Best Black Women's Erotica (4 page)

Showered and dressed in black Capri pants and a backless T-shirt, I strolled into the conference room. Most of the crew had already arrived and were snacking on bagels and Danish while waiting for the director to arrive. I walked over to the silver urn and poured myself a cup of coffee. Just as I reached for the Equal, I heard a familiar voice that made my breathing cease and my groin tingle.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well,” he said. I slowly turned around and looked into the face of the bald brother with the sunshine smile from the restaurant. Embarrassment plucked the words from my mouth and carried them away like crows pilfering a cornfield. I stood there mute and mortified.

“I believe these belong to you,” he said, handing me my lost sunglasses.

“Thank you,” I managed to say. He smiled again and walked to the front of the room to begin the meeting. I went in the opposite direction, taking a seat at the far end of the table.

“I'm Grand Nelson and we'll all be spending a lot of time together these next few days.” He bombarded me with a deadly grin that started in his warm, sexy eyes and gently pulled at the corners of his lips before erupting into an all-knowing, I've-got-a-secret smile.

All I could do was bite my lower lip in anticipation and make sure my hands were on the table in full view.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You may well ask who I am, for I see you do not recognize me. But deep in the far reaches of your mind you have heard my voice. I am a teller of tales, a spinner of magic and fantasy. And tonight I have come to spin for you a story of eroticism and mystery. Give me your undivided attention and let me slip into your mind as gently as fog steals from the ocean's breast. Close your eyes and visualize the scenes I describe to you for it will be as if you are the one of whom I speak, as if these are your thoughts, your touch, your fears, and your ecstasy. Now, if you are ready, I will relate to you the story of the Spice Woman.

A man weary beyond his years, weary to the depths of his soul, has sought refuge in a rented Victorian overlooking the ocean. The house is situated on a small bluff rising above the Monterey coastline. Surrounded by brush and stubble, it fades into the natural landscape. Its buff-colored paint is peeling
and the steps to the veranda sag. A steep incline leads to the beach below. The area is isolated, about a mile from the main road. The nearest neighbor shelters in a house of redwood and glass which can be seen around the curve of the beach on a rocky bluff several miles away.

This man is a refugee from the civilized frenzy of the city. In this furnished house, which he has taken for one month, he has found a haven, a resting-place. He loves the high-ceilinged rooms, the bare wood floors, and the ornate carved banister bordering the staircase, the floor-length stained glass window on the landing spilling jeweled messages into the entry hall below. The kitchen is stocked and he has provided himself with a small wine cellar and several bottles of good cognac that he sips from a heavy lead-crystal glass before the fireplace in the parlor as he listens to the ocean's evening song. There is no telephone. He wants no communication with the outside world. He hears only the sound of the wind sighing around the corners of the house, the rhythmic lapping of waves breaking against the shore. He thinks he is at peace. He thinks he has brought to heel those emotions that in the past have pained him so.

He spends his days puttering about the neglected herb garden discovered behind the house or walking along the beach in the early morning mist. In the evening he sits on the veranda watching the sun surrender its golden flames to the onslaught of twilight and he dreams of a woman—a woman he sees only in his mind's eye. Her features are blurred yet he knows her, recognizes in her some hidden remembrance of passion that he has smothered in himself.

His days are even and uneventful, but his nights are spent in troubled dreams barely remembered in the pearl light of dawn. Dreams that cause him to soil the sheets or to awaken suddenly with an erection so powerful that the pain is a sweet ecstasy. Sometimes he thinks he hears someone calling him,
sighing his name as if the sound were carried on a breeze. It seems to come from the attic, but when he explores (in the bright glare of daylight) there is only the usual clutter one finds in such places—boxes, trunks, broken toys, and an old brass bed with a bare mattress partially covered by a hand-crocheted bedspread. Light filters through dusty dormer windows and cobwebs gleam in the rafters and in the corners.

