Unexpected (Part 2)

Moving my foot from next to him, I took his hand and pulled him to his feet. I turned towards the doorway.


Shayne stood, frozen in the door jamb, her nipples standing at attention, her chest heaving, the same odd combination of remorse and lust in her eyes. I sized her up – slender frame, breasts enough for a palm full, her heritage showing in her ample hips and generous backside, even from looking at her in the front. Releasing T’s hand and quietly summoning the liquid courage I had earlier, I walked up to her and whispered, “If you wanted to know what I taste like, all you had to do was ask”.


Then I leaned in and licked her bottom lip before pulling it between mine and kissing her.


It wasn’t what I expected.


Shayne’s lips were warm where I thought they’d be cool, sweet where I was expecting perhaps sour, enticing where I expected repulsion. You could hear the veritable pause in the room – the shift in the tension from potential disaster to Pandora’s playground. I kissed her again, this time her upper lip, my tongue parting her still surprised mouth and playing the devil’s sonata.

My hands ran up her sides.

It all came surprisingly natural, and she responded in kind so quickly that I almost understood T’s attraction to her. She was easy. Easy and pliant and willing.
I didn’t even care that this was wrong anymore.

This was about to be another page in my sex diary.


Breaking off from her, I turned to look at T. His eyes narrowed, the lust evident in his hanging weight, hard and leaning to the left, jumping at the opportunity in front of it literally. I looked him in his eyes again.


“Is this what you wanted?”


He paused, then nodded slowly, hungry for me but unsure of what was about to happen next. I looked at him, eyebrows raised. Taking Shayne’s hand from behind me, I gently pulled her into the room and towards the bed. Sitting her down, I looked back at T and slowly took my g-string off, dropping it to the floor and standing askance, still in front of Shayne, my clit throbbing and threatening to peek out from behind my folds.


Control was a powerful aphrodisiac.


My words were simple. “Taste me”.


T turned to me and went to kiss me, but I turned back to Shayne and kissed her instead, a full out tongue kiss, our bodies now pressed close, my nipples rubbing her nipples through the thin cloth of her crop top. T let his abandoned kiss trail down the middle of my back as I moved to kiss Shayne’s neck, my mouth and tongue beginning to create a mini fire as Shayne squirmed under me.

T’s roving mouth kissed my waist.

Then my ass.

He moved closer, closer to where I was so wet, a slow waterfall threatening to drown my clit. He licked me and I jumped slightly, the pleasure so carnal yet so familiar. I decided to do the same, letting my kisses trail down, past Shayne’s orange sized breasts, past her belly button. Slowly removing her shorts with my teeth, I used my hands to push her further onto the bed so that T would still be able to lick me. And lick he did, his tongue writing a new erotic story on my jewel as I found Shayne’s clit. I looked at her for a second. She had her finger in her mouth, her eyes telling me that she was far gone. I asked her, “Does he do this to you?”


She froze, fear slowly overtaking the desire in her eyes.


I blew on her clit. She moaned.


“Does he? Answer me.”


I blew on her again as T continued to lick me from behind. Moaning a little, I bent down to her triangle and kissed it once. Twice. The fear dissipated as she gasped, my mouth grabbing her clit and sucking gently, then licking around her folds before going back for her clit again.


She was so wet it should have been a crime.


This should have been a crime. But I was too far gone.


As I licked her mad, I felt the tip of T’s dick replace his tongue, and before I could wonder when he put the condom on, he eased his way inside me, filled me like he was still mine and I his.

Shayne’s body bucked as she became to come.

Before she could, I worked my way up and kissed her again as T’s strokes came stronger and harder, his girth pushing my walls to the max. Shayne swallowed the taste of her and my cries as he pushed harder and deeper, his low growl mixing with my muffled cries and Shayne’s soft moans. She reached up to stroke my nipples, realizing that I was on the verge of coming, and coming hard.


I kissed her hard.


T’s strokes pushed my body closer to hers, my cries swallowed by her moans. I heard T cry out as I felt my body start to shake and the orgasm took over me. He pounded me, coming as I came.



The silence that ensued was deafening.



Finally entangling myself, I stretched and yawned. Looking over at the dresser, I saw T’s truck keys splayed on the vanity. Looking at him, I realized that he was looking at me expectantly. “Are those the truck keys?” I asked. “Yea…” he replied, glancing at Shayne before turning back to me. Bending down to get my coat, I shrugged it back on and, tying the knot securely, looked at him and Shayne, searching for something to say.


There was nothing.


I grabbed the keys from the vanity and said, “It’s been real, kids.”


Then I left.

Unexpected (Part 1)

The wind was blowing my thin trench coat all about as I climbed the steps to his apartment. I was worried that one gust too many would give this side of Bedford Stuyvesant a clear view of my diamond bowed G-string. Ringing the doorbell, I adjusted the strap on my stiletto heel, said a small prayer for courage, and mentally adjusted my fuck-me face.

