Caramel Flava

by Zane

  “Then tell me: why did you say those things?” Oscar asked.

  “I wanted you to think I was bad. So you wouldn’t…”

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  She burst into tears. “So you wouldn’t love me!”

  Some of the force, the violence of Carnaval had ebbed, moved on. Oscar looked at this girl, this most unusual girl. Tears stained her miserable face. Mazatlán rushed by, the streets, the clutter, the noise. Sunny Mazatlán. “What,” he asked her, “is wrong with love?”

  “Only someone who’s never been hurt would ask that.” She wiped her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Oscar laughed. “I’m getting used to being with a good girl.”

  “I suppose I could be a little bad. For you.”

  “Bad is good,” he said. “Sometimes.” They kissed, and he held her close.

  Open House

  Casa para la venta

  James W. Lewis

  Man, this will be fun, I thought. I can’t wait!

  “Welcome to Rancho Hills,” the pretty redheaded sales rep said, interrupting my private conversation. “Have you two been here before?”

  “No,” I replied, staring at dozens of toy house models under a large glass table. Red “Sold Out” magnets covered at least ninety percent of the mini-homes, which was typical for a new housing development in Northern California.

  “What’s the square footage of your largest house?” my wife, Sonya, asked.

  “Plan three is a 3,680-square-foot, four bedroom, our largest model.” The rep pointed to a corner table. An older woman stood next to the table with a wide customer service smile. “We have brochures with the info you need.”

  The older woman handed us two brochures. “Thank you,” I said. I tapped Sonya’s elbow, turned, and then pushed the glass door that led to the three models.

  The older woman held the door for us. “Just a reminder, we’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay,” Sonya said, slipping her hand into mine. “We’ll be back soon.”

  My wife pulled me away. Outside, we double-timed past the first two models. The hem of Sonya’s white summer dress bounced against her ample backside, her dark-brown legs as smooth as buttermilk.

  “Slow down, babe,” I said, laughing. “What about the other models?”

  She didn’t turn. “Don’t have much time. Gotta hurry. Anda más rapido.”

  I smiled. “I’m walking fast, babe!”

  My wife…boy…damn! I loved when Sonya would flip between English and Spanish. Her tossed Spanglish vocabulary always boiled my horny blood cells, even after years of an up-and-down marriage. Because of her, I “hablo español” with the best of ’em.

  Of course, being Dominican burned something within me, too. Ever since I saw Rita Moreno on The Electric Company back in the day, I always had a lit flame for Latinas. No wonder I married one.

  While run-walking, I stared at the Spanish Colonial–style mansion with multicolored concrete tiles for a roof. It definitely had a trendy, MTV Cribs look. Very nice.

  We stepped up the curvy entryway. I peeped at the sectional garage doors and thought how perfect it would be to have separate spots for our rides.

  “Nice, huh?” Sonya said, now standing near the entrance. The raised panel door stood at least ten feet high.

  “Yup. Can’t wait to see the inside.”

  She pushed at the door. To my surprise, classic jazz welcomed us. We stepped inside and admired the marble tile. Central air-conditioning cooled us from ninety-degree summer heat.

  My wife’s eyes grew wide as plates. “Que bellezal!” She grabbed my hand. “Come on, babe, upstairs. Vámonos!”

  I didn’t say a word; I just did what she told me.

  She skipped up the hardwood steps, giggling like a kid on her way to Magic Mountain, with me close behind her. I gazed at the crystal chandelier hanging from the mile-high ceiling, bobbed my head to the jazzy percussion and drum bass that reverberated through the house.

  We reached the top of the stairs. With my wrist still locked under her tight grip, Sonya guided me toward the loft. She didn’t peep into the bedrooms, bathrooms or family room; she already knew her destination.

  In the loft area stood a large pine bookcase, a La-Z-Boy recliner and two ottomans—the perfect chill spot. Sonya placed the brochures on the La-Z-Boy, stepped between the ottomans and placed her hands on the steel rail that overlooked the living room.

  “All right,” she said, looking at her watch. “Solamente tenemos trece minutos.”

  Thirteen minutes, huh? I thought. I didn’t waste time. Once I flipped up my wife’s dress, slid my hands under her panties and rubbed her cocoa-skinned culo, we commenced the real reason why we came to the house.

