring.

  “Hi, let me just say upfront that I’m not crazy. I don’t know if you noticed those three men following me onto the train. They’ve been on my trail since three stops back and actually chased me onto this car.”

  I tried to speak quietly, asking the gentleman not to look in the direction of the perpetrators. Passengers in the immediate area picked up on the conversation and were already glancing at them.

  “Yeah, I did notice the guy in the red shirt. He was all up on you. Where’s your stop? Do you want me to walk with you?” he asked.

  “I’m at Seventh Avenue. I don’t want to get off there and have them thinking I travel this route frequently.”

  “I understand. You can get off at my stop and take a taxi back,” he suggested politely.

  He offered me the seat next to him, and I sat down, feeling secure. The three guys exited the train on DeKalb Avenue. It was difficult to determine if they really got off or were watching from another car, I remained next to the handsome man. We immediately connected.

  My savior’s name was Donovan. He was dressed in a black Armani suit that accentuated his toned frame. He wore a light green shirt and tie, complementing his caramel complexion. His shoes were nicely polished, and everything about him exuded elegance.

  His hair was gorgeously dreaded, very well kept, clean, and perfectly manicured, like his hands. By the time we arrived at his stop at New Kirk, we spoke as if we’d known each other for the longest time.

  I was still frazzled when we got off the train. The area wasn’t familiar, but the cops patrolled the platform, and the taxi stand was there, just like he told me.

  It was mind-blowing. Just moments before I was tense and ready to fight like my life depended on it, now I was completely fixated on the evening. The experience was like a scene from a movie. I wanted to know more about the succulent brother who’d been there for me.

  “Would you like to grab a bite to eat?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, feeling refreshed and hungry.

  We stopped at a restaurant just outside the station and enjoyed a light, fast meal.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “I’m from Trinidad,” he replied.

  A smile came over me. It looked as if I couldn’t escape men from Trini. Hell, I kept bumping into them. First, it was Troy. Earlier that week it was Kyle from the furniture store. And now Donovan from the Q train.

  “Is this the last time I’ll see you?” he asked as we finished our supper.

  “It doesn’t have to be,” I responded.

  We exchanged phone numbers, agreeing to keep in touch. Donovan was the perfect gentleman. He escorted me to a taxi, opened the door for me to get in, and told the driver to get me home safely.

  Even after I was in my apartment with the doors locked, I still felt anxious about what could have happened with the thugs. When Donovan called to ensure I was in, I felt myself slip into a state of bliss.

  Chapter 12|

  It was carnival time in Brooklyn. The West Indian community had their annual festivities every year starting just before Labor Day. I’d heard about the event for years, and I would finally get to experience it for myself.

/>   People were dressed in colorful costumes, carrying their flags, and it reminded me a lot of Mardi Gras with a different flair. J’Ouvert, the break of day, was just beginning. I stopped at the BP gas station on Empire Boulevard to grab a whistle for the parade. That’s when I ran into him. I didn’t get his name. I just know he was stunning. He stood about six-seven with a bodacious muscular frame. His skin was smooth as Cambodian silk. When his lips parted to speak, so did my thighs. I tried to control the urge, but it didn’t matter. We had each other’s attention.

  I had walked to the gas station. I couldn’t get my ride out if I wanted to. There must have been a million people already marching and blowing whistles and horns in the street, blocking the entrance to my garage. The plates on his Mercedes Benz were from Florida. More than likely he was in town for the celebrations.

  “Hello, sexy. What are you doing out by yourself this time of morning?” he asked.

  “Same thing you are,” I replied.

  “Would you like a ride?”

  “Depends on what kind.” We laughed.

  It’s true, a woman knows when she looks at a brother if she’ll give up the pussy to him on demand or not. I’d somehow inherited the innate ability to see what a man was working with in the dick department, and this brother was packing.

  “Lady’s choice,” he said.

  I got in his ride. We never left the parking lot. The juices started flowing when his hands disappeared under my skirt. I wasn’t wearing panties—rarely did with my miniskirts—no bra either. I left the house with the intention of only purchasing my whistle. That whistle didn’t have anything on me. The way he was blowing, sucking, and rubbing my wet wet as my NFL lover once called it had me singing and climaxing right on his face. He reclined the seats and spread me out, pulled out a blue rubber, tore the corner of the package with his teeth, and rolled it down over his stick in one seamless motion.

  The windows in his ride were foggy, like an early morning frost. Between the tint and the fog, we were concealed. He slid his dick into me. I felt like having an orgasm just from the tip alone. He flexed his muscle and penetrated deeper into me while Tyrese blared from the sound system. He cleaned me up with his tongue when we reached our peaks.

  “You want something to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll take some café mocha,” I responded.

  He went in to the BP to get us drinks. When he returned, the only thing that remained was my note:

  Thanks for a wonderful time.

  Ms. Mocha, good to the last drop

  The carnival lasted the whole week. It was everything I thought it’d be. I didn’t have a costume, but I stopped by a bodega and picked up a flag. I was representing Trinidad for the day, wasn’t like I didn’t have Trini up in me.

  The next month, Troy was still calling. He heard I was in town and was really hoping we could speak. Jason couldn’t wait to run his mouth. I’m sure Dallas knew as well.

  When I moved to New York, all my phone numbers except my business line changed. That number redirected to an answering service. Troy had left five urgent messages, and finally I broke down and called him. I’ll admit I was curious. We hadn’t spoken in like six months since that stunt he pulled at the airport when he left me stranded. I would finally have the closure I once sought.

  “Hello,” Troy said.

  “What’s up, Troy? Why you blowing up my phone?” I asked him.

