by Ife Ayodele
It was nearly night in the city they both loved. He stood at the window of the luxurious hotel room she'd arranged for in celebration of his return, the curtains drawn back, open to the sight of the lighted Capitol dome.
Over two years had passed since they last made love. I can't believe that I'm home and that she waited for me, he thought. He was so lost in his thoughts of deep joy and anticipation that he was unaware the woman he had loved for so long stood silently behind him. Two years ago he would have bet any amount of money that this day would never come.
In 1995, Carrie had no time in her life for a relationship. Work -- designing her line of hand-painted scarves -- and small business development classes occupied most of her time. There was little energy left, even for her love of reading. On many nights, a book would slide from her hand to the floor with a thud, startling her awake with just enough energy to turn off the light and pull the covers closer.
"How you doing this morning?" Nasir smiled. He was a recent regular passenger at the Metrobus stop on Fourteenth and Missouri avenues in Northwest Washington, D.C.
Smiling back, she returned his greeting. "Freezing, and waiting for June."
It was a cold, cloudy morning in late January and the streets were dotted with mounds of dirt-flecked slush, remnants of a huge snowfall that had unexpectedly hit the city. D.C. had been virtually shut down for nearly a week and was finally getting back to a semblance of its normal workday routine. Carrie and Nasir traveled the same route daily: up Connecticut Avenue, around Chevy Chase Circle, and then on to Bethesda. They often exchanged small talk that was part of the camaraderie of the daily commute.
"Man, I'll be glad when I don't have to work for anyone but myself. Nothing beats owning a business and doing it for yourself. I know it'll be harder than clocking in and clocking out, but there's nothing like it. At least, not for me." Nasir spoke with great feeling and expressed the same thoughts that ran through her mind each day. In her opinion, too many of the attorneys in the firm where she worked as a legal assistant invoked the law of "divine right of kings" when it came to dealing with anyone whose office wall was not decorated with a framed law school diploma.
"I know what you mean. One day I'm going to work and tell them all 'Massah day done! Beulah done lef' de buildin'.' Nasir laughed out loud in surprise at her perfectly exaggerated mammy imitation. That was the beginning of their friendship, and they made sure to share a seat on the fifteen-minute ride to work each day. On some mornings, they took an earlier bus and shared breakfast at Bethesda's Metro Center, enjoying its early morning quiet. The realization that there was a mutual attraction both pleased and frightened her.
He was witty and curious, both articulate and streetwise. Handsome and intensely masculine, his features were an unusual combination of smooth dark skin and curly, wavy hair that was completely natural. Long lashes graced his brown eyes and the shadow of a beard enhanced his good looks. It amused her greatly to see the reaction his looks caused in both men and women.
"Ooh, girl, he looks like Rick Fox, only darker," stage-whispered one of two young women who slowed and stared on their way out through the glass doors leading to the subway near the Uno's where they were having lunch.
"He must be some kind of foreigner. Ain't too many homegrown brothers looking like that!" exclaimed her friend.
Laughing at his obvious embarrassment, Carrie spoke. "You must be used to it by now. I'll bet it started when you were about eleven years old."
Ducking his head in embarrassment, he told her, "Yeah, but I get tired of it; especially that 'good hair' shit. A woman damn near rubbed her ass on me yesterday on the bus, talking 'bout 'Where you from? Can you take me wit' you?' I ain't got time for that bullshit. I'm on a mission."
"And what might that be?" she asked in amusement.
"One part of my mission is to open my own business. I took classes in gemology from a school in Georgetown and I want to explore what I can do with that knowledge. The other is finding out when I can take you to dinner. And the third is to tell you some more information about myself that may or may not affect how you feel about me."
"Go on, I'm listening," she replied. There was no anxiety in her tone. She'd been in a lot of places and originating from the country, had seen more than she ever expected to see. Thus, she felt no real apprehension concerning what Nasir was about to reveal.
