Best Black Women's Erotica (5 page)

The women turn to one another and begin to make love. They are like mirror twins. One touches a breast; the other strokes the nipple. One slips her fingers into all the secret places, chased by the other's fingers, hands, lips. The man has never seen two women together and at first he feels like an intruder. But their sighs and moans stir him and he becomes aroused. He leans toward them. The Albino smiles without showing her teeth. Her eyelids are pink-glowing. She lifts a
languid hand and beckons to him. Throwing off his robe, he crawls beside her and she takes his hand and places it at the base of her throat. Her skin is cold, but it burns as ice burns, as the Spice Woman's skin burns like fire. Each woman can consume him in her own way.

He places his lips on the Albino's throat; the pulse is slow and faint. He seeks her mouth. Her tongue is cool, receptive. She invites him to cover her and he lies down upon her, sinking into the soft resilience of her body. Her hair sparkles with glitter, as does the fine down under her arms. He sees the Spice Woman lying open-legged, her body gleaming with the heat of her passion, caressing herself as the Albino draws him into her embrace.

Her arms are chill winds, her breasts pointed icicles, her mouth a cold cave lit by a distant fire, and he is ensnared by her erotic aloofness. When he slides into her it is as if he has waded into an icy mountain stream. Her chilly arms enfold him, her cool breath sighs against his cheek. She caresses his back, his buttocks, nips the vulnerable artery at the base of this throat. He strokes within her, thrusting without releasing his full strength while she moves against him slowly.

Her passion does not boil as that of the Spice Woman. It builds almost without his knowledge until suddenly he is gasping and ready for release. She pinches gently at the root of his stem holding him in check as the Spice Woman lies on top of him. Together they turn and he is caught between summer and winter, fire and ice. The women caress and stroke him until his skin comes alive. They lick the hairs on his arms and chest. They part his thighs and wash the hair surrounding his genitals with their tongues. His penis awakens more fully, fused with blood, hot and pulsing.

They alternate taking the first drops of male wine that seep from the head. Their fingers and hands choreograph dances along his spine and across his belly, they compose concertos along the length of his arms and legs. They tease and fondle
him until their fingers are covered with his scent. He is wild with passion, loving the icy reserve of one, the fiery abandonment of the other.

When he takes the Albino, his thrusts are timed and patterned like some ancient court dance. When he takes the Spice Woman, he improvises moves he had never thought possible. Each woman writhes beneath him, atop him, beside him. He takes them in every way. He feasts on the cool or heat of their breasts, caressing the soft mounds of their buttocks. He rejoices in the chill wine or hot brandy taste of their second mouths as he slips his tongue along the flowers that open only for him. He tastes the nectar that flows only for him.

He is delirious with the texture of their skin, the sound of their mind-voices, the pure eroticism of their lovemaking. When he is ready for release, they will not allow him to choose between them. Instead they force him to lie with one on each side. As one encloses his throbbing penis in her hand, the other gently cradles the sac below while they entice him to give up his wine into their mouths without knowing which is which.

During the night he is lulled by the smell of the Spice Woman and the faint lilac odor of the Albino. They fold their limbs around him, draw the coverlet about their shoulders, whispering him to sleep with the songs of their minds. He drifts, rocked in the arms of his shadow lovers.

When he wakes, the sun is setting. He watches the orange-gold rays descend into the west as if the sun were lowering itself to bathe in the warm waters of the Pacific Ocean. He listens to the music of the waves and sniffs the air for the scent of his ghost women. Surely they could not have been real. But scattered across the surface of the dusty mattress he sees specks of silver and gold glitter. The air smells of a mixture of lilac and spice.

The next day the man contacts the agent who arranged for his rental of the old Victorian. He leases the house for a year.