  I pulled her panties down her legs and onto the floor. Her flesh warmed my hand—as if anticipation singed her flesh. I unzipped my shorts. Down to my ankles they went.

  “Damn,” I said, tingles tickling my face. “We didn’t check for anybody in here.”

  “No time,” Sonya replied. No fear, no hesitation in her voice. I loved her on-the-edge-of-danger nerve. “We’ll take our chances.”

  The loft became the perfect lookout spot. I could see most of the living room and outside through a large window next to the front door. I surveyed our vicinity one last time before I lowered my hips and positioned myself for rear entry. Heart thumps jabbed me from within.

  “Hurry up, baby,” Sonya whispered, pushing her butt against my steel-hard pinga.

  I grinned. “Here I come.”

  The surround sound of jazz added a seductive melody to our risky business, setting the stage for a perfect “slow dance.” Nine inches slapped Sonya’s firm butt cheeks;then I maneuvered, and slid my cock inside her. The walls of her pussy…shit…so wet! Ain’t nothin’ like it in the world.

  With me swallowed up, her warmth dented my watchdog composure. It made my body relax, eyelids slump and mouth drop into a crooked grin. I wasn’t inside a $400,000 house anymore;I was inside my wife—the only place I wanted to be.

  We grooved against each other, releasing sweet purrs like the sounds of the jazz player’s trumpet. I buried my forehead in the nape of her neck, her thick wavy hair rubbing against my nose and lips. Moving strands of hair, I lapped my tongue along the lines between her shoulders, tasting trickles of sweat.

  “Maldito!” she cried. “You feel so good! I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

  My eyelids shot open. Sonya forced me to remember our illegal sexcapade.

  I twitched when I saw the chandelier, but maintained my slow, steady strokes against dark-brown cheeks reminiscent of Jennifer Lopez’s onion. I could tell Sonya’s eyes were still closed, obviously relying on me as lookout.

  I checked the window next to the front door. Didn’t see anyone outside and couldn’t hear anything but my wife and jazz music. I knew that could change any second.

  My heart kicked into fourth gear. I started pumping faster. Sonya’s moans grew louder, my grunts deeper. She spread her legs into a wide upside-down V and nudged her butt further against my steady grind. She felt so damn good! Fuck! My panicky thrill had collided with the explosive sensation of my cock skinny-dipping inside her—spreading my haywire hormones into an internal wildfire.

  The smooth groove of trumpets resonated around us. Nice melody. I think the jazz player was Norman Brown, but who cared, anyway? Shit, I didn’t. Sonya and I made our own music.

  Sweat rained down my forehead into my eyes. I gritted my teeth, then dug my nails into Sonya’s wet ass cheeks. She snapped her head back against my shoulder, expelling a sharp cry. I snaked my hand under her shirt, cupped her tetas, and then caressed her nipples. While circling deep inside her, I slowed my pace—then pounded her pussy with hard strokes. Her cries pierced the soft whine of a sax solo.

  Tingles raked through my back, my legs—even my toes. I yanked my arm from under her dress, then wrapped my fingers around the rail next to her ha
nds, my hard flesh so deep inside.

  Fuck!

  Again, I forgot where I was. Or, maybe I didn’t care where I was. I began reaching my peak. A primal urge mushroomed in me, but I restrained myself from yanking Sonya’s hair and pile-driving into her. Our cries could’ve cracked windows.

  Then I heard voices outside.

  I thought my heart would implode.

  We froze—then gasped.

  I looked toward the window. Before I said a word, my wife whispered, “Coño! It’s the sales reps!”

  I swear the thunder rumbling inside me could’ve severed my rib cage. Both reps were walking toward the house but had stopped in front of the window to review a stack of papers the older woman held. All they had to do was turn to the glass, look up—and catch the last stages of our public porno.

  Heat rushed across my face. I swallowed—but commenced the backstroke. We could see them—but they hadn’t seen us…yet.

  Sonya pushed back into me. “We’d better hurr…ay, mierda”—her body jerked, then their knees banged each other—“I’m ’bout to…to come!”

