Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (14 page)

There was a fleeting glimpse of the rounded underside of her high breasts, then the fullness of glowing skin, nipples tight and puckered, eggplant purple against her smooth brown skin as she pulled the slip of black cloth over her head. She pressed forward, taking him in again, her pussy swallowing his heat, her juices flowing free, her nether lips making a smacking sound.

He was so hard he couldn’t breathe, the slide of her tight, wet sex down his an aching bliss. His hands caught the curve of her thigh, the dip of her waist, stroked the flat of her stomach as he strained toward her, lifting to meet her as she leaned in to him, surging forward. Her body was hot and he wanted to cover her, to feel her beneath him, to bury himself face-first in the sweet heat of her searing body.

A hand at her back and another cupping her ass, he rolled her over onto her back before she could toss the dress away. The sheath of black trailed off one of her arms, obscuring a hand as
he pounded into her, the long, hard length of him pinning her down, legs splayed and arms flailing. His hips and thighs surged forward, forcing her thighs wider. Nearly oblivious to the rub of the coarse hair that peppered his thighs as it grated against the tender skin of her inner thighs, she squeezed, contracting her muscles around his length, tightening and tugging as he surged forward. His swollen flesh burned and rasped against her walls. The stiff muscle of his sex pounded and lashed even as it grew, lengthening and becoming more inflexible as it rubbed and stroked her sensitive inner flesh. Her mouth opened as buds of heat ignited trails of light until she was consumed. Deep in her throat, a sound fought the waves of heat, trying to come forth as she bathed his cock in her come. He jerked within her, trying to surge forward again, but it was a wild push as his penis twitched, spurting seed and spraying her walls until he finally slid forward, seating himself fully within her to spend the last long rush against the base of her womb as he collapsed onto her.

“Bitch,” he said a long while later as he pulled himself up, staggering as he rose to stand over her. He wasn’t sure what he meant by it, only that now, after that, after some of the best sex he’d ever had, he was angry. When she said nothing, he reached for a neatly folded altar cloth that rested alone on a nearby table. After using one of its pristine ends to wipe at the shiny wetness that coated his spent penis, he began to right his clothes. He dropped the cloth into her lap and then pulled his shorts up over his still damp sex and stuffed his shirt into his pants. With a soft sardonic chuckle, she closed her legs and pulled the dress back over her head. She sat on the floor in a sprawled heap like a once well loved but newly discarded rag doll. The skirt of her dress was rucked up around her hips, and other than the short laugh, she was silent.

“You didn’t even wear any panties?” It was more accusation than question.

“Like that would have stopped you,” she spoke to her lap.

“You’ve always been a whore.” He meant it as a slap, but she didn’t seem to feel it, so he continued. “Dressing like a
puta,
breasts hanging out, and those sly looks across the dinner table. Even that first day, the first day he brought you home.”

She laughed again, the same mocking sound.

“You never loved him. Why did you marry him?”

“I loved him.”

“Then how could you seduce me, his
brother
?”

“Seduce?”

“Look, Mígda. He’s been dead less than a week and you come here in that dress with no panties, and no bra.”

When she didn’t respond, he nudged her with the toe of his shoe. “How could you come here dressed like some brazen whore?”

She looked up at him as though searching for something, but when she realized he expected an answer, she said in a voice almost too low to hear, “I don’t like bras. They’re too tight, and I didn’t want to have a panty line under my dress.”

He smirked, “
Puta,
I told him not to marry you. Coming from that family, what could anybody expect?”

She righted herself, smoothing the dress down, and as discreetly as possible, used an unsoiled end of the cloth to wipe away the wetness between her thighs before putting on her shoes, a pair of black high heels. Then she wrapped the altar cloth into a manageable heap and dropped it back onto the table. He watched silently as she tried to right herself. The high heels made the muscles in her legs clench. In that dress, with those shoes, her ass seemed to ride higher, to plump up. She smoothed
the dress down over her hips again. It really wasn’t very revealing. In truth, it was rather demure with its modest V-neck, but the faux wrap at her waist made the dip at the small of her back incredibly tempting. He wanted to put his hand there.

His groin tightened again. “Shit.” He’d just had her; the bitch was a
bruja
. She ran her fingers through her dark, straight, shoulder-length hair. It was a good cut and fell easily back into place. She looked like the good, Catholic, grieving widow again with the tiny golden cross just below her throat, but he knew she wore nothing beneath that slip of black cloth. He knew what those breasts looked like without the covering, that they rode high and buoyant without aid. The image of her nipples, the dark purplish shade they became when they were aroused and puckered, assailed him. His penis rose and twitched anew when he remembered how she’d bathed him in her wet heat when she’d come. He could smell her, not just the fertile scent of her sex, but also the subtle sweetness of some flower as the cologne she wore heated against her skin. He was covered in that scent.

“Puta,”
he said again to her back as he willed his stiff cock to quiet.

“You’ve always been an asshole, Julio. Luis was sick a long time, and I never fooled around. I was there for him. Even through that long, horrible sleep.”

Another tear. He wanted to taste that, too. He wanted to follow its trail down her cheek with the tip of his tongue.

“You’ve always tried to tempt me, even before Julio got sick.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Wearing those blouses that hugged your
tetas
. Hugging and rubbing against me.”

“Wishful thinking,
pendejo
.”

“I wouldn’t take what you offered when he was alive, but
since you’re giving it away now that he’s gone I might as well take my fill,” he said, pulling her toward him.

