by Pynk
If she had been a smoker, she would have lit one up in celebration of her own technique and taken a long drag. She glanced back over to the movie to see that Cherokee was still at it. Tamiko said, “Now I need a penis.”
As she slowly came to a stance, she looked to her dresser to check her cell phone. She saw that she had indeed one missed call. From Jarod.
“His dog ears must have been ringing,” she said as she placed the phone back down, walked to the closet, and threw on a sweat suit. Within fifteen minutes she was at the local Love Shack, picking out and paying for the super-duper, replace-your-lover dildo. The sex toy, called a Jack Rabbit, rotated and had two ears that flank the clit and veins and ridges. It was made of jet-black flexible rubber.
Tamiko rushed back home and headed straight for her bedroom. She shed her clothes as soon as she closed the bedroom door. And in her mind, her fake penis had a name. It had a face. It had a physique. It had a voice. She imagined his lips and his eyes and his sexy young face. She pressed him in and out of her vagina just the way she wanted him to. And she kept it up, probing herself while her mind traveled. And before long, she busted another nut yelling, “Uuummmh, Kellen.” Her nut rolled like a good vaginal orgasm should. Her cell phone chimed. And even if it had been Jarod again, at the moment, it didn’t seem to matter.
As her chest rose and fell strongly, she stood up and tucked her new friend Kellen in the top drawer of her nightstand. And she pressed the button on her cell to see that the text read,
I’m sorry. I miss u. I love u.
She pressed delete and replaced her cell to the dresser. She turned off the television and hugged her pillow, pulling the covers closer, snuggling into the softness of her mattress.
The position she assumed jelled with the comfort level she was finally in. She told herself that the betrayer Jarod Hamilton would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory. And immediately, unlike the previous nights, Tamiko dozed right off to sleep.
Another message sounded.
But Tamiko simply slept.
Done with grieving over Jarod.
At least for one night.
29
“Cut the Cake”
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
4:24 p.m.
It was an afternoon of clear skies, fresh from a day of Atlanta spring rain.
Lavender picked up Taj from school and was set to drop him back off at school the next day. They sat on the floor in Taj’s room playing Madden. His room had a queen bed and everything was Atlanta Falcon red.
For the first time in three games, Taj had beaten Lavender fair and square.
“You the man. You beat me good on that one.”
Taj pumped his fist and patted his chest. “See, Dad. I’m the king. Betcha didn’t let me win that time.”
“No way. That won’t happen again. Listen, I’ll be right back. I need to go listen to the radio for a minute.”
Taj continued to press the buttons on his remote to set up another team. “Okay. And then can we finish?”
“We can.”
“Can I listen, too?”
Lavender stood up. “Not this time. It’s business. But I won’t be long.”
“Okay, cool. Then can I have some more pizza?”
“Sure. I knew you’d be headed back to do more damage. Got that appetite from your daddy.”
Lavender exited the room and looked at his watch, making sure it was five-thirty. He headed to his bedroom, closed the door, and turned on his stereo. He adjusted the dial and heard Maurice Black’s voice.
“Welcome back. It’s a dirty eight-letter word called swinging. Our segment is called “Swinging Is on the Upswing,” and you could call Milan Kennedy the queen of swing. She owns the popular adult playground in Atlanta called Erotic City. Atlanta’s called the adult entertainment capital of the New South, ladies and gentlemen. Also known as the Black Hollywood. So, Milan Kennedy, Erotic City, huh?”
“Yes. Erotic City.” Milan’s voice was upbeat.
Lavender leaned back upon the bed and crossed one leg over the other.
“We had a woman who called in during the break saying she comes from a very strict Catholic background and got naked on a trip to Jamaica, I think she said on one of those hedonism trips, and didn’t wanna come home.”
Milan laughed. “I hear that happens.”
“I ain’t mad at her. So tell our listeners, exactly what is swinging?”
“Swinging, or the lifestyle, is consenting adults, usually couples but not all the time, who live a lifestyle that involves having sex with a couple, or a single person. It is sexual freedom between open-minded partners.”
“Okay. And what kind of people are swingers? What’s the average age?”
“I’d say early twenties to fifties. They’re average people, like you and me, like folks you might work with or live next door to, who are taxpayers and churchgoers. Some are married, but not all of them. Different races. Most have very healthy relationships and high levels of trust. And most really don’t believe we can be or should be monogamous, so why not explore.”
“Oh really? I know a lot of men who think that way.”
“See, I don’t think either sex is monogamous by nature. I don’t think a lot of people can handle it if their mate says they want to sleep with other people. The way I look at it, I’d rather be a swinger than a cheater.”
“I agree. Well, that’s why people lie. They don’t want to lose their mates. I have no problem with guilt-free sex. Cut out all the sneakin. So, tell me, how did you get your club started?”
“I was looking for a business that would be a success. I met a man who owned a club and he showed me the ropes. And Erotic City has been a big hit. Far more so than I could have ever imagined.”
“There’s such a social stigma about swingers. I can only imagine the amount of flack your receive because of it.”
“I have, but I understand it.”