  She pounded her ass against me…gasping…cursing…moaning. I turned to the window. Shit! The reps started walking toward the door! Lost sight of them—but didn’t stop. Sonya’s mini-explosions had seized control of her body. I cupped a hand over her mouth to muffle her cries as spasms ripped through her. Her teeth nicked my finger. I endured the pain.

  Uh-oh. “Ay, mierda” for me, too.

  My stomach tightened, arms twitched, eyes shut. My head dropped between her shoulder blades, teeth clamping strands of Sonya’s hair. Heart booming…hips slipping and sliding…our faces pouring sweat. So fuckin’ intense.

  My legs went limp. I lost balance momentarily, pushing my knees against the back of Sonya’s legs. The voices outside grew louder; I thought I heard footsteps. Couldn’t stop, though. Almost there. I gripped Sonya’s waist—then came with the force of a volcano.

  A long-winded percussion of horns serenaded our coital finale. Voices were just outside; I could almost understand their words. For a second, I didn’t give a shit. Sonya and I were riding earthquake tremors—but a tap on the door shook us. I opened my eyes, swiping away strands of Sonya’s hair that had stuck to my wet forehead.

  The front door opened, but still shielded them from us. Frantic, Sonya shoved me backward, slamming me against the bookcase. She stumbled, regained balance, and then bent to pick up her panties. My cock dripped semen on the bottom of Sonya’s dress and thigh as I struggled to pull my shorts up.

  I saw the redheaded sales rep emerge from behind the door, so I ducked, smacking my face against Sonya’s left ass cheek. She slapped my arm, giggling.

  “Hello?” one of the women said. I think she heard the ruckus. “It’s five minutes to six. We’re about to close.”

  We bent down low and back far enough where the reps couldn’t see us—but I heard footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. Sonya crawled onto her back while yanking up her panties. So much exhilaration in her pretty brown eyes. I stood, finally yanked up my underwear and shorts, and then pulled Sonya to her feet…just in time.

  I heard the rep at the top of the stairs. “Excuse me,” she said. “We have to close up.”

  “Oh…uh…okay,” I said, zipping up my shorts, my back turned to her. Breathe, breathe! “Give us a se-second. My wife…uh…tripped on the ottoman.”

  I didn’t turn around. Sonya stood in front of me, trying to tidy up as much as she could. She finger-combed strands of out-of-whack hair that had covered her eyes, stuck to her forehead, and the sides of her face. Damn, we couldn’t stop giggling. Just like teenagers.

  I hadn’t realized how much I missed Sonya’s hearty chuckles. Hadn’t seen so many smiles in a while. Her face exuded such a glow.

  The redhead walked up to us. “Is everything okay?”

  I grabbed Sonya’s hand and scrambled past the redhead. “Yeah. We’re fine.”

  Sonya banged her knee against an ottoman, then stumbled into the La-Z-Boy. I caught her before her face collided with the cushion. She exploded in laughter.

  When we reached the stairs, I turned, saw the sales rep lift her head, and noticed the puzzled look. I guess she was trying to figure out those sticky wet spots on the carpet. Before she could say a word, we jetted down the stairs.

  The other rep was walking out of the living room when she saw us. “Hello,” she said, “how did you like this model?”

  I pulled the door. “Love it! We marked our territory here. Can’t wait to come back!”

  A gazillion wrinkles furrowed the woman’s head, but she still maintained that customer service smile. Sonya covered her mouth to keep from exploding.

  “That’s…um…nice,” the woman said. “Hope to see you again soon.”

  “Okay,” Sonya replied. She grabbed my arm and gave me the evil eye. “C’mon, you knucklehead.”

  We darted to freedom, the hot sun almost sitting on us. Summer heat outside couldn’t compare to the inferno we’d created inside, though.

  Sonya hotfooted a few feet in front of me. I looked down and noted a wet spot glistening on her calf. I didn’t say anything about it, just smiled. A little memento for my eyes only.

  We got in the car—then got the hell out.

  I leaned the car seat back, my fingers tapping the steering wheel. We sat quietly, paging through our thoughts, small grins strapped to our faces. Shoot, the only thing missing were cigarettes.

  Never thought we’d be in this position. Married seven and a half years and almost succumbed to the so-called Seven-Year Itch. Kisses had pretty much died out; hugs were every so often. The passion in our marriage had slipped away somehow.