One night during the second week of his residence in the old house, he is awakened by a voice heard only in his thoughts. As if in a trance, he leaves his bed and walks down the darkened hall to the attic stairs. His naked skin pimples in the chill air and his bare feet make light slapping sounds as he mounts the steps. When he opens the door, he is encompassed by a halo of light. The moon is so bright the entire room is illuminated in a silvery glow. When he crosses the threshold he feels a little dizzy and slightly disoriented. It takes a moment to right himself. Then, to his amazement, he sees the familiar attic is transformed. Lace curtains covering the open windows blow gently in the breeze. In the light, cobwebs sparkle as if woven of iridescent silk, and the brass bed is sheeted and draped with material that has the sheen of satin.

He moves closer to the bed. A woman lies shadowed against the pale sheets. The room is filled with her scent. She smells of nutmeg, cinnamon, and the faintest suggestion of almonds. She is covered with a diaphanous veil. Her naked body, the color of rosewood, shines as if oiled. She lies sprawled like a rag doll tossed carelessly upon the bed. One leg slightly raised, the other at an angle. Her thighs are parted. Her left arm lies across her bosom and her thumb gently caresses the pouting nipple of her right breast, outlined by the thin veil. Her right hand rests between her legs. She is slowly stroking her sex through the protective cover of the translucent material. Her head is turned toward him. Her dark hair is a woolen crown of ebony. Her eyes are open but slightly slit as
she awards him the brief white flash of her smile. She sighs, and slowly lifts the veil until it forms a scarf around her throat.

Her body lies exposed and vulnerable. She welcomes his gaze. He moves closer and his nostrils widen as the musk of her woman-scent floats toward him. She strokes her belly, that soft round mound dimpled by her navel, and lowers her hand to the tip of her budding clitoris, which he can barely see. She teases it, dusting her fingertips across it like a feather, then slides the palm of her hand over her mound and shakes it gently, slipping her fingers in the opening from which the honeyed juice begins to spill. “Oh…” she sighs. “Oh…” And her hips dance against the pale bedsheets.

As he watches this woman make love to herself, his body flushes with heat. His penis is engorged and pulsing with blood. She has turned her head toward the window and, unconcerned that he is watching, brings herself to a moaning climax. Her buttocks tighten, her hips churn, and her back arches. Suddenly she collapses and lies limp, panting, twisting on the bed. She murmurs his name without moving her lips, calling him with her mind. He lowers himself onto the bed and places his hands over hers at the entrance to her sex. She slides her hand back and inserts his fingers into the hot, moist recesses of that second mouth all women possess, then withdraws them dewed with her fluids, perfumed with her juices.

She seeks him with her hand, fingers teasing, dancing, grasping. His penis is hard and smooth and she seems pleasured by the look of it, the taste of it, as she leans forward and flicks her tongue over the head. He tastes of salt, sweat, and smoky wine. She pulls him into her mouth so greedy with desire that he wants to spill himself into that warm receptacle, but she will not allow this. Releasing him, she guides him over her. Her thighs are soft but strong. They encircle his waist as he enters her smoothly, firmly. She is like a furnace! Her heat engulfs him. He slides his hands beneath her hips, raising her
closer to him, and with each thrust he can feel her muscles pull at him, sucking him deeper into herself. The crinkling hairs of her mound cling to those surrounding his groin. A fine mist of sweat covers their bellies. His hands are filled with her breasts; her body is saturated with the moisture of lovemaking.

She moans under him and moves in invitation to be taken even more fiercely. He leans back on his heels, pulling her into a seated position on his lap. She flings her arms about his neck. He circles her waist and draws her tightly against him. She is like a fever! Everywhere his skin touches her, he burns. Her fingers are flames dancing through his hair, across his chest. With her weight she pushes him backward until she is astride him and he has entered her so deeply he has touched the wall of her womb.