"You know where I work but what you don't know is that I live on North Capitol Street in a halfway house. I was released from Lorton earlier this month where I did time, more for harming myself than anyone else. I'm a recovering crack addict and got my ass in trouble trying to feed that habit. I wasn't violent, though, just very, very stupid." He hesitated, waiting to see if she would offer him the standard "Be strong, brother, you can do it," while making a very hasty retreat.
"I don't know anybody who doesn't know somebody who went to jail for one reason or another. If they say it's not true, they're lying. I've even got some relatives who I think prefer to be guests of the state than free men at home. My godfather was convicted, rightly so, I might add, for armed robbery. He did it all but gave up that life after doing his time. So I don't hold that against you. You know that old saying 'There but for the grace of God...I know you know the rest."
He grinned and sighed with relief, returning the conversation to part two of his mission. "Now, when can I take you to dinner?"
His words and the tone with which he spoke were both a question and an acknowledgment of their growing mutual attraction. She hadn't missed his genuine smile of pleasure as he greeted her each morning and the way his eyes sometimes swept her from head to toe with a slow, simmering gaze.
Carrie was also keenly aware of whose image came to mind during the times when "the sap would rise" as she referred to the desire that often flooded her body. At those times, she would stand at the mirror and stroke her nipples; first through the fabric of her blouse, watching them harden under the brush of her thumbs, completely immersed in the exquisite sensation. Next to her clitoris, they were the most sexually sensitive part of her body and even the thought of how good it felt would arouse her. Opening each button slowly in anticipation, she would then drop the garment and marvel at the soft sheen of her skin and the sexually charged sight of her full breasts with their erect nipples centered in their large brown areolae. Not bad for over forty, she often thought as she cupped each naked breast, her palms making circles around each nipple. "Ohhh," she would breathe softly. "Oh, damn, that feels good!"
The sweet sensation traveled like live wires down to her center, already wet with the excitement she'd created. Leaning against the sink, legs spread apart, she'd slide her forefinger slowly through the damp hair and then in and out of herself, enjoying the slick, wet sound. "Oh, yeah -- I guess everything's still working 'cause I'm wet like the rainy season." She often laughed as she talked to herself. Imagining her finger to be the tongue of her lover, she would roll her hips against it, feeling the pleasure build and tighten. Looking down, she was even more aroused at the instinctive motion that existed from memory, and thrust faster and faster until sweet release broke over her like a tidal wave. "Mm, mm, mm! Every time I explore myself, I'm creating a pleasure map for the man who's going to become my lover." And lately the face that came to her mind's eye at the height of that pleasure was that of Nasir.
"Is there a special place you would like to eat?" he asked. The Friday lunchtime line was long for pizza at Uno's on Wisconsin Avenue and they stood talking, making plans for the much-anticipated first date that was to take place later that evening. They were finally seated, and over seafood pizza, the planning continued.
"I guess it depends on what time you have to be back on North Capitol," she replied with concern, realizing that he probably had a curfew at the halfway house. "Do you think we should just find a place close by and go directly from work? You know we're right near Bethesda's Restaurant Row."
"I pulled a rabbit out of the hat and arranged to be back by ten, so that we wouldn't end up at McDonald's." He laughed. "I also saved up a good piece of change just for tonight, so don't hold back."
"Well, then, how about F. Scott's? I had dinner there years ago and loved the place!" That it was elegant and romantic was something she wanted him to find out for himself.
Too quickly, lunch was over, and as they passed through the still-crowded restaurant, she caught a glimpse of some of her female co-workers craning their necks. They had rarely seen her with a man, and never with one so handsome and attentive.
Because it was Friday, time seemed to pass as slowly as molasses in January. At five on the dot, Carrie rushed out onto Georgetown Road to catch the subway back into the District. The Bethesda station was a couple of blocks from her office and was never crowded. She arrived home filled with sweet anticipation of the night ahead of them. Instinctively, she knew that they would make love and prepared herself accordingly.