“I never offered when he was alive,” she said, trying to dodge his hands, but he held fast. She struggled silently, not wanting the mourners gathering in the chapel to hear. He was a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier, so restraining her was not difficult. Before long, his hand was under her skirt and his fingers trailed through the still sensitive lips of her sex, toying with the rampant clitoris that protruded just there. It was still damp and slippery from their mingled juices.

He pushed her roughly over the armrest of the ornate wooden chair that probably served as the priest’s resting place after a strenuous mass. The armrest caught her just at her waist; her hands splayed, grappling against the velvet of the seat’s cushion as she tried to balance herself.

Julio was behind her, pushing her skirt up higher until her ripe bottom was on display to him. She could hear as he unzipped his pants and as the cloth fell to his ankles. He leaned down, his teeth grazing, then nipping the smooth flesh of one cheek as a finger teased and tested her moist sex. He stood again, kneeing her legs, opening her wider. Then, with no further preamble, he was pushing into her, the distended head of his penis bumping and grazing the engorged labia, finally slipping past and into the newly made wetness that greeted him. She grappled for support, her hands slipping over the plush fabric as he rammed himself into her, the hard length of him heaving and shoving its way to her center, his hand gripping her hips.

“You bitch,” he said as he pounded into her. “You fucking bitch.”

Her muscles clenched around him involuntarily, sucking and straining against his rapid thrusts, his insistent intrusion.

“Fuck,” he groaned as she tightened around him. “Fuck,” he said again as she slid back against him, all wet and juicy. And then, he couldn’t say anything else. He could only continue to give her all he had as he pounded into her, the rasp of each thrust sending shooting sensations that caused his groin and his thighs to tighten and tremble. He held her hips firmly, his fingers denting her skin. There would be bruises later, but she let him grip and hold her, tight and still, just the way he needed to.

He took her hard, aiming himself so that each time he drove into her, he slid all the way, the head of his penis nudging at her womb like that and like that. She mewled and moaned beneath him, her pussy holding him fast like it was made for him. She was so wet and hot and tight and her ass was so soft and buoyant, he gripped her hips harder trying to hold on, to maintain his stance. The sweat and a shattering light filled his eyes and his head, and he was coming into her, long and hard. He wanted to paint her pussy with his seed, to tattoo his mark inside her. His seed gushed forth, filling her, filling
his
pussy,
his
“Mígda,” he cried out. “Mígda.” The echo was torn from him as the muscles of her canal trembled hard, squeezing him, milking the last of his seed from his spasming cock.

He wanted to kiss her, to slip his tongue into her mouth, to hold her and maybe there would be tears, his. Instead, he pulled out of her and turned his back to her as he pulled the rumpled altar cloth from the nearby table. Without looking at it or her, he wiped himself before pulling his pants back up and making the necessary adjustments to his clothing.

“See,” he said, tossing the thick white cloth back onto the table,
“una puta.”
He’d stopped himself from pulling her dress down, from covering her. He wanted her to feel the shame, to
feel exposed, to feel what he’d been feeling long before he stumbled upon her in this room. He couldn’t look at her.

She said nothing, but he thought he heard a whimper.

“Fix yourself up. We have to bury my brother.”

He didn’t look back at her when he reached for the door of the sacristy.

“I’m glad that you never had kids with Luis. Now, I can truly be rid of you. There is nothing else.”

“Julio,” she called to him. His hand gripped the doorknob, but he didn’t turn around. “I really loved Luis. I’ve been missing him for a long time,” she said, her words soft, trembling.

His hand tightened on the knob. He turned to look at her. She was still a little tousled, though her hair and skirt had fallen back into place, more or less. She leaned against the wall, hugging herself. Tears made her face shiny and her nose a little red. The smell of what they had done filled the small room. He looked away, ashamed.

“He loved you, too.” He looked at her as he spoke, wanting her to understand the truth of his words. The tears ran down her face now, and she was nodding her head up and down. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he remembered how she felt, her breasts against his chest, her thighs cupping his. Shaking his head, he gripped the doorknob harder and closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tightly. When he opened them again, she still stood there, face wet and hands gripping her upper arms. They stood like that for a while, not saying anything. He sighed.

“Come on.” He held his hand out to her, palm up. “You’ll need water for that face and new lipstick.”

She looked at his hand suspiciously, but the tears seemed to slow a little.

“Luis would want you to look your best with this crowd.” He lifted his hand and extended it farther toward her.

He waited, and when she didn’t move, he said, “Come on, Mígda. It’s okay. You can do this…. We can do this.”

She looked at him, measuring his words, the look in his eyes. But she didn’t move, the fear of further censure evident in her eyes. He waited, trying to look … not sorry, because he wasn’t sorry that he’d taken what she’d readily given. He wanted to show that he was at least penitent because he’d shown so little grace in accepting it.

“Lo siento, Mígda. Estoy aqui para ti.”
His words were spoken softly as he lifted his hand to her again and smiled, his damp eyes seeking her watery ones. She watched, assessing him, her arms dropping to her sides.
“Venga, Mígda,”
he coaxed, his voice a gentle whisper, his outstretched hand beckoning. Then slowly, almost bashfully, she made her way across the room to slip her small, cold hand into his much larger one.

Pat Tucker

The cabdriver took off before I could close the car door completely. It was raining buckets—no, make that barrels. A flash of lightning bolted through the dark sky. I barely made it inside the hotel. I was drenched and tired. I wanted a hot shower and a warm bed. Inside the hotel lobby, I heard music, loud chatter, and laughter floating in the air, but I wasn’t in a festive mood. I tugged at my roller suitcase and made my way to the front desk.

“Oooh, are you okay? May I help you?” the friendly clerk asked.

“I’m not. I’m tired, soaking wet, and ready for a good night’s rest.” I chuckled.