by Zane
Perfect pleasure hung over us for delicious seconds.
I arched for him. His cock rubbed all the right spots. Heat flushed across my face and lips. I could hear him groaning. His fingers dug into my hips.
My pussy clamped tight around him, grasping as his cock amplified the release inside me. I hit the peak and rode the waves down.
I groaned.
Luis thrust once more, and then held still inside me. I could feel the throb as he came.
There was nothing I could do about our scent in the air, but I straightened the chairs and smoothed my skirt. He stared at his shoes while he dressed.
In the elevator, he slumped against the handrail.
God, what had I done?
Tomorrow, I’ll be good, I vowed. Tomorrow, it will all be about Mamá. She’ll sit up in her bed and scold me for neglecting her. I’ll bow my head, knowing that I deserve it, and be grateful that she’s feeling like herself again.
Maybe I’ll brush her hair.
We walked through the deserted lobby. The gift shop was closed. Tomorrow, I’d bring Mamá irises, tulips, and daffodils—spring flowers of renewal. She’d scold me for spending the money, but she’d be pleased.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Luis offered.
The door to the hospital chapel stood ajar. It offered sanctuary from an awkward moment.
“I think, maybe, I’ll go in there for a while.” It wasn’t the best way to say good-bye, but at least he could escape cleanly.
Luis followed me inside.
There were three rows of smooth, dark, wood pews, separated by an aisle. A small pulpit stood on a raised dais. The dark-brown carpet showed vacuum tracks.
I knelt and crossed myself before taking a seat. The pew was hard and cool on the backs of my thighs. Luis sat close, but didn’t touch me. I stared at the brass cross on the wall behind the pulpit and wondered why I couldn’t be the girl Mamá had raised me to be. Was it right to face God with fresh sin still damp between my legs?
My head tipped forward. Hair cascaded, hiding my face, but not my shame. I prayed for Mamá, for her nurses, the doctors, and Luis’s abuela, with my hands clutched tight.
Tomorrow, I promised God, I’ll be a saint.
Luis put his warm hand on the nape of my neck. I glanced up at him, hoping the tear stinging the corner of my eye didn’t sparkle. Guilt weighed at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you think we’ll be forgiven?” he asked.
I nodded toward the cross. “If we ask for it sincerely, we’re forgiven. Unless you mean Mamá. She’s a little tougher on me than God is.”
South South Bronx
Hugh Smith
Enormous rats scurried among the shadows, pausing here and there to pick up scraps of garbage that spilled from Dumpsters lining the South Bronx alleyway.
Every so often a face appeared at the alley’s entrance. Addicts, probably, or homeless, wondering what a brand-new Mercedes (with Connecticut plates, no less) was doing parked in a filthy South Bronx alley at this hour of the night. They would have to keep wondering since the streetlight couldn’t penetrate far enough into the murk for them to see what was going on. But I’m sure they wish it did, since my moans and screams made it clear what was taking place.
The night had been much more stressful than usual. My restaurant, Cabaña, was a zoo. Over the past year I had worked my ass off and Cabaña had blossomed into a genuine Manhattan hot spot; a place to see and be seen. In addition to the usual Friday night crowd of rich Manhattanites and wealthy tourists who waited months for a reservation, tonight there was an Oscar-winning actor, a former New York City mayor, a rapper and his entourage, and a private party for an up-and-coming European tennis star.
Everything had to go perfectly, so I personally greeted every table, made sure the food was perfect, soothed the ego of the rapper, who thought the waiter was coming on to him, arranged a private table for the Oscar winner so no one would notice that the young lady he was with wasn’t really young or a lady, and later escorted the young tennis star out through the service entrance so the paparazzi wouldn’t see that she was so high she didn’t even know her own name. By the time the bulk of the patrons were gone, I was exhausted and decided to leave my managers to close up. After a night like I’d had, I needed some relief, the kind my husband, Miguel, couldn’t provide and that I could only find in one place.