Filling the tub, she added bath oil scented with vanilla and sandalwood and sipped a glass of white zinfandel. The CD was loaded with the mood-enhancing music of Al Jarreau, Dakota Staton, and Etta James. In excited anticipation, she laid silky sheer stockings and undergarments on the bed. Carrie was tall, brown-skinned, and curvy. She had a head full of light-brown, shoulder-length locs, and full lips. Her "big pretty legs" were one of her best features and she intended for him to notice them immediately. A deep-rose knit dress hung outside her mirrored closet door. One day, when she wore a pink sweater, he told her that the color was beautiful against her skin. It reminded her of Janie in Zora Neale Hurston's book Their Eyes Were Watching God. Janie tells a woman why she is wearing blue. "Tea Cake love me in blue, so Ah wears it." Carrie was certain Nasir would be aware of why she chose pink for tonight.
While enjoying her luxurious, fragrant bath, a tiny ache began to nag at her right temple. Blaming it on the wine she'd drunk too quickly, she eased her body farther into the warm, oil-silkened water, hoping for relief. When it did not come, she left the tub and took two Excedrin washed down with Coke, hoping for relief from the extra boost of caffeine. Intending to lie down for just a few minutes, she awoke to a knock on the door.
"Oh, shit!" she exclaimed, looking at the clock. "It's seven fuckin' o'clock and I was supposed to be dressed and ready to step out of the door!" She grabbed her robe, ran her fingers through her locs, and ran to pull open the door.
"Oh, my God, I'm sorry." An apology rushed and stumbled from her lips. Nasir stood smiling at the fact that she was obviously flustered, then he stepped inside.
"Don't be -- actually you look and smell beautiful." The scents of vanilla and sandalwood still filled the apartment and the oil's fragrance clung to her body, as did the satin robe she wore. Oh, shit again, she thought. I went and grabbed the wrong robe. If this doesn't look like a come-on, I don't know what the fuck else does.
Stammering on, she explained, "I developed the beginning of a migraine headache and took some medicine to ward it off. I guess it worked too well. I'm so sorry. I know you have a time constraint, and here I am, nowhere near ready."
"I've got a better idea. You know, Allah is the best of planners. Maybe this is what we were supposed to do -- get some food delivered, listen to some very good music, and talk. We've never had enough time to really enjoy knowing each other, so let's make the best of it."
Since D.C. was undergoing major urban renewal with an influx of different kinds of city dwellers, many businesses had cropped up to cater to busy, single, urban pioneers. One such enterprise was a food delivery service that boasted an extensive menu of American and international foods. Nasir ordered Tex-Mex because he loved salsa, which he referred to as "the red stuff," and Carrie chose Tom Yum Soup, one of her Thai food favorites, full of spicy noodles, chicken, and lemongrass in a spicy fish broth. Hope I have some Big Red gum, she thought.
Over food, drink, and wonderful music, they talked about their pasts and their future aspirations. He had become a Muslim many years ago and spoke reverently and earnestly about his faith. Answering her questions about the role of women in Islam, he clarified many popular misconceptions and piqued her interest in a religion that came close to her philosophy of the God of many prophets but no offspring. They spoke of each other's families and his keen desire to have children.
"At last," Etta James sung low and sweet. "My love has come along..." Their eyes met at the moment created by the music and their unspoken desire for each other was obvious.
"I want you," he said simply.
Opening his arms to her and drawing her face to his, he kissed her, deeply and tenderly. Wrapping her arms around him, she caressed him, holding him as if she had finally found the one thing she needed to make her life complete.
He lifted his sweater over his head, revealing a chest softly covered by a curly mat of hair. Her eyes traveled down to the waist of his pants and she breathed in quickly at the sight of his navel and the thicker thatch of hair just below. As they held each other, she said to him, "I know this was supposed to happen. I know it in my heart, instead of just in my body. You've been in my heart for a long time. I just had to find you."
"And now we have found each other. But before we go any further, I need you to know this. Some people automatically think that if a brother is in prison, he must be having sex with a man and lying about it. When the urge hit me, I would masturbate and believe me, I learned to do it good. If a man cares for a woman enough to make love to her, part of that caring is to protect her. So I brought protection for us both, to accommodate any kind of love we want to make; just in case this was in fact the right time."