A woman answered the door in white terry cloth shorts and a crop top. MY man’s door.

I changed my face and, standing up straight, glanced at the number on the outside wall of the brownstone. “This is 186 Lefferts, right?” She glanced at me for a while, quizzically, then recognition dawned on her face. “You’re T’s girl! I’m Shayne, T’s cousin!”

I stared at her.

Shayne? I wondered. Who the fuck is Shayne?

Then it came to me. T’s cousin Shayne from Arkansas was supposed to be coming into town this weekend to interview for a fellowship with Beth Israel Medical Center. I forgot. Damn.

Shayne ushered me inside. “Come in, come in! It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about you. T talks about you ALL the time. I’m sorry I startled you. I’m only here until tomorrow morning. I was supposed to be staying with a friend, but things didn’t work out and T refused to have me go to a hotel…”

Though I was listening, I was still silent.

Cousin or no, I needed her to put on something else.

“Where’s T?” I asked. “Oh!” Shayne’s chest jumped, her country fried accent coming out in her exclamation. I noticed she had on no bra.

I frowned.

I was tempted to lend her my trench coat so she could cover the hell up.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy running off at the mouth that I didn’t even tell you that he’s in his room asleep…he came him from his shift and passed out…I don’t even know if he changed or what he did…I tried calling him but he didn’t…” I cut the rambling off mid sentence. “Thanks, um…” “Shayne. It’s Shayne”, she responded, her broad smile revealing perfect teeth. I nodded. “Thanks. Shayne.”

Thank God. She talks too much.

Shaking my head to clear it, I walked towards the back of T’s apartment, my walk becoming more pronounced, more sensual as I got closer to his room. I could see him, laid out across his bed, the muscles in his calf pronounced, long leg hanging off the side, his toffee colored back defined, the fine sprinkling of chocolate colored freckles on his shoulder blades rising and falling, his breathing slow. He looked almost baby-like in slumber, his lips soft and hung open slightly, the same chocolate speckled inflections gently smattered across the bridge of his nose, playing hide and seek with his almond shaped eyes. I stood there, watching him in slumber for the longest, gently appreciating his beauty, reveling in my love for him.

Then I sniffed the air.

I sniffed again.

Something was off.

Quietly sitting down next to T, I leaned in real close to him to kiss him on the cheek and wake him. I needed to see his face more than I never needed to see anything right now. I needed reassurance. It was then that I noticed it.

He had a hickey on his neck.

A small one

It was under his ear...but it was a hickey nonetheless.

She’s his cousin. Eff out of here.

Just that quickly, my veins turned to ice and my insides churned. To think that he would do something like this seemed unfathomable and yet, not, in a sadistic sort of way. I vowed to not get angry. I vowed not to go ‘mad’ black woman and start throwing things and screaming and carrying on. My emotional switch instantly went from on to off. I was in a completely different place now. As bothered as I was, the sexual being in me was on the rise. Here I stood, in T’s place, nude but for a studded g-string under my trench coat, looking for a kiss, craving his touch, needing to feel him in me.

I was still going to get mine.

Then I was going to dump his no good cheating ass.

Standing up again, I rubbed his head in a front to back motion, cautious not to mess up the wave pattern in his hair that he was so proud of but knowing that the motion would wake him in more ways in one. Bending down, I whispered in his ear, “Baby. Baby wake up”.

He stirred.

Yawned.

One eye opened.

I stepped back and, opening the buttons, slid my trench coat off my shoulders and onto the floor.

His other eye opened. I was getting his full attention.

Starting to sit up, he said in a gravelly voice, “What…in…the…??” Prepping for the occasion, I had purchased a caramel flavored body oil that glistened on my ebony skin. Breasts perky and standing at attention, stomach relatively flat and my jewel studded satin black g-string accentuating my voluptuous hips and curves, I knew I was a sight to see, a sight that T was not used to seeing, either – an aggressor.

In a low sultry voice, I noted, “The shorty in the other room…she’s not REALLY your cousin, is she.”

Now sitting up completely, he toggled between staring at me, hands on hips, fixing him with my best “you’re-going-to-fuck-me” stare, and wrapping his mind around my quietly phrased statement. “You look…amaz…wait, what?” he stammered as he replayed the question in his mind.

“I said…”, I countered, walking up to him again and, placing one stiletto clad leg next to him on the bed, took his head and brought it to my chest, “Shayne…is not really your cousin, is she”. With his head between my breasts, he muttered an answer to my question while simultaneously beginning to stroke my breasts with his lips and tongue.

I put one hand on the back of his neck and pulled his head up so he could look me in my eyes.

“I can’t hear you baby. You were muffled. What did you say?” Lust in his eyes, he stared at me. A flicker of remorse clouded over his hazel tints, followed by lust again. I watched him, my hands on his neck, fingers gently stroking the spot on its right side. T opened his mouth to say something, instead moaning as I leaned in and gently licked where my fingers stroked.