“Milan, tell me something. What is a fluffer? One of my producers said she heard that term. Can you explain that?”
“Fluffers are sometimes used in porn movies off camera to keep the guy hot, just in case he’s not quite feeling the girl he’s doin. I think some clubs have been accused of having fluffer women come in and flirt, strip, things like that. We don’t hire fluffers. We have enough hot people who are real members.”
“Now see, I would think maybe there are some husbands out there who need a fluffer in the bedroom with their wives. No, I’m just kidding, really. Okay, let me ask another question before I get myself in trouble. Now, being that you are Charlie Kennedy’s daughter, what do you think he’d say if he knew?”
“Actually, my dad came down to the club one night and he was proud of what I’d done. He wasn’t one to judge since he’d been around the block more than a few times, if you know what I mean.”
“He was very well known, so I’m sure he had a lot of opportunity to do a lot of things. Let me ask you this. Does size matter?”
“I think width matters more actually, just so it can be wall to wall. The top two-thirds of a vagina have no nerve endings anyway, and the G-spot is maybe three inches in. Most women reach orgasm with clitoral stimulation, which has twice as many nerve endings as a penis, so if a man knows how to satisfy in that way, most of us women are cool.”
“I see. Not that I needed to know. I don’t have that problem.” Maurice chuckled and cleared his throat.
“Yeah okay.” Milan laughed.
“Lastly, is it true that fathers bring their sons into the sex clubs to turn them into men, so to speak, and do women take their husbands there as a birthday present?”
“That’s very common, yes. Both of those scenarios.”
“Well, this is a hot topic for sure. Hey, I hope you stick around because we’re going to interview other female business owners whose lines of work have to do with sex. One owns a sex shop, one runs a brothel in Vegas, and the other woman owns a strip club in Los Angeles. The trip is that more money is
spent on the sex industry than motion picture and sporting events combined. Are women just as freaky-deaky as men? Stick around. We’ll be right back with more of Black Adult Radio.”
Thursday, May 15, 2008
3:48 p.m.
Lavender had taken Taj to school the next morning. And by the afternoon, Milan had already said all the things your mother would wash your mouth out with soap for. And she said those things in about twelve different ways.
They were in her kitchen, she and Lavender. And in celebration of her highly rated interview with Maurice Black, her man was playing with her.
The flesh of her soft ass rested upon the gray and white, slab granite countertop. She wore a psychedelic skirt. Her bare feet rested along the edge of the now-heated counter. Her legs were bent with her knees spread apart. It was time for a little afternoon delight.
A crystal cake plate rested a few inches from her hands. A few hearty slices of yellow, caramel cake were missing. And the icing from half of what was left looked like someone had been finger-painting in swirling motions.
Lavender’s fingers were the erotic culprits. And the object of the scooped caramel was Milan’s opening. Lavender’s fingers and tongue were swooshing the sweet, light brown frosting inside and outside of her own girlie cake. And he was feasting upon her pussy-dessert like he had a serious sugar habit.
She looked down at his cunnilingus precision and said, “Damn, you’ve got that shit on a plate.” It was like she was his naked dinner.
He smacked and licked his meal in reply. He swallowed and added more icing and repeated his insertion, first his finger and then his wide, stiff tongue, in and out of her sticky hole. He twisted and teased his tongue to her hood and swirled her clit, gently scraping the tender organ with his teeth. He was an oral chef on a mission. He pressed two fingers inside and she rocked back and forth in reply.
She could hear him lap her up like he was a parched dog drinking water for the first time in days. And he would not stop. It was so intense that she quickly felt like she was about to lose it. She felt herself expelling onto his waiting face, saturating his skin with her love juices. She gave a sigh of pleasure and a look of appreciation.
Within one second, with his hard love muscle at full attention, Lavender stood and pulled Milan off of the counter, bringing her post-orgasm body to a standing position. Just as her feet hit the floor, he turned her around and bent her over, with her chin to the exact level of the counter. His favorite position.
She stuck her ass out toward him and he stood firm, bending so he could get inside. He spread her fleshy lips apart and inserted his cock, incrementally, pushing gently at first and then more with each thrust. Her boobs bounced beneath her body. Her slick pussy eased his entry. Her movement spoke of begging for more. He filled her up and she thrust against him, sliding her hips back at him, squeezing her cunt around his relentless dick. His heavy balls pounded against her ass.
“What do you think? Do I have enough width?” he asked.
“Oh hell yeah.”
“Am I hitting that spot?”
“Shit yeah.” She took his full entry. The crescendo of their rhythms meshed well.
After a few minutes of slamming into her caramel vagina, his body spasmed and his orgasm blossomed, causing him to shoot hot sperm that filled the depths of her womb. She inhaled as she took every last drop.
He pulled out, exiting where he’d been, leaving her lips wide open from his departure. His fluid leaked from her split to the inside of her legs.
He walked to the bathroom with his hand on his dick, shaking his head. “Damn. That was a record-breaking quickie.”