Wordlessly, they removed their clothes and stood skin to skin, her nipples brushing his chest. Guiding him over the same trail she took during her explorations in self-pleasure, they began a discovery of their own. The scents of sandalwood and vanilla again filled the room as he poured a thin stream of the fragrant oil onto the middle of her back. His fingers caressed her, and were soon followed by strokes from his erect penis. Sliding up and down her back with the circular motion of his hips, he stroked her, moaning, "Mmm...mmm, baby, baby."
She reached back and parted herself as he slid into the slick crease of her behind.
"Let me look at you," he said. She turned onto her back as he gently spread her legs and then the center of her that opened up like a dark wet rose at his touch. "Ahh, right there," she gasped, as he made sweet hot circles with his finger. He plunged his finger deep inside her, then out again, as she worked her hips furiously in rhythm with him. Remembering the times she could only touch herself, she thought, There could be nothing I could do that is as good as this....
He paused to give her a deep soul kiss. "You're so sweet to me. I would love to taste us together, but that will come in time."
"I want that, too, but right now I want you in me up to the hilt, deep and hard."
Eager to please, he rode her like a beautiful stallion, muscles flexing, in and out, both of them gasping at the sweet hot center of pleasure they had created. "Give it to me, baby! Ohh, that is so good! Do it to me, do it to me, baby! Damn, you're so sweet and so tight. So sweet..."
Their words gasped in passion, the scent of sex and the sounds the union of their bodies made together fueled their senses until they were lost to everything but each other.
"Wait, please, baby," she gasped, and drew him up to her face. He kneeled over her and she took him deep into her mouth, the flavor of the condom now mixed with her own juice. "Now give it to me here like you gave it to me there." She sucked him deep and sweet until he came with a shuddering explosion; a "tongue-lashing" of the finest order.
Full, complete, and content, they lay wrapped in each other's arms until the reality of his curfew caused them to reluctantly part at the last possible minute.
"Can't go back smelling like pussy," he joked as he washed off quickly. "Although some brothers have come back like that, deliberately. They just want to let everybody know they got some. I ain't on that kind of time -- all I need is for you and me to have the memory of how good we were together."
Because Carrie had no knowledge of the true nature of addiction, she was unaware of the signs of his relapse although she began to see differences in the man she first knew. What began as inconsistencies and erratic behavior came to a head one cool spring night when Nasir appeared at her door, sweating, wild-eyed, and disheveled.
"I know there's a warrant out against me," he spoke breathlessly, rapidly stepping from one foot to the other. "I walked away from the halfway house yesterday." Sticky white foam caked in the corners of his mouth as he spoke and she was deeply shocked at his appearance.
"Oh, no!" she cried, reaching out to hold him. "Can't you just go back and make the best of it? Won't it matter if you just turn yourself in?"
"It don't matter what I do now. They still gonna send me back. But I just wanted to see you one more time, even though I realize I disappointed you badly. I want to tell you, in spite of what you may believe, that I love you."
Sobbing, trying to retain some kind of control over her emotions, she cried softly, "I love you, too. Please, if there's anything I can do to help you, tell me!"
"I have to go, baby. Please take care of yourself! I just want you to believe me. I'm sorry. I just fell weak -- again," he cried, as he sped down the steps and into the darkness of Fourteenth Street.
Heartsick from the losses of both his freedom and their beginning love for each other, she immersed herself in work and study. One night while she was working on a new design, the phone rang. "This is AT&T with a collect call from..." The recording hesitated and she heard Nasir speak his name in its pause. "An inmate in the District of Columbia Department of Corrections. If you accept this call, dial one now." She pressed one and waited. She heard his voice, tentative and unsure. "Hi, baby..."
"Where are you? I was so worried, I didn't know what to do or who to call. I had no idea where you would be sent -- "
"Baby, it's okay. I'm right here in the D.C. jail. I have to wait until they decide what to do with me. I may be sent back to Lorton."