I whispered in his ear, “Let’s play a game instead. I’m going to give you what you always asked for.”

To be continued...

Private Dancer - Part 3

At the end of the class, Ariane stayed behind a little to talk to the instructor, her eyes casually wandering to where Darren had been standing earlier. He wasn’t there. She started to breathe a sigh of relief until she saw Darren striding purposefully towards her and the instructor. Catching her breath, she turned to say something smart to him when he kissed the instructor gently on the cheek. Turning back to her, he said, “You made it out. Great”. The instructor laughed. “You know her too, Darren? Who don’t you know?” Darren chuckled. “This is my new Wii buddy from earlier. Ariane, right?” Ariane nodded, puzzled. As she opened her mouth to say something else, Darren said, “Ariane, this is Daria, my twin sister, and owner of this dance school”. Ariane’s mouth dropped open. Thanking Daria for the class and wishing Darren well, she bid them both so long and ran out before she could catch herself saying anything else.

Weeks went by and Ariane would see Darren off and on, occasionally in Target, sometimes when she was out and about, but mostly hanging around at the dance school, which had become somewhat of a release for her once a week after work. One particular night, she stayed after class, after all her fellow classmates were gone, to work out a little by herself and think. In the adjacent dance room, she heard R. Kelly’s reggae infused R&B song playing, the slow dancehall inspired rhythm tickling the adjoining walls. Curious, she walked over slowly, wondering what new moves Daria was cooking up on the other side.

What she saw surprised her.

Darren, in loose navy blue sweats, Timberlands, and a white wife beater, was sliding across the floor, combining street dancing with a smooth Caribbean whine, his pelvis thrusting the floor and then up again into this sort of spin, she might call it…either way, she was amazed. Darren’s fluid movements spoke of a seasoned dancer with years of experience. Ariane watched in awe at every created movement, every sensual piece of choreography perfectly staged. It was…so…sexy. She couldn’t stop watching. Her body moved in tune to the music almost involuntarily. Before she knew it, she had found her way inside the steamy dance studio, her hips moving independently of her body, her steps matching Darren’s as if in a trance. Darren looked up and saw Ariane there, her pecan sandie skin glistening in the studio lights, her purple leggings a second skin, her matching sports bra barely covering her mounds.

They assessed each other’s movements silently. Never had sweat seemed so erotic.

Darren opened his mouth to speak first. Ariane shook her head. Emboldened, she walked up to him, her hips swaying in time to the music. Standing face to face with him, she wet her lips, and, as if in slow motion, leaned in and licked Darren’s collarbone gently, so gently that had it not been for Darren’s narrowing eyes, one might not have realized what happened. Reaching the base of his neck, she lightly bit him and then kissed him there before stepping back, tenderly pulling on the skin there, . Darren grabbed the waistband of her pants and, pulling her back towards him, touched the base of her lips with his and held it there, his eyes glancing down her face, her eyes closed. Pulling away, he backed up a little, leaving Ariane confused. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Your turn”.

Their movements became their own lambada, each matched dance step its own version of foreplay. Darren's steps were a sensual tease for Ariane, who followed closely. During the moments their bodies would connect, their eyes locked and held. Their hands betrayed their minds - as Ariane trailed behind Darren, she allowed her hands to trail across Darren's broad, muscular back. "Damn", she muttered to herself. He was hiding a lot underneath those suits. Darren paused and turned quickly, his chest to hers, their chocolate and caramel sweat mingling. The two stood there, assessing each other, as Jodeci sang about what they wanted to do.The decision became apparent in Darren's eyes as he backed up slowly, his eyes still locked on hers. Ariane felt more naked and exposed from his stare than she ever had on anyone's pole. Darren lifted his now soaked wifebeater off and tossed it to the ground as Ariane watched, her eyes widening slightly. The tattoo of a breakdancing music scale peered back at her from his left bicep. She found herself drawn to it - to him...

To be continued...

Private Dancer - Part 2

As she finally stepped out of the shower, her fingers pruned, she felt her nipples stand at attention, the cold air hitting them like ice. Her body had never gone so long without that much needed release. Unlike others in her previous profession, she genuinely enjoyed the sexual games she played with others, the rush she felt when using her mouth and her tongue to submit someone into pleasure...the level of control she felt when pinning someone down and having her way with them....the arousal that came with watching someone else squirm in ecstasy. She missed having that kind of hold over someone, almost as much as she missed being caressed and touched.