  Man, how our secret getaways changed all that. A renewed sense of adventure had resuscitated our dying attraction; made two thirty-six-year-olds act half their ages.

  Our new magnetism had driven us to Rancho Hills—and dozens of other outdoor spots. That’s one more check mark on our long list of “pubic” places to conquer.

  It’s a wonderful thing to rekindle a flame and keep it blazing.

  Sonya grabbed a newspaper from the backseat. She flipped through several pages before she said, “Hey, that movie is still in theaters. The one with the really bad reviews.”

  I grinned. “Yeah? What times?”

  “The last showing is ten-fifteen tonight.”

  A minute or two passed. I turned to Sonya, saw the corners of her red-glazed lips creep up.

  “So,” I said, “I hear that movie is really, really bad.”

  She chuckled. “Yup. Only made a couple mil its first weekend.”

  Sonya stroked my knee. She had a naughty glint in her eyes; the same look she’d given me minutes before ending up at Rancho Hills.

  “So that means the movie’s so bad there won’t be anyone in the theater, right?”

  She nodded. “That’s right.” Her hand crept up my thigh. Yup, that look got more evil by the second. “So,” she said. “Quieres ir al cine esta noche?” Movie tonight, huh? I smiled. We damn sure won’t be watching a thing.

  Just Damn Good Sex!

  Sólo Sexo Crudo

  Naleighna Kai

  Well, if you won’t talk to me or let me make love to you…then just stick your honey pot out the front door so I can taste you. At least feed me something, damn it!”

  Niyah’s jaw dropped. Her fingers went limp, sending the fine bone china plate tumbling toward the marble floor, where it shattered and flew in a thousand directions. Dinner landed everywhere. She closed her eyes, trying to block out the fact that her neighbors had just heard Mario’s outburst.

  Instead of being embarrassed, she said, “Awww, no he didn’t say that!”

  She’d never heard him get angry or raise his voice, but now Mario had just told the world he knew her more intimately than some men knew their women—and he wasn’t ashamed!

  For a woman who was used to giving up pussy out of both panty legs, his words were more than a chal
lenge—they were a return to the natural order of things.

  Her body started melting at the thought of what that man could do with his tongue, then it trembled at the memory of their steamy nights together. Since she had picked religion over sex, she was surprised by the loneliness of her empty bed. Now, after three months of holding it together, keeping her legs closed, and staying knee-deep in church, Niyah wanted to give in—she wanted to fill that emptiness and her bed again.

  Contrary to popular belief, Satan didn’t have a pitchfork, tail, horns, and a red suit. He came under the guise of a surprisingly tall, lean, muscled, well-groomed, curly-haired Puerto Rican with enough fire and passion to start a five-alarm fire.

  Mario’s expert tongue belonged in the Porno Hall of Fame. His matching dick techniques would put Doc Johnson products to shame. And since the good “doctor” had been memorialized in some of the world’s most well used dildos and vibrators on the planet—that was truly saying something. Mario’s massive hands could drape across her skin with whisper-soft touches or grip her in the waves of a thundering orgasm and keep her in place until he was done giving as good as he got. He navigated the soft recesses of her dark brown skin and the even softer folds of flesh with unmatched expertise. Cherished the full-curve measurements that pushed her into plus-size status, separating her from the slender sisters. And he enjoyed every inch, exploring her each time as though it were the first.

  And she had given him up! What planet did she live on? If giving in right now meant going to hell, Niyah was ready to take a ringside seat by the fire. Mario was that good!

  Her wavering resolve, coupled with the fear that Mario might say something else that would put it all out there for her neighbors, should have stirred her to action. Instead, she stood motionless in the center of the living room floor, her bare feet covered with the macaroni and cheese, glazed turkey ham, and string beans she’d reheated for a late-night dinner.

  Struggling between desire, common sense, and logic, Niyah broke down. She wanted to be with him so badly it tore her apart. But she had changed from the woman with a For Sale sign on one thigh and an Open for Business sign on the other, to a Bible-wielding, four-days-a-week churchgoing sister. She wanted to stay on the righteous path. Why is this so hard? Why do I miss him so much? Why do I feel so lonely even though I’m doing the right thing?