"Lorton? Isn't that somewhere in Virginia? How far away is it?"
Laughing at her rush of words, he cut in. "Slow down, baby. It's not far, right outside D.C., and there are buses and vans that bring visitors, if you want to see me. I'll write you and let you know what to do, because I don't want to run up your phone bill. We only have ten minutes and I just want to tell you that I have never been happier than when I was with you. If I ever can, I promise I will make it up to both of us. Love you, baby. 'Bye."
This is surely going to be an experience, she thought. Carrie was amazed at the number of people congregated between Eleventh and Twelfth streets. I have no idea what to do and who to ask, but I'm about to find out.
Vans, cars, women, and children lined the street in front of Woodies, between F and G streets in downtown D.C. One of D.C.'s landmark department stores, it was also transportation central for wives, girlfriends, mothers, children, and other relatives of inmates at D.C.'s correctional facility in Lorton, VA. Some came dressed casually and comfortably while others dressed in a manner that expressed the importance of looking good for the men in their lives.
One young woman, resplendent in gold chains hung with charms, designer jeans, shoes, and a fresh hairdo, bragged to her girlfriend. "Yeah, girl, I just sent my baby two cards for our one-month anniversary and some Timberlands. When them guards turn they heads, I'm gonna give him one a these chains."
"What the fuck you talkin' 'bout?" her friend exploded. "He ain't away at college. His ass in jail! What do he need wit' all that shit anyhow? To show off for the rest of them jailbird assholes? So he can profile in jail? Y'all make me sick -- acting like just 'cause they black and in jail they some kind of political prisoner! That muthafucka ain't Nelson Mandela or Robin Hood -- he a straight-up thug and yo' ass know it. And on top of everything else, who was he robbin', cheatin', and stealin' from -- other black folks! Shit, if he want a gold chain, gold watch, or gold teeth, his ass ought to get a job like the rest of us. You know what -- I'm tired of bringin' your butt down here every week, but that shit gon' stop! Catch the fuckin' bus!" Still cussing as she reached into her purse for keys, she angrily looked back at her friend who was by then running to get a place in a van, oblivious to the sense behind her friend's tirade.
"Excuse me..." Carrie approached a sister who looked less likely to explode and asked how the transportation system worked. She decided to ride in a van. Even though the cost for riding in a van was higher, it was less crowded with a more flexible schedule. Missing a van meant boarding the long bus that she referred to as the "stretch Metro" with its accordion-pleated center that literally bent around corners on its route through the city.
Paying her fare, Carrie boarded a van whose driver operated his vehicle like a conductor and talked nonstop.
"Yeah, I was in Lorton years ago, for child support. But now I got my own business and I'm doing well. Look at me, I'm sixty-five years old and I got me a forty-year-old girlfriend. I know what to do, y'all. She told me she can't get enough...."
Oh, shit, Carrie thought. Come on, Dick Tiger, just drive your van and get us there. I hope he doesn't have anymore "my ding-a-ling" stories. Dick Tiger was a Nigerian boxer who had won the world middleweight championship in the sixties. Although she had never seen him, the name was perfect for the image that came to mind whenever an older man boasted of his virility.
Just then, a woman took over the conversation, which swirled around one of the many rumors surrounding the jail and its prisoners, apparently always rampant. Today the story centered around a female corrections officer involved with an inmate, apparently a regular part of prison life. The sister spoke angrily about her own situation. She had recently married her longtime boyfriend at the prison, and was incensed.
"Every time I would come down for a visit, that bitch would grit on me. One day I got tired of that shit and I told her 'That is my man! I know where you live and I will come to your house and beat your ass if I ever hear of you tryin' to fuck with him.' "
Adding her two cents' worth, another traveler spoke in dry amusement. "Some of them po-lice bitches ain't thinking 'bout no co-rrection. They thinkin' 'bout e-rection. Now don't get me wrong -- most of them sisters is cool. They let you slide on the pat-down and everybody need a job, but some of them took that job so they could wear them tight-ass pants around a bunch a dudes!"