Ariane changed and headed to the local Target to pick up some items before her shift. Doing a quick check in the mirror, she approved of what she saw: simple, clean face, sprinkled with tiny moles across her pecan sandie skin, a spot of lip gloss on her heart shaped lips, her almond shaped eyes dotted by naturally long lashes, long-ish hair blow dried straight, pulled back into a ponytail, simple diamonds in her ears. Acceptable. She took down her shades from the compartment above her head, grabbed her keys, her purse, and her IPod, and trekked inside the Target. She headed into electronics, where a tower of Nintendo Wii boxes greeted her, the ads all pointing to the Wii Fit game, as well as other Wii games. As she reached up to grab a box, the boxes began to wiggle a little and some fell off the side. Startled, she stepped back, only for more boxes to tumble. A low and deep baritone voice from behind her touched her shoulder and, gently removing one headphone plug, said, “Why don’t you let me help you, before you hurt yourself”.

Ariane turned around and stared into the eyes of what had to be the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

His attire was simple: white and black checked collared shirt, black chinos, a simple black loafer. The hand that lay on her shoulder was perfectly manicured and a smooth milk chocolate, as was the face that spoke to her. He had a low cut Caesar, the wave of his hair accentuated by the cut, and his keen brown eyes peered at her curiously behind square shaped designer frames. He smiled, and all she saw were crisp, white, perfectly shaped teeth. And a dimple.

Oh dear God, he had a dimple.

Trying not to get huffy, she straightened her back, and, gripping the cart tighter, she said, “Do you always take unsuspecting women’s head phones out?” He raised an eyebrow and peered back at her. “I do when they’re seconds away from destroying my store’s display and they can’t hear me when I’m warning them”. He smiled again. “I tried to catch your attention. You had the music blasting. Great song choice, by the way…I always liked Dirty Diana”. Ariane smirked. “This…is your store. If it is, you should tell your employees to fix the display right.” She drew herself up to her full 5 foot 7 height and waited for the retort. She’d heard it all from the men who tried to talk to her. This was sure to be a good one. One of the Target employees walked by, texting on the phone, seemingly oblivious. The gentleman stopped him with a gentle hand on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Samuel. I know you’re on break and all, but you should be texting in the break room, not on the floor. Can you fix this display for me immediately?” The employee peered at him; frowning, a retort ready, before his face dawned in recognition. “Right away, Mr. Grant. Sorry about that”. The employee put his phone away and got to work fixing the fallen boxes. Mr. Grant turned back to Ariane. “Target offers you their apologies”.

Ariane was stunned silent.

.

Mr. Grant chuckled and extended a hand. “Darren Grant. Senior Buyer, Northeast Region. I oversee this Target’s buying as well as most of the Targets in this region”. Ariane’s mouth dropped open slightly, then she shook her head as if to clear it and gingerly took his hand. Shaking it, she said, “Ariane Ryan. Not usually caught with her foot so deep in her mouth.” Darren laughed; a hearty laugh. “Well Ariane Foot-In-Mouth (wow, that was corny), I’m going to safely grab a Wii and place it in your cart for you, ok? Are you looking for any games in particular?” Ariane snapped out of the daze she found herself in. Shaking her head again, she said, “Wii Fit? Heard a lot about it.” Darren chuckled as he reached for the Wii Fit game from next to the display. Tossing it into the cart as well, he said, “Here it is. Although, I can think of a much better workout for you.” Ariane frowned. Here we go. “And that would be?” “Pole dancing. I hear it’s much more strenuous than most people think. Here’s a card for it.” Reaching into his pants pocket, he handed her a brightly colored postcard with information on pole dancing classes. Ariane rolled her eyes. “Pole dancing. Of course. Thanks, Darren.” She rolled her eyes and walked away, leaving Darren quietly assessing her in her wake. She paid for her Wii, along with a few other items she picked up on her way to the register. Flipping the card Darren gave her over in her hand, she chuckled to herself. “Just when I thought I had met a nice one,” she muttered to herself. Then again, she was a former stripper. Sort of hard to avoid...right? Putting her shades back on and turning her Ipod off, she head back out to her car in the sunshine.

***

It surprised her how packed the pole dancing class was when Ariane walked into the dance studio some hours later, after much internal debate and examining the card Darren had given her earlier. Sure, she was annoyed at the suggestion, but there wasn’t any reason she couldn’t check it out, right? She figured it would be fun to mess around on the pole again. Even though it was a far cry from her formal dance training, it was always fun. The instructor walked each participant through the various moves and when it was Ariane’s turn, she tuned everyone else out, channeled the Trey Songz song playing, and followed the instructor’s directions as she had perceived them. When she finished, she looked around and realized everyone was staring at her, including Darren, who was leaning against the doorjamb at the far end of the room. Her classmates burst into applause, including the instructor, but all Ariane could focus on was Darren’s stare at her from across the room.

Oh Lord. What was he doing here?

Naked With Socks! (and Stroke Development)

Sorry I've been out for a while! I promise you, though, I've been working hard on keeping things hot and spicy...

If the initials NWSO don't sound familiar to you, then you should concentrate on knowing them. NWSO is the acronym for Naked With Socks On, a premier relationship/lifestyle blog. If you don't know about his Wet Wednesdays series in particular...then you're slacking. *wink* Seriously. His site is chock full of helpful info on relationships and the like...and then there's Wet Wednesdays.