I’ve had lovers in the past, but after too much wasted time and effort, I found I had no use for the young personal trainers who only wanted to brag about fucking the rich, older woman. I couldn’t stomach the models either, or the athletes, actors, and assorted trust-fund babies who spent their money at my restaurant and their time flirting with me, trying to seduce me with their looks and Daddy’s money. Even more pathetic were the executives, Fortune 500 types with manicured nails, soft hands, and hair plugs. Those pampered punks didn’t know a thing about what I wanted. Plus, they weren’t used to a woman like me, a sexy, full-figured Latina who overpowered them with more breasts, hips, ass, and thighs than they had any clue what to do with. I needed someone from the streets, a man who knew what it was to come up hard and have nothing except a dick and the ability to use it. I needed someone rough around the edges. I needed someone rough, period, and the best place to find men like that is the South Bronx.
I must be loca; even the cops don’t venture into the South Bronx without a damn good reason. Hell, I could get robbed, raped, or worse. To tell you the truth, the thought of rape turned me on. There was something exciting about the thought of being brutally used to within an inch of your life by desperate men who don’t give a damn about you.
Still, sometimes I wondered whether or not what I did and who I did it with was more to hurt Miguel than to pleasure myself. Miguel would be mortified if he knew his princesa was associating with the kind of people he called “the dregs of society.” He’s forgotten that those “dregs of society” are the same people we grew up with, laughed with, cried with, and dreamed with. The only difference between us and them is our dreams came true.
Miguel and I both grew up in poverty in the South Bronx but we both worked hard. He landed college and law-school scholarships and eventually became an associate, then later the first Hispanic partner at one of the city’s most prestigious law firms. I went to culinary school, then honed my skills working for some of the best restaurants in the city before opening my own restaurant. They were tough, those early years, but those were great times. We didn’t have much, but we had each other and our dreams. We couldn’t have been happier. Now we’re living our dreams and we have everything but each other.
I put those thoughts out of my head and twenty minutes after leaving the restaurant, I exited the Major Deegan Expressway at 161st Street in the shadow of Yankee Stadium. The night was rain-forest humid, typical for August in New York. Ghetto folks, most too poor to afford air-conditioning or even a decent fan, were still outside at this late hour, lounging on stoops or just standing around, leaning against the rough concrete, holding ice-cold bottles in their hands of whatever would help them make it through the sweltering night.
Music from my favorite bump-and-grind CD played from the Mercedes’s Blapunkt speakers as I cruised for my choice for the evening. It didn’t take long to find him. He was a thug, twenty years old at the most, and not too tall, around five nine or ten, dressed in the standard drug dealer uniform—bandanna, white wifebeater, much too baggy jeans, and $150 sneakers. A thick gold chain with a Puerto Rican–flag pendant dangled between his thick, chiseled pecs. He walked with his head slightly down, but always vigilant, not missing a thing.
He and his boys crowded into a cuchifrito spot just off Willis Avenue. I double-parked in front, shot a nasty glare at the crackhead eyeing the Mercedes, kissed mi abuelita’s crucifix, and followed them inside.
The restaurant, if you could call it that, was filthy. The ghosts of fried things lingered in the air. A fan leaned in one corner, wearily oscillating and doing nothing but rea
rranging the humidity. A strip of dirt dislodged from its metal grillwork and soared on an invisible current before coming to rest on a plate of empanadas in the grimy display case. The stools lining the counter were occupied with the type of men I would expect to see in a place like this at a time like this eating food like this.
My target was seated on a stool at the far end of the counter, surrounded by his boys. Conversation ceased as I strode the entire length of the restaurant to get to him, the only sounds the clack of my heels on the dirty floor and staticky salsa squeezed from an ancient radio. A dozen pairs of eyes followed my every step, but I didn’t give a damn—I’m used to the stares. At forty years old, I still look good. I might be thick, but I work out for two hours every day, my double-d breasts are still firm and impressive, and thousands of hours of step classes ensure that you can bounce a quarter off my ass. My tanned skin sets off my dark hair and eyes, those unmistakable Puerto Rican features inherited from mi mamá. It didn’t hurt that the dress I was wearing almost fit me like a second skin or that I hadn’t bothered to wear either panties or a bra.