Well, well, take me to school, Carrie thought. If I ain't getting an education today...
The van wound its way through the entrance to the prison. The maximum facility, its first stop, loomed like a ruined medieval castle.
All it needs is a moat with some alligators and archers at the turrets, she thought in amazement.
The central facility, also known as Big Lorton, was where Nasir was housed. Men milled around dressed in blue pants, light blue shirts, and jackets, and were housed in dorms as if they belonged to Uncle Sam. In fact, the facility had been a military installation before being taken over as the District's prison.
In the gym-like visitors' room, she waited with anticipation, not knowing what to expect. Her heart stopped and started again when she saw him come through the door, his eyes never leaving her face. She stood as he beckoned her, and walked to meet him. Reaching for her hand, he found seats for them.
"I know you told me you would come, but I was afraid to believe it, even after they called my name, until I saw you when I came through that door."
Facing each other in the seating arrangement mandated by the prison, they embraced and kissed deeply, sharing as much love as could be had under the watchful eyes of the corrections officers.
"I feel like I'm being chaperoned at a high school dance," she remarked, as correctional officers stood around and sometimes walked up and down between the rows of couples.
"You'd be surprised at how creative some of these brothers and sisters can get." He laughed as he pointed out an officer walking toward a pair who were about to get too close for his comfort.
That was the first of many visits for the two years that followed. She came for the religious celebration of Eid, which celebrates the end of the holy month of Ramadan. She traveled to the prison for family days, holidays, and most weekends. In spite of its limitations, prison was the forge that fired, molded, and shaped their relationship and strengthened rather than diminished the love that others dismissed as temporary and ill-advised. They grew stronger together, in spite of never-ending unwanted advice. "Girl, you got to get you some. You can do better than a man in prison. He's just using you."
Nasir and Carrie also discovered the whole of each other, not just the romantic ideal that existed at the beginning of their relationship. He had a volatile temper and she found him at times to be harsh and abrasive. To him, she was overly sensitive and too quick to "get all in her feelings" as he described her emotional reactions.
And too often huge phone bills threatened their communication and their delicious, erotic phone sex play. He would sit at the phone, wrapped in a blanket, while she lay on her bed, each whispering and stroking themselves to orgasm.
"Hold it in your hand and look at it, baby," she breathed. "See that line underneath going to the head of your dick? That's the spot I like and the spot I'm going to lick when I have you in my bed -- when I lay you down, straddle you, and wet you with my honey from top to bottom. I wish you could see my pussy now, baby. I wish you could feel my pussy muscles put a hold on your dick and suck it dry. It's wet and juicy and my finger is going in and out and it's making that sound that drives you crazy and you know you like how it smells when I'm hot. Just waiting for you to suck it and lick it, baby. Just waiting for you to lap it up like cream."
He heard her make a soft, hissing sound. He knew she was about to come and whispered, "Come on, baby...." The sound of her pleasure caused his seed to shoot out into the tissue he held in his hand under the blanket. "Whew...mm, mm, mm," he breathed. "Can't wait for another bedtime story, baby."
Her love sustained him in prison and his love supported her wait for him. She listened to Al Jarreau a lot. His songs were soothing to her in the middle of the night when she especially missed Nasir, and these words were their anthem: "The love that heals the wound after the war is through." Their pledge to each other was that nothing and no one could break the circle they created for themselves. They would be together "forever and a day."
True to their word, two years later, they stood together.
"Don't turn around," she whispered softly, standing close enough for him to feel her warmth and again smell the vanilla and sandalwood scent he had used on her body that first time. Soft hands gently covered each side of his chest, her fingers stroking his nipples through the down of hair covering his torso. A deep sigh escaped his lips, turning to soft gasps of pleasure as her tongue flicked in and out of his ear, a particular point of pleasure for him. Her travels took her from the nape of his neck to the curve of his behind, while stroking him into an iron-hard erection.