 

 

 

 

 

“Honey, I'm home,” she announced dramatically to the empty house, kicking the door shut behind her. This was the first weekend in months that both of the kids would be away. “Of all the Fridays in the year,” she said out loud, as though her husband were standing there listening, “you have to work overtime on this one.” She walked through the living room, down the hall, and into their bedroom. She shed her coat, purse, newspaper, and the toys the kids had left in the backseat of her car. Then she rushed into the bathroom to pee. She'd known she had to go when she left work, but didn't want to waste even a moment of this precious weekend, so she held it until she made it home. If she'd worn stockings, she probably wouldn't have made it. “Thank God for dress-down Fridays,” she said out loud as she relieved the pressure on her bladder.

The house was empty, quiet. She decided that she would take this rare opportunity to soak in the bathtub to pass the time until her husband returned home. She removed her faded blue jeans, royal blue panties, and socks all in one motion. From the toilet, she could see that she would have to clean the
tub before using it. Her daughter's “Bath Time Elmo” lay at the bottom. She hadn't planned on cleaning the bathroom until tomorrow—after she and her husband had slept in, something they hadn't been able to do months. She thought perhaps she'd get up briefly and make them a nice breakfast, something with grits. He'd like that. Then they'd eat leisurely in bed and cuddle up for the rest of the morning.

She released a tired breath, wiped herself, and flushed. She picked up her clothing from the floor and dumped it into the hamper. She pulled the sweatshirt she was wearing over her head, catching her silver hoop earring. “Damn!” she winced as the heavy shirt pulled on her earlobe. She felt uncomfortable standing there with her shirt twisted over her head and no panties on. Out of habit, she went into the bedroom and closed the door. Usually, one of her kids, if not both, would be lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to try and be alone. She'd try to sneak into the bathroom for some quiet time. But it wouldn't be long before one of them knocked on the door to tattle on the other, ask for assistance with something, or just have a conversation about the day's events through the locked bathroom door. If she ignored them, they assumed she didn't hear them and would beat on the door until her husband made them stop. “You all right in there, Baby?” he'd say.

Once she extricated herself and her earring from the sweatshirt, she returned to the bathroom in her royal blue bra, the other half of the matching set that her husband had given her for her last birthday. She had been so pleased that he bought her something so sexy after all these years. She reached down into the cabinet under the sink for the Comet and a raggedy sponge. When she stood up, she caught her reflection in the mirror that ran the full length of the wall behind the sink. Her husband said she looked even better than when he'd first set eyes on her, as though she were the only one who could see the evidence of two pregnancies on her stomach and thighs. She
leaned into the mirror and rubbed her fingertips over her tired face. Then she leaned back and looked at her breasts. Her nipples were pushing against the silky fabric of the bra, and she rubbed her fingers over them.

“Shit,” she said, whispering out of habit so the kids wouldn't hear her swear. “It's cold in here.” She frequently carried on a running dialogue with herself while she moved about the house picking up behind the kids and her husband, while she cooked or vacuumed or did laundry. But usually her voice just blended with the other sounds that made their house a home. The whirring and humming of the washer and dryer, the children and their friends running up and down the hall, laughing or yelling at each other, the tinkle and splash of dishes being done, the chopping and rattling of pots and pans as food was prepared, the music from the stereo establishing the underlying rhythm for the rest of the noise. And above it all would be the deep, booming voice of her husband, playing with the children, laughing with his friends, or having a one-way dispute with a referee on television who had just made a bad call against the home team. She loved the sound of his voice. She began unhooking her bra as she went out into the hallway to turn the heater up, then walked into the living room to put on some music.

Back in the bathroom, she bent over the side of the tub, trying not to inhale the fumes from the cleanser as Erica Badu's seductive voice swept through the house, filling the quiet spaces. She scrubbed all the essential places, making a personal promise to do a more thorough job the following day. She reached up for the shower massage and rinsed the pale green residue from the tub. Then she closed the drain and turned the knob to the right to run her bath water. She found the lavender bath gel her husband had bought for her at an expensive boutique in Carmel on the same birthday he'd given her the underwear.