She pulled down her skirt, also adjusting her top. She glanced over at the golden molested cake with her man’s fingerprints all through it, and picked up a knife to cut herself a big piece. “I’ll never think of a caramel cake in the same way again.” She asked loudly, “Do you want some?”
“I’ve had enough, thanks,” he said from the hallway.
“I ain’t mad at you.” She took a bite.
“Tomorrow’s our big day in court,” he yelled.
“Oh Lord, don’t remind me please,” she said while chewing.
“No worries.”
“Lavender, you sure know how to ruin a fuckin celebration,” Milan said, tossing the remaining cake into the trash. “That’s bound to be one hell of a trip.”
30
“Déjà Vu”
Friday, May 16, 2008
9:17 a.m.
The court date for the negligence charge against Erotic City had finally arrived. Milan had about five cups of coffee before they left her home. Lavender had major problems dozing off. He just couldn’t seem to shut his brain down. It was another day of battling Ramada in court.
Milan and Lavender’s attorney, Hunter Wyatt, was tall, mid-fifties, with slightly graying sideburns that added to his look of distinction. He spoke authoritatively. “Your Honor, the prosecution has repeatedly appealed for potential witnesses to this alleged sexual assault. Mr. Mac McCoy aka Big Mack has denied the allegations. Other than the plaintiff claiming that he brandished a knife, we have not identified anyone who actually saw a weapon. Not the security people. Not the bouncer. Not the front desk person. Not the other people in the VIP room. No one.”
The large downtown courtroom was full. The room was cold and everything was beige, from the bench seats to the beige carpet, to the scuffed-up tile flooring and the dingy latex paint on the walls. Bland was the theme.
The only movement was that of the attorneys, judge, and a court reporter. A guard stood by the door. There were a couple of news reporters who stood against the back wall. One scribbled on a tiny notepad.
Both dressed in slate blue, Milan and Lavender sat together next to Attorney Wyatt.
Ramada Hart wore a gray skirt suit with red-bottom shoes and she sat next to her attorney. Big Mack was absent.
Ramada’s attorney, Judith Berg, said, “Your Honor, in spite of the fact that Miss Hart has dropped her criminal case against Mr. McCoy, this is a valid criminal claim against Erotic City for negligence in connection with assault on a patron.” Her off-white Ann Taylor suit was classic. It framed her slender silhouette.
The white-haired, heavyset judge lowered his reading glasses to the tip of his nose. “Ms. Berg, I suggest you listen up and listen up good. There was no evidence of threats, grabbing, destruction of property, or other indications that an assault would occur against the plaintiff until the moment it allegedly happened. The evidence is insufficient to create duty upon the part of the club to prevent an assault, or to protect Ms. Ramada Hart against it. You can’t apply hindsight in determining what a reasonable person would do. I’ve looked at how quickly the alleged events occurred. And from what has been proven, the club owners not only could not have anticipated something of this nature, but once they were notified, they immediately removed the accused and the accuser, secured the premises, and called the police themselves within two minutes after the plaintiff dialed 911 from her cell phone.”
Ms. Berg replied, “Your Honor, we believe the owners should have had more control over the situation. Claims involving forced sexual activity can occur, and they need to be responsible when they do.”
“Ms. Berg, this is a sex club.”
Milan looked down at a ruled notebook and took notes.
“But, Your Honor, club owners at sex clubs should not be held to a different standard than any other club owner,” Ms. Berg insisted.
“Perhaps. But right away, those patrons, as soon as they enter the premises, are subjected to violations simply due to the intimate nature of the acts they embark upon. I have read over the club’s membership agreement, and the rules for this ‘Alternative Lifestyle Swingers Club Agreement’ clearly states that there may be nudity and sexual activity on the premises and that if it offends or makes one feel it constitutes lewd or lascivious acts, then they should not complete or sign the application and go home. But she has already admitted to
having oral and vaginal group sex minutes prior to having oral sex with Mr. McCoy.”
Ramada looked over at Lavender, who focused straight ahead. She turned and glanced back at a blonde female with big eyes who smiled.
The lady attorney said, “No still means no, Your Honor. You can’t force someone if they decline, even half way through an act. Plus, there was no security readily available.”
“This agreement, which Ms. Hart signed, does state that no means no. The question is did the accused adhere to that statement? And, Ms. Hart’s signature is right here, agreeing that she releases the club, its owners, managers, directors, employees, agents, and servants from any and all liability arising from her participation in activities or events. That means if assumed or implied incidents occur as a result of personal activities or consequences of lifestyle choices, would the club be to blame for the fact that Ms. Hart’s decision to say no was not honored? I don’t think so.”
The female attorney said with certainty, “Yes, but it also says no weapons are allowed. The club failed to detect weapons.”
“And you, Ms. Berg, have not proven that there were weapons on the premises. And in my opinion, if that were the case, it would have been Mr. McCoy who violated the harassment and weapons policy. So convince your client, Ms. Hart, to sue him.”
“Your Honor—”
The judge cut her off. “I’m about to make my ruling. I also have a copy of the agreement that Mr. McCoy signed regarding what he agreed to do. Need I remind you of that as well?”