Standing before him again, she slowly removed her rose-colored robe, followed by each item of pastel pink lingerie, which made a pool of silk before him on the floor. She remembered that he liked her in pink, and in preparation for this day had made a special-order selection from a sister-owned adult fantasy boutique in the city.
He bent to pick the garments up, bringing them to his face, inhaling her scent. His eyes devoured her beauty as he spoke. "Forever and a day is how long we said we'd be together. But while I was away, I would lie awake at night, replaying in my mind the times we were together, aching with wanting you and stroking myself thinking of you. I was imagining how it could be again and tried to rid myself of the thoughts of another man loving you, touching and tasting you instead of me."
Her words reassured him as her touch continued to arouse him. "I want a man that I can depend on, a man who won't make me hold my breath and wonder what's next. I have always believed that man was you and never gave away what I always felt was yours. If there were someone else, I would have told you. If there were someone else, this room with you and me together would not happen. You have always been the man for me."
Following a deep and passionate kiss, he began to take his tongue down the center of her body. Remembering how sexually sensitive they were, he left a heated trail across each of her swollen nipples, licking circles around them and stroking each with the pads of his thumbs. "Oh...my...God!" she gasped, each word punctuated with pleasure. Reaching between her legs, he searched for and found her wet, diamond-hard clitoris. Encircling it with his finger, he began to slide it back and forth, in and out of her "sweet spot" as he loved to call it. She worked her hips in time with his touch, and with her eyes closed, completely abandoned herself to the pleasure building at her center.
His tongue found its way to that same spot, exploring, encircling, and inserting itself wherever he could give her the most pleasure. Gently trembling at first, she began to shudder and cry out softly, "Oh, oh, baby, I'm coming..." Raising herself to a half-seated position, hands gripping his hair to ensure that his tongue stayed on target, she worked her hips in rhythm with him until the sensation took her over the edge and she fell into an erupting, explosive climax.
Weak from pleasure but aroused again by her lover's scent, she rested her cheek against the thick, soft hair at the base of his penis and ran her fingers through his thatch, up to caress his stomach and down to his waiting erection. He laid himself on her tongue and she took him in small swallows until he was completely encircled by her warm, wet mouth. As she slowly released him, his breathing quickened and his hands drew her mouth back for more.
Holding his slick erection in one hand, she slowly licked the length of him, lifting his penis and then sliding her tongue down to his testicles. One by one, she sucked them into her mouth, in and out, loving them with her tongue. Leaning into his own pleasure, he cried out, "Give it to me, baby!" as he made love to her mouth. Eyes closed in ecstasy, the roll of his hips quickened as he thrust deeper into her mouth. "Ah, ah, ah! Give it to me, baby!" he gasped. She didn't lose the rhythm or a drop as he exploded deep into her throat.
Entwined, they kissed each other's taste onto their lips, happy in the knowledge that the chemistry that had always created such passion was still there and would always be for years to come. Their "forever and a day" had just begun.
The Reunion by Ife Ayodele © 2003
The Eroticanoir.com Anthology
The Eroticanoir.com Anthology
Chocolate Flava is the first in a series of collections of great erotic fiction edited by Zane, the reigning queen of erotica. Based on the Featured Erotica section of her website, Chocolate Flava gathers twenty-five sizzling tales from some of the most talented -- and dedicated -- writers of erotica working today.
This is a his-and-her collection. There are stories specifically written with female readers in mind, and others written expressly for men. Among the contributors are names already familiar to readers of erotica, such as Reginald Harris, Robert Edison Sandiford, Jonathan Luckett and, of course, Zane -- as well as emerging voices, such as Geneva Barnes and Robert Scott Adams. What they all have in common is that they are great at what they do, and have been handpicked by Zane -- an editor who knows a hot story when she sees it.
Zane wanted stories "that took risks, that explored unique situations, that were creative beyond compare." She wanted to show that men and women can equally express themselves through the medium of erotic fiction. She wanted stories that would turn her on. This collection of selected sexy short stories will turn you on, too.