*fanning self*

Your girl Kaye, for the last three weeks, has been helping NWSO keep Wet Wednesdays dripping with her installment of The Highest Cost. Today was the steamy conclusion, and I could not be more thrilled at the feedback I've been getting! Thanks to all who enjoyed. If you want to check it out for yourself (as I'm sure that you do), here <--- is where you can find it. Be sure to click the links for Parts 1 and 2 before you get to reading part 3! (It's better that way. Or should I say 'wetter'? *wink*)

Anyway, I'm making it my goal to post something every other Saturday, be it a little anecdotal or a steamy story, starting this Saturday. So look out for it!

And check out NWSO's site. Trust me, it's worth it.

Private Dancer - Part 1

Her back arched off the bed as his tongue snaked a trail from her hardened nipple to her belly button. Grasping at the pillow cover, she peeked down to watch Michael’s head make its way further down, to her center, already dripping wet and ready. He kissed it once…twice…three times, his lips touching her lips from her hips while her lips uttered incoherent phrases of pleasure. Her arms struggled to be freed from the silk scarves currently wrapped around her tiny wrists, struggled to be able to grasp Michael's head as he rewrote the Kama Sutra on her clit one position at a time. Over and over, she called his name, moaning then screaming it as his tongue brought her closer and closer to the edge. He lifted his head quietly, letting his chin stimulate her clit as he whispered to her, “you coming, baby?” “Yes, oh God yes, please…”, she cried as her hips climbed up and up, the sounds of club hip hop booming around her…

Wait. That wasn’t right.

Ariane awoke with a start, her alarm blasting the latest in hip hop and R&B “trash”, as she called it – there was nothing like classic R&B. Sitting up in her bed, she looked around for signs of Michael, her ex, and, finding none, even went so far as to feel the sheets to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming. Except that she was. Her sheets were wet from her sweat, her body was throbbing, sitting on the edge…Michael wasn’t here, he was gone with the next trick, for lack of a better word, and she was here…alone. Alone and, now, horny as hell. They always said that you shouldn't turn a 'ho into a housewife'...but Ariane never saw herself as a whore. Granted, there were no cliche reasons for her previous lifestyle: she wasn't a struggling college student or a back-against-the-wall single mother in desperate need of some cash. She, quite simply, came from her parents' money and didn't want that lifestyle to change when she was forced to move out. For what it was worth, the money that she had saved from the countless escapades she cajoled her way into paid off handsomely. Coming back from her distant memories, she jumped in the shower and turned her shower head on to pulse, placed it directly on her Pandora’s box, let the water stream over her clit, leaned back against the wall and moaned, brought herself to a gentle orgasm that was a poor substitution for the real thing she was used to getting.

This was some real. Live. Bullshit. Sigh.

As she showered her dreamed lust off her, her hands caressed her honeyed skin, moved down it's dangerous curves, massaged the remainder of her weak orgasm down the drain of her mother of pearl inlaid shower tile. The advantage to her former lifestyle was the inevitable material perks - the humongous bathroom splashed in mother of pearl...the four bedroom house with wall to wall New Zealand plush wool carpet...her massive, label heavy wardrobe, complete with a separate closet for her shoes. Ariane always thought that continuing to have what she had would make her happy. Even growing up, her parents, before they parted ways, stressed the importance of looking important and 'fresh', whether it was a black tie affair, or to the local supermarket. As a result, Ariane grew up with an overwhelming sense of entitlement, reflected in her choice of boyfriend (and sometimes girlfriend), as well as in her sense of style, down to her eating habits. After a few years of turning tricks and playing in assorted 'clubs' throughout the area, she grew tired of using her body to get her what she wanted - but she didn't know any other way. One of her favorite hookups, when talking to her about her dreams, suggested community college as a means to find, well, herself. She enrolled in City Community and got her AOS in Massage Therapy. She still used her body to please others - simply in a less direct way now.

spades...something not quite like cards...

come and get in the shower with me...vanilla soap rubbed on my sensuality...not right now, whenever you are ready...not worried about being alone...long as you are on my mind and i on yours alone i can never be...but these thoughts...thoughts not quite haunting me...but more of an erotic response to the natural being in me...caresses and kisses...know i'm not ready but my body disagrees...patiently waiting for the day you give in to my seduction and seduce my body...mind and soul but i know i'm not ready...but i know you can't stop thinking about me...and i could feel the same quite possibly...but i'm just not ready, must keep my cards close to my chest...can't afford to fall into the same mess...have to win this Boston this time...

you were supposed to have a possibility...and yet the reality is that we may have to go this blind...to look into your eyes and teach you to trust as i learn how to teach to trust again...always a game of chance, playing your cards right is always my desire...and i sense that you can turn that board away from boredom and into a world of possibilities...come into the night with me and we can turn...clubs into spades and our minds and bodies will play and i will show you a paradise unparallaleled...so let's get this bid...are you ready?