I approached him and in two minutes, we were in my car. I didn’t get his name. I only wanted one thing, so name, rank, and serial number were unnecessary. Ten minutes after that we were parked in the alley, and I was naked and riding his long, hard dick and getting it exactly the way I liked it—hard and rough! I would be bruised all over my body tomorrow, for sure. Miguel almost never noticed my “souvenirs” even though I made sure to flaunt them in front of him. On the rare occasion he did notice, I told him they were from my kickboxing classes, and he actually believed that lame excuse. ¡Idioto! I’ve never taken a kickboxing class in my life.
The thug squeezed my left nipple hard. My eyes watered from the pain, but I loved it. That sensation, combined with the feeling of the head of his monster dick grinding against my cervix, was powerful. Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of gunshots rang out. They were close, a block or two away, from the sound of it. The thug heard them, too, and lifted his head up, instantly alert. I wasn’t about to put up with any distractions, not even gunshots, so I grabbed his hair and forced his face between my sweat-slicked breasts. He refocused his attention, regained his rhythm, and stroked me violently, biting my nipples so hard it felt as if he were trying to make me pay for daring to be forceful with him. I ground down on him harder, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair, and forced his head back and bit his neck, leaving a livid red bruise. If he had a girlfriend, he was going to have some explaining to do tomorrow. In return he grasped my long hair with one hand and now it was my turn for my head to be painfully wrenched back. He took a firm hold of my neck and squeezed. My air was restricted and it was harder and harder to breathe, but I didn’t stop riding his dick. As spots danced before my eyes, I screamed in ecstasy.
“Ohhhh, Papi! I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’mcumming! I’mcumming! I’mcumming! I’mcumming!”
Even as the orgasm took over and made my body shake and buck like a marionette on a string, he didn’t stop, and continued pounding away as surge after surge of pleasure flowed throughout my entire body, finally ending with a flood of cum gushing like a waterfall from my pussy, saturating his dick and balls and the leather upholstery.
I collapsed, spent, on the thug’s chest, trying to catch my breath, but he wasn’t having it.
“Yo, wake the fuck up, bitch,” the thug said. “Come suck my dick.”
I don’t take shit from anybody in this world, but his words turned me on more than I would have thought possible. Instantly, my pussy became soaking wet again.
“Sí, Papi,” I said, and rose up off the thug’s dick, unlocked the car door, and led him outside. After the relative comfort of expensive German air-conditioning, the humidity was like a physical force bearing down on us.
I pushed the thug down onto the hood of the car. He lay there, his pene standing up and at attention. Thick veins ran up and down its length, still slick from my juices. I removed the condom, threw it to the rats, and stroked him slowly, feeling his dick become even harder by my attention. A single tiny droplet of pre-cum oozed from the tip and I bent over to taste it, then put the head in my mouth, savoring the flavor of our combined essences. His balls also got attention from my skilled tongue, swirling around them before I put his entire huge sac in my mouth and sucked gently.
His moans became louder and lights flickered on in the windows of the apartments that overlooked the alley. If the residents were watching, they were getting an eyeful of me, naked except for heels, bent over with a mouthful of dick.
I put his hardness in my mouth again, sucking furiously. He responded, his hips rising to force more of his length down my throat. I let him, knowing he was close and I wanted it all, every last drop of him. His body twisted and levitated off the hood of the car and he grabbed two fistfuls of hair as he came, ramming his dick into my mouth and down my throat, gagging me. Waves of hot cum exploded down my throat and I swallowed as fast as I could, but still some of his cum escaped out of the sides of my mouth.
“You better swallow all of it, bitch. Don’t waste it!” he said, and I obeyed his order, licking his dick and balls to collect every drop of cum that had escaped my eager mouth.
After draining him dry, I removed a tube of lubrication and a condom from the Hermès purse Miguel bought me for my last birthday. I squeezed a healthy dab of the gel in my palm, put the condom on his dick, and lubed his erection well, spreading the gel over the shaft and the head before assuming the position on the hood of the car.