She decided to make herself a drink while the tub filled, and went into the kitchen to see what was available. She was hoping for something that would give her a quick buzz without the headache. She found an almost-full bottle of dark rum she'd bought earlier that winter to make her husband hot toddies when he was down with the flu. There was vodka from the last football party, and her personal favorite, José Cuervo. She opened the refrigerator door to look for margarita mix, and the magnet holding her son's list of chores fell to the floor.

“Now that would be too much like right for anything I want to be in here,” she said, realizing that they were out of mix. “Fuck it.” She grabbed the bottle of tequila and a shot glass and headed back to the bathroom. She set the tall bottle and the short glass on the commode and dipped her fingers into the steaming water of the tub.

“Ow!” she cried, snatching her hand from the water. She laughed at her foolishness and turned the knob slightly to the left to cool the water. She unscrewed the cap on the tequila and poured herself a drink. Her husband had taught her the proper way to drink tequila on one of their first dates, but she hadn't felt like going through the trouble of slicing a lime or bringing the salt shaker to the bathroom just for herself. She tilted the glass to her lips and swallowed the contents in one gulp.

“Whew!” she said, shaking her head and shoulders. Her husband always said “the first one is the worst one.” She screwed the top back on the tequila and noticed that there was cleanser under her nails. She used the fingernail brush to scrub her hands and dried them on her son's pajama bottoms, which hung from a hook on the back of the door. As she walked back into the bedroom to find her vanilla-scented candles, the phone rang.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hey, Baby.” It was her husband. “What chu doin'?” he asked. She loved hearing his voice on the phone, and pressed the received closer to her ear.

“Nothing,” she responded. “I was getting ready to take a bath. What's up with you?”

“Just wanted to see if you're enjoying your little moment alone,” he said. “That's all.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. She was hoping he was calling to say that he was coming home early. “So, what time are you getting off?”

“Soon as I get home,” he teased. It took her a second to realize what he meant.

“Shut up,” she said, a broad smile spreading across her face. She stroked the skin between her breasts, where she could still feel the warmth of the tequila. Her nipples were erect again, but this time it wasn't because of the cold. The more she heard his voice, the more excited she became, and while he told her about the latest drama on the job she listened just to feel his voice resonate throughout her body. She held the phone between her chin and shoulder and slid her hands over her body, pretending they were his hands softly caressing her.

“So, what time are you coming home?” she interrupted.

“I'm supposed to be off at 1:00 A.M.,” he replied, “but if it's slow I'll be able to leave early. You want me to bring you anything?”

“Just you.”

“Okay, Baby,” he said, recognizing the disappointment in her voice. “I'm gonna get home as soon as I can, all right?”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I miss you.”

“See you in a minute, Baby.”

She returned to the bathroom. The tub was full and she turned off the water, then poured herself another shot. She lit two candles, flicked off the overhead light, and eased one foot into the bath water. It was still a little hot, but she figured it
wouldn't take long to cool. She lowered herself into the water inch by inch, allowing her body to acclimate to the temperature.

Once she was seated in the tub, she breathed in the steamy air slowly and deeply, then exhaled as the water's warmth wrapped around her body. The light from the candle cast flickering shadows around the small room, and the sweet smell of vanilla lingered softly in the foggy air. She slid further down into the water so her chest was completely submerged. Her body relaxed, the day's tension melting away from her neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes, seduced by the music, the warmth of the water, and Mr. Cuervo. She awoke five minutes later, surprised that she'd fallen asleep so easily and so deeply.

When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she reached for the bath gel and held it at arm's length above her, letting it pour out in a thin stream onto her stomach. She smoothed the gel across her belly and wrote her and her husband's names in the lather with her finger. She drew a big heart around their names and laughed at the memory of writing their initials in a sidewalk patch of wet cement back when they were courting.
Together forever,
he'd said. She poured more gel onto her washcloth and rubbed it over her body, shivering slightly at its coolness against her skin. She moved the towel in circles around her neck, down her back, over her shoulders and breasts. She raised one leg then the other and washed up to her toes.