Speechless, Pt. 2

All I could see in the air were words.

Well, no.

Obviously, I couldn’t see the words exactly, but I knew one thing: my assistant was trying to grasp my attention…and I was hearing not a word. She could've been screaming at the top of her lungs, for all I knew.

I felt a trickle of sweat creeping down the side of my face. My head lolled back and I gasped. I was aware of a persistent knocking but I was oblivious...blocking out everything but the sensations coursing through me...

creeping up my thighs...

warming my middle.

I ran my hands through my hair and put my finger in my mouth. Sucked it like it was a Charms Blow Pop and I was trying to get to the gum center. Muffled groans with the palm of my hand. Rich cream dripping down my thighs was lapped up like ice cream as I could barely control the sounds that came from my body. I tried to move down in my chair to give him better access and to perhaps get to the orgasm that he was artfully keeping me from, but he stopped me with one touch of his hand.

Knock.

I held onto my chair for dear life and bit my lip. Tried desperately to suppress the desire creeping out of me. Thought that I might have hid my nana’s last slice of chocolate caramel cake down there. This boy was eating me like the sweetest meal he ever laid hands on. Up and up and up I pushed my hips. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Knock.

The softest of moans rose from within me and bounced off of the walls of my office. The slightest of trembles snuck up my leg as waves of pleasure crashed over me. He brought me to the peak again and again. Another moan came from me, this one louder than the first. His ‘shh’ reminded me of where I was and made me come all over again.

The loud, insistent knocks at my door and someone jiggling the frame were my rude awakening. Realizing that the door was locked, I jumped up, aggravated. Fixing my shirt and tucking in my blouse, I unlocked and yanked open the door. “What?” I barked. My assistant jumped back, startled. “Uh…well, I just wanted you to know that the package from…” “Just leave it outside the door. I’ll get it”, I said, and practically slammed the door in her face. I traipsed back to my desk and plopped in my chair. He crept out from underneath the desk. “I’m going to be the talk of the office for the next week”, I said, and sighed.

He took my leg and massaged it gently, starting at the balls of my feet and creeping his way gently up my calf. I rested my head on the back of my chair and sighed again. “We shouldn’t be doing this here”, I said unconvincingly. “You said this was your fantasy”, he responded, and went to rub my other leg. “Yeah, I know,” I said softly, “but its different when something of this nature actually comes true…you never actually think these types of things through”. “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said, letting go of my foot gently and standing up. “Yeah, it might be best”, I responded tenderly and stood as well. My eyes told a different story, one of desire and passion, but my mouth forced out the words “I’ll see you later”.

And so he left, the only reminder of him a voicemail message, my personal scent, and his Fahrenheit cologne. I stayed in the office for the remainder of the day, a bit embarrassed to come out, intimidated by my own staff and their wayward mouths. I was the last out of the building later; my assistant came to wish me a good evening and I offered her an apology, citing pent up frustrations as the cause. “I understand, gyrl”, she whispered as her head darted around slightly for any sign of other powers that be. In the the corporate world, one tended to make it their business to leave the ‘sistergirl’ in us at home: the uninhibited, ‘I-don’t-give-a-damn’, neck snapping, and high five-ing. This time, she winked at me, an "I get it" wink, and walked away, the ‘sistergirl’ in her walk a bit more accentuated, the tailored cut of her Ann Taylor suit no longer hiding her curves.

Heading home, it began to drizzle, so I put the top up on my luxury car and closed my window. So much for a nice breeze, I thought. I got home pretty quickly and immediately headed for the shower. I knew that the Mister was at work, so I quickly decided that my night was best spent with me, my television, and my hand, since there would be no chocolate sweat on my sheets and batteries were just too overpriced these days. I threw on a comfy baby tee and some gray and turquoise pajama bottoms and settled down on the couch for some r and r. I was channel surfing when I came across this well endowed by way of surgery 'nurse' and her male 'patient' getting it on in the soft porn flicks you catch on the premium cable channels after 10 pm.

As I watched the contrite scene, I let my mind wander. I just never understood the attraction with these types of shows. To me, the chick, 9 times out of 10, is plastic, the sex is fake, and the plot is so predictable that you know how the segment ends before it begins. Watching the madness for a minute, I couldn’t take it anymore and went in search of something better. The Movie Channel was showing, surprisingly, Cappuccino, a movie I rather enjoyed, so I cuddled up with my pillow, pushed all erotic and erotic related thoughts from my head, and tried to enjoy the movie.

It didn’t work.

To be continued...

Ocean Lust, Pt. 1

The sound of the waves hitting the shore lulled her; relaxed her as she lay in her living room, sated. Always felt that the sound of the ocean was Mother Nature’s orgasm; it crested softly when calm and gently roared at its peak. Moreover, it was in complete control of itself. It didn’t rely on another variable to bring it to its pleasure. She enjoyed laying and listening to it, reflecting on her own self induced cries of ecstasy as they bounced off the four walls of her ocean side villa. Her cried were her blanket, her ultimate proof of total independence. She didn’t need a man…or a woman, for that matter. Not to make her come. Not to bring her…there.