She bucks above him, head thrown back, eyes closed, palms pushing against his shoulders. She is a shadow woman writhing in the moonlight. Her spice scent floods the room and underneath, the hot pungent smell of sex. He feels himself swelling even more, rising to her body's silent commands. He grinds into her, exploding in tiny volcanic eruptions until finally, as her mind screams his name, he releases a gushing fountain, a roaring river. Her skin glows copper-red in the heat of her coming. She is all the colors of the stained glass window on the staircase landing, rainbowed in her ecstasy. He gasps with the power of his climax and brings her down to him, burying his face in the cushion of her breasts, then seeks the hollow of her throat to suck the tiny pulsing vein through which the blood races so swiftly, sings so sweetly. His lips, his tongue, his mouth devour hers. Spent, she is limp against him, surrendering completely to his dominance. For these few brief moments she is his and his alone. She folds herself beside him and sighs deep in her throat. The sigh becomes a purr and he imagines a sleek mountain lioness warming him through the night.

When he awakes, the morning light streaming from the dormer windows causes him to blink. He rolls over and discovers
that he is lying naked on the dusty bare mattress of the old brass bed. The crocheted coverlet lies crumpled on the floor. No lace curtains swing in the breeze. The magic is gone and he is lost and bewildered in the sun's bright rays.

For several days he wanders about the house talking aloud, lecturing himself, convincing himself that what he experienced was merely a vivid dream. But each time he ventures near the attic stairs, his nostrils flare as he picks up the woman's musk whispering beneath the scent of spice.

He becomes despondent and lies on his bed in the dark trying to coax with his hands the exquisite orgasm that had consumed him that night. Was his desire and fulfillment only an illusion? He thinks not, for in the midnight hours he still hears the faint echo of her calling. The persistence of that mind-voice beckons him, but when he rushes to the attic he finds it empty and untouched by the sexual substance of his dreams.

Days pass and one night during an electrical storm when the elements threaten to rip the roof from the house, boil the waters of the ocean, and scatter sand from the beach out into the atmosphere, he hears her call. His mind floods with the force of his desire. He approaches the passage to the attic slowly, clutching an old woolen robe about his naked body. When he reaches the door he hesitates, wondering if he might be on the brink of insanity. But the power of her summons forces him forward. It is as he remembered. The attic gleams in the moonlight. Lace curtains stir in the breeze at the open windows. The brass bed is dressed in white satin shimmering in the silvery glow. No woman reclines on the bed but spice infuses the air. He knows she is nearby. He can sense the pulse of her blood, the beat of her warm heart. He turns and sees her moving toward him as if floating. Her scent precedes her. The diaphanous gown caresses the curves of her body. Her eyes are gold and black, diamond-pointed like a cat's. Her head is held proudly and her silky brown skin begins to glow
as she moves toward him. Her spice intoxicates him; he is drunk with the essence of her. Gently, she takes him by the hand and crosses to the bed, where she seats him at the foot. Lifting her hand, she gestures behind her. In the shadows, by a wicker chair, he perceives another figure. It is a woman.

She steps into the pool of light spilling from a window. She wears a hooded cape that swirls about her feet as she advances toward the bed. The Spice Woman reaches for her sister and they undress one another slowly. The Spice Woman's naked body radiates shades of honey and gold, chocolate and ebony, rosewood and caramel. The other astounds him for never has he imagined a woman like this. Before his eyes is a true albino. She is pale to the point of translucence. Her hair is silver-white, her eyes pink-white, her body full-breasted. Blue veins pulse beneath the vitreous skin. She is so white, so pale that even moonlight cannot gift her skin. Her pubic hair shines silvered and here and there specks of glitter costume the nest of her sex. She stretches herself upon the bed. Her limbs are long and elegant and her body emanates an air of coldness. He thinks of icebergs, mysterious and majestic, floating in the Arctic Sea. The nipples of her breasts are milk white, the aureole only slightly darker than heavy cream. She moves languorously, as if any effort is too much for her to bear. The two bodies, one pale but lit with a soft glow as if it were the most precious of pearls, and the other awash with color, limbs of topaz and molten copper, mesmerize the man.