  “What’s up, girlfriend? It’s good to hear from you.”

  I don’t know why I allowed this man to get next to me. I second-guessed myself as the conversation moved forward.

  “Cut the bullshit. What’s so urgent?”

  “Yo, I apologize about the misunderstanding we had.”

  Troy explained how he intended to pick me up but lost track of time. He said when I started cursing him on his voice mail he didn’t bother calling me back. I didn’t believe any of his story because it was a whole day before I cursed his ass out, leaving him plenty of time to get back in touch with me.

  “Whatever, Troy. You’re full of shit. You intentionally gave me some bitch’s number, had me calling her like a fucking idiot looking for your ass.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Yo, my boy went off on his girl about that shit. She answered his cell phone after he already told her I was going to be expecting a call on his line.”

  “I’ve gotta run.”

  I wasn’t about to go back down memory lane with him. I was pissed just revisiting that day I sat stranded at LaGuardia Airport waiting on his ass.

  “Wait. I saw Jason, and he told me you made the move. I just wanted to tell you I’m proud of you following your dreams, girlfriend. Maybe you can find time for me later.”

  “Maybe.”

  Troy had miles of nerve. He played down our so-called misunderstanding. He hadn’t called me since. Now that he heard I was in town, he wanted to reconcile. Fuck that nigga, I told myself, even if I was thrilled he was thinking about me.

  You know it wasn’t long before I called Troy back and invited him over. Hell, my pussy was on fire, had been since the last time we were together.

  I was using inadequate sex toys and vegetables, trying to reenact the days of Khalil, Dorian, and Troy. I fantasized about Donovan, the guy from the train, but I didn’t want to fuck him so quickly, hopping right into another relationship.

  Troy arrived and fell in love with my apartment. My place radiated warmth and contentment. He looked luscious, standing in the living room, observing my new style. We talked, and he explained his position on the mix-up. I wasn’t in the mood to argue. Instead, I offered him a bottle of Guinness while I enjoyed a glass of Remy Martin. That was my way of saying I forgave him for what happened.

  Troy picked me up and carried me to the kitchen. He set me on the counter and kissed me gently. My nipples poked through my tank top. He pushed the spaghetti straps to the side, revealing my breasts, taking one in his mouth while fondling the other. My nipples remembered the pleasurable times we once shared and rose to the occasion. Troy pushed me back onto the counter, causing my back to arch. I wrapped my legs around his waist.

  There was a variety of toppings that I used for my late-night snacks on the countertop. He grabbed a bottle of strawberry-flavored syrup and squeezed it on my stomach. It spilled into my navel and inside the crevice of my leg. Troy proceeded to lick it off. I was a delectable platter of his favorite dessert. My mouth watered as I hungered to taste him too. He grabbed a barstool and sat with his face adoring my black pearl. I put my legs around his head, nothing to dread, gripping his arms while his tongue oscillated in and out of my pussy. He held my labia open while his tongue fucked me.

  “You taste delicious.”

  I couldn’t assemble any words. I just moaned and allowed him to reunite with my clit.

  Troy stood again. This time I felt his dick harden against me. I slid down from the counter, walking with Troy to the living room.

  We sat on my cashmere area rug and finished what we started in the kitchen. Troy stood over me while I sat on my knees. I took him in, pacifying his dick. I licked the head until it was glazed with precum. The way I sucked him, you’d thought I lost something and was trying to get it back. The more I sucked, massaged, and stroked his dick, the harder and stronger it got. We moved together effortlessly. I released Troy, allowing him to reposition himself. He lay down next to me.

  “Sit on my face,” he told me.

  That shit turned me on. He’d never told me that before. I climbed up on him, holding my weight back, and sat my pussy on his face. Instead of sitting upright, I leaned over and sucked his dick while his tongue infiltrated the inside of my walls. He felt so good inside me.

  His luscious taste filled me too. His precum created a nice silky surface around the head of his dick, giving me latitude. My mouth watered, and my saliva dripped down the shaft of his dick. I played with his balls while he finger-fucked my ass with one hand and my pussy with the other, continuing to savor my clit. Both of u
s released, digesting each other’s love.

  The show had just begun. He carried me into my bedroom and pressed my body against the wall. The streetlights caused our shadows to dance on the ceiling. As people walked by on the sidewalk, I whimpered, unable to hold back when Troy’s dick entered me from behind. Evidently, the person on the sidewalk heard me because it appeared that he looked right up at us. Another orgasm leaked from me as Troy carried me over to the bed. Troy spread my legs and climbed my walls. His loving felt so good it brought tears to my eyes.

  “Did you ever think we would be this way again?” he asked.

  Honestly, I hadn’t thought it was possible to love Troy again. After all, his disappearing act had gotten the best of me. Tonight, all those emotions dissipated.

  “No, I never imagined.”

  It was about five o’clock in the morning when Troy asked me to lock the door behind him. He had mentioned earlier that he was staying, but something came up.

  Suddenly, I pondered the days when he first started his spontaneous trait for leaving immediately after we had sex. Something always came up. I didn’t like the feeling, but that was simply the way it was. I got up, trailed my naked body across the apartment, and let him out. Like always, Troy sealed his departure with a kiss.

  “Later, girlfriend,” he said.

  • • •

  It wasn’t long after Troy left that I received a call from Loren, the lesbian I’d met through Dallas the previous summer. She had managed to find my business card.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak to Raquel?” she asked.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Raquel. This is Loren. I hope you’re well. It’s been a long time. I won’t keep you. I just wanted you to know Dallas is in the hospital not doing very well. It doesn’t look good. I know at one point you guys were friends. It would be nice if you stopped by the hospital. She’s at Brookdale.”