But she was lonely.

The blanket of whispers and self induced moans weren’t enough sometimes, enough to squelch a deeper desire for something more substantial. She realized that at some point, she would need to forget about her self imposed exile from everything and everyone and make a decision. She sat up, the scent of her musk still lingering in the air and glanced around. Her place was lightly adorned; it reflected her sensuality and some of her best work. Then again, her sensuality was, indeed, her best work. In the center of the wall across from a glass sliding door leading to the beach was a huge framed black-and-white. The contrast in colors was stark: a woman, dark chocolate in color, lithely kneeled; her thighs splayed suggestively open, back arched. A plain white satin sheet lay artfully between her thighs and wrapped around to her wrist. Her hair was a mass of curls that shone mahogany red from the black and white portrait; her white teeth seemed to grasp someone’s name in midair.

A solitary hand, much lighter in comparison, snaked across the gentle rise and fall of her breasts. Lithe tapered fingers spread over the mound; her nail making the slightest indentation; a dimple in a soft rock. The man’s hands seemed to have no color; yet they shone pecan brown despite the black and white on her hips, hoisting her. She seemed resplendent. The pleasure in her echoed and shook without a motion or sound.

The house in and of itself contained very little furniture. You could say that her loneliness was her bed, her sexuality her pillow, her fingers, the blanket that covered her every night. She spent most of her time in an adjacent studio, further up on the mainland, and thus had no need for accessorizing. Her home seemed more of a gallery to her work and to the work of others whom she admired. Stretching her legs, she went in search of a cold beer and some sweats. She had work to do.

* * *

The studio was covered in tubes of tempera and palettes with mixed colors. Tarps and canvases, both blank and half finished, lay every where. In the corner, by the factory window stood a tripod with a digital video/still camera. Rolls of film littered the floor in the corner. Her eyes scanned the room; this was her second love. She had a presentation to make to a local gallery, and she wanted to bring a plethora of work with her. Setting up a canvas with a palm tree painted on it; she set out to complete some of her work.

Her footsteps were familiar…the tick clock of her step caught her attention. She paused in mid stroke, slightly frustrated. Anaya knew not to interrupt her when she was in the studio; it broke her concentration and creative flow. Still, she said nothing. Anaya spoke. “You didn’t return my call”. “I didn’t know I needed to”. She resumed her strokes. The response was softer, that of an apologetic lover: “You worried me when you left that night”. “Go figure…couldn’t tell you cared”. Stroke. The tide was coming in; she could hear the rush of water, lapping against the shore. Anaya’s footsteps came closer still. “Why’d you run away?” “You got too close. I told you that I need my space. You were in it. So I left.” The answer seemed simple to her: she never allowed anyone to enter her personal space, moreover her heart. It complicated things for her. She had always been a drifter, ready to relocate at a moment’s notice. She felt Anaya’s hand on the small of her back. The hand from the picture. She froze in mid stroke. This girl was breaking all her rules.

“You don’t have to run anymore”.

Anaya ran her hands through her coarse red hair. Her fingers curled around a lock; she pulled it gently. She knew what it did to her. “Come here”. She was reluctant. Her studio was her haven, she didn’t want it sullied. Anaya pulled, this time a little tighter. “Come here”. She stood and faced her. Anaya traced the contours of her face with her finger and gently brought her head upwards. She leaned in and kissed her. Again. She loosened up a little, sighing. Anaya released her hair and rested that hand on her waist. She tugged lightly on the waistband of her sweats. She began to kiss her cheek. Then her earlobe. Her neck. Her tongue lay a trail from her neck to her earlobe. Reversed. That was her spot. She didn’t even notice when her sweatpants slid to the floor. Wasn’t aware that Anaya lay her on the tarp and took off her wifebeater in one solitary motion. All her mind could focus on was the sensation. Anaya’s mouth on her neck. Sucking her fingers. Then, on her breasts. Caressing the nipple with the soft flesh of her tongue. Her fingers took on another life, they found a comfortable spot within the folds of her

blackberry flesh and began to play.

She was very wet. Anaya always compared her to a chocolate covered strawberry…dark surroundings with a red, juicy center that dripped with the subtlest hints of the finest caramel. Anaya’s soft flesh found its way from her breast, down the middle of her torso to the red in her cove. She arched off the tarp. “What…are you doing…to me…”

(c) Kaye Michele ~ 2010

Speechless, Pt. 1

The taste of his back called me.

It called me in the office. On the phone. In that insipid meeting with my boss, I dreamt of chocolate flavored sweat stirring my coffee, relieving the need for cream or sugar, and I just wanted to take a sick day to become one with him and collect it all. I almost came when my boss said "yes" and I realized that I was reliving the night before...to the point that I almost moaned aloud.