Naked and defenseless, lying ass up, facedown on the hood of an $85,000 luxury automobile in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city, I was at my most vulnerable but I felt the most alive. All my senses were in high gear. My skin tingled; I felt the heat from the still-warm hood and my asshole quivered in anticipation of what was to come. I felt the thug’s hands on my hips as he braced himself to ravage me. I heard the fearless Bronx rats still feeding in the dark and more windows from the apartments above opening, voyeurs preparing to witness my violation at the hands of the young thug.
“Damn, you a sexy bitch, you fuckin’ nasty puta!” the thug said, in awe of my shapely ass.
I felt the substantial weight of his dick as he used it to slap my ass. He positioned the head at my tender opening and gave an uncertain push, probably skeptical that my tight hole would accommodate his massive manhood.
Another push, harder this time, and the head slid in slowly. Aided by the lubrication, I felt myself opening to accommodate his width. His dick was well lubricated, but the pain was still unbelievable.
“You like that shit, bitch?” he asked.
“Sí, Papi, sí, sí, dame más, dame más!”
He rammed a few more inches into my ass and the world exploded in pure agony. I heard a scream, then realized it was coming from me.
I closed my eyes, but the tears managed to find a way past my eyelids and down my face. I cried, not only because of the thug’s huge tool was inside me, but because I wondered why it was that mi amor, would not, could not, make me feel a fraction of what this common street criminal could. I cried because I have everything a person could want, yet I was dead inside, only alive when I risked my life for cheap thrills.
The thug continued to stroke my ass; his entire dick was inside me now, stretching me wider open than I’d ever been before. My moans came louder, harder; I couldn’t help myself. His rhythm was perfect, pistonlike, steady, and not too slow or too fast, the perfect speed to allow me to feel and savor every last inch of his huge tool in my asshole.
I felt my body responding, the pain was now gone and the pleasure almost equally unbearable. I had thought that his whole length was inside me, but I was wrong. There was more, and my moans got louder still, almost screams, as more and more of him was forced inside me. I had never been penetrated this deeply before; my ass was on fire. I couldn’t move, paralyzed by my violation. Just when I felt as if it was impossible to endure any more of him inside me, I
felt his heavy balls slapping against my pussy as he stroked me and realized that he had finally managed to fit his entire cock inside me.
The sensation was indescribable, an almost out-of-body experience that caused a mammoth orgasm to rip through my entire body. My mouth opened wide, but no sound came out, and the tears flowed down my face to join the pool of sweat evaporating on the hood of the Mercedes. I blacked out for a few seconds, but came to my senses just in time to feel the thug’s cock throbbing inside of me, then a wet heat as he withdrew from my asshole, ripped the condom off and blasted a huge load of cum on my ass and back.
Depleted, I lay almost senseless on the car, my body shaking as the tears rolled softly down my face.
Minutes later I recovered enough to stand. I was sore and knew it was going to be much worse tomorrow, a painful reminder of my latest outing to el barrio. I got into the driver’s seat and started the car. The thug said something, but I tuned him out. He had served his purpose and I had no more use for him.
As I backed out of the alley, I pulled some bills from my purse and threw them out the window. I didn’t look back.
I was still naked but I didn’t care. My ass was sore but I didn’t care. My scalp tingled and ached where the thug had savagely pulled my hair. I didn’t care. I was numb. I drove like a robot, the smells of sex and new car mingled and the tears rolled down my face all the way home.
Are You Available
Mitch
“Are you available?” Chas asked a Linda Darnel look-alike. She was the spitting image of one of the movie star’s Latina characters. Beautiful, bronzed, busty, and draped in a burgundy dress designed to emphasize her figure and draw attention to her cleavage.
Smiling, she took his hand, said, “Sí,” and then led him toward a counter where an older lady was sitting. With only a hint of an accent, the older lady said, “Linda doesn’t speak English well so you need to talk with me. She’s one of our best and costs ten dollars. Is that okay with you?”