Wow.

Collecting my thoughts, I dropped everything on my desk, grabbed my twenty four pack of packaged death, and hightailed it for the parking lot. Leaning on someone's car, I lit, puffed, and inhaled. Sigh. My mind drifted back to his lips on my...

"You know you have to quit smoking, right?" I looked up. Why was everyone trying to ruin my fantasy? Nick, the resident fix it-all-do-it-all guy at my job, was leaned again the side of his company van, puffing on a cigar. I looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Um...aren't we a hypocrite?” I quipped. Nick chuckled, the smoke from his Oliva pluming a thin greyish stream from the side of his mouth. "Listen, sweetheart, I always tell you, leave the ugly stuff to the ugly men". Nick coughed. It was the deep phlegmy of a seasoned smoker. I retorted, "And I always tell you, stop calling yourself ugly. You know ugly people make me itch". Nick laughed again, and this time I offered him a true smile. I enjoyed talking to Nick. He was one of the few people in the office who I enjoyed talking to on a regular basis. Unlike others in our office, it didn't matter to me that he cleaned our toilets and our floors. I liked Nick. Nick was real. And consistent. A quality that I wished many other people that I knew possessed.

The tropical infused cancer stick did nothing to abate my hunger. If anything, it increased it. I knew it was only a matter of time when the temporary high would go away and I would be reliving it all again. Nick spoke, and I heard moans, soft utterances of pleasure like tiny pulses running through me. He wiped his forehead, and I tasted salty sweet sex. It wasn't Nick. I was trapped in a yesterday.

There was a pop. I jumped. Nick chuckled. "You're someplace else, miele. Perhaps I talk to you later, no?" I grimaced slightly. "Sorry, Nick. I am someplace else. I'll talk to you later". "No prob, doll face, whenever you wanna talk". And Nick was off. Nick reminded me so much of Santa Claus sometimes, if Santa had no beard, told dirty jokes and, well, cleaned toilets. I stepped on my cigarette and went back inside the office. The message light blinked incessantly on my phone. Checking my voicemail, I realized I had four messages. Was I gone that long? I wondered. The phone was on speaker, so I sat back in my chair to listen.



It was as if pure passion had wafted through the vents and took a seat on my desk.



I sat up and took the phone off speaker. I must have looked like the RCA dog who meets that pit from the projects, because as my assistant knocked and peeked in, she took two steps back and asked if I was ok. I shook my head yes. "Oh ok. I just wanted to make sure. A Mr. Johnson is here to see you". I furrowed my eyebrows. I didn't know who a Mr. Johnson was, but my assistant looked like the cat that swallowed both canaries, so I told her to tell him to come.

He didn't say a word as he walked in. All he did was point to the phone, and I felt his voice, smooth as chocolate, ooze out his caramel finger and land on my breast. "What are you doing here?..." He put his finger to my lips. The sweat I had been craving all day was literally at my fingertips and I was busy making small talk. I sat up, silent but eyes sending constant inquiries. He walked back to the door and closed it. Locked it. He pointed to the phone again. I caught the hint this time and replayed the message. Ginuwine floated through the air again as he walked over and kneeled down in front of me, sliding off one red pump.

Then, the other.

His hand caressed my foot and licked it. Gently. Softly. His tongue rubbed my toes and trailed a path, well past the point of no return, where it met a pleasurable entrance that by this point was dripping. I wore a no frills g-string, which he moved to the side. He explored my delta, wrote his name in sexy curlicued script that left no room for displeasure. It was a wonder that I remained silent. I wanted to scream. I settled for soft, breathy moans. I didn't do the saying names thing, but I was seconds away from making an exception. And then, someone knocked on the door. He looked up at me, only for a second before moving to kneel under the desk and wheeling the chair and me closer. I said, "Come in". I could only hope that the person would be quick and that he wouldn't be found out under the desk. Or me. Especially since he didn't stop...

To be continued...

Lunchtime In'her'mission

His words sex me on a summer day
Spread like butter
Smooth like cake
My legs part involuntarily
He mind shatters me
Pleasing arousal without touching me
From alliteration whispered to me over lunch
Desire wafting through me
I groan his name
Words of unfettered erotica play pit a pat with my nipples
Sing song across my peaks
Fan an unimaginable flame
It pierces me
So deep
I want him
To pierce me
So deep
His words so carnal
Voice soft as his touch
He wrote me a story

5:45 pm 5.16.07

Stroking for the First Time

Your first time is always filled with surprises - the unexpected first stroke, the unsureness of every movement, every touch...

You can always expect sexy here.

It is our hope that the words that will trail across your screen here will encourage you to explore the sensual side of you. Whether it is our words or the words of others who are masters of their stroke...we hope to engage your mind...as well as your loins.

Take a peek inside our passionate minds...sit back...and enjoy...