by Zane
“I want to talk about me and you!” I started pushing him backward until he stumbled and his ass hit the bed. I climbed on top of him, pushed his back onto the bed, and started unbuttoning his shirt and grinding on his dick.
“Hol-hold up, Harmony. We can’t do this shit.”
“But I’ve wanted you for so long, Javon. I can’t take this shit anymore. I want you to take this pussy right now.” I managed to get his shirt unbuttoned, exposing his chest. He didn’t put up much opposition, despite his words to the contrary.
“What about Fatima? She’s your best friend.” He was a man torn between doing what felt good and doing what he knew was right.
The little bit of fight he had left in him perished once I lowered the straps of my party dress, exposing my hardened nipples. Simply put, he was a defeated man.
Javon grabbed ahold of my left tit and started sucking for dear life. I thought he was trying to suck the thing clear off my chest. I cut the breast-sucking down to a minimum. It had to be all or nothing on the videotape and I was getting sick to my stomach. The lengths I will go to for a friend.
Javon is an attractive man so it wasn’t all that bad. It was the mere fact he was so willing to betray Fatima that disgusted me most of all.
I stood up on the bed, with my feet on the sides of his chest, pulled my satin panties down, and stepped out of them. Then, I sat down on his face and pushed his hands over his head, holding them down on the bed pillows while I ground my pussy onto his willing tongue. I purposely sat on his face that way instead of getting in the sixty-nine position because I was not about to suck his dick. A sistah does have her limits.
I must admit the pussy-eating did turn me on a smidgen and I was reluctant to get off his face. He was quite a hungry man that evening. But it had to be quick so, after my pussy had done its job and left his face looking like a glazed doughnut, I climbed off.
Javon was lying there, basking in the afterglow, while I started taking his pants off. “Dayum, Harmony. You have no idea how many times I have dreamed of fucking the shit out of you like this. This is unreal.”
Little did he know that it was unreal. His ass was being set up big time. I played along. “Just enjoy the ride, Baby. I wanna ride this big, juicy dick of yours.”
Truth be known, I was highly discontent when I did get the dick out. He wasn’t holding much. I found it hard to believe that Fatima even married his ass. Gurlfriend must have really loved the man at some point.
I sat on his dick and got it inserted after much maneuvering. Like I said, he was seriously lacking in the dick department. I rode the hell out of him, pretending that his dick was so mammoth it was knocking the bottom out of my pussy. Ha! What a crock!
As if to confirm my suspicions of his being a lousy fuck, Javon held true to form and came in about three to four minutes. I wanted to laugh my ass off but held it in. I told him we better hurry up and get back to the party. I started fixing my clothes and got a revelation. Why not seal his fate for sure? Instead of putting my panties back on, I stuffed them in his pants pocket and said, “Keep these to remember me by!”
I gave Javon some quick tongue action, jumped up off the bed, and left him there in the pool house, clothes hanging all off him, dick all limp, and a look of astonishment on his caught-in-the-act-without-even-knowing-it face. How pathetic!
When I returned to the party, everyone had gone into the main house. The weather had gone from cool to downright chilly. Fatima was standing by the patio doors and I gave her the success signal we had decided upon. I gave her the finger. I know that sounds silly. We couldn’t think of anything else at the time.
Fatima grinned but I sensed she was a bit upset, halfway hoping Javon did have some scruples after all. It is never easy letting go.
A few moments later, after cleaning himself up, Javon rejoined his wife. He evidently took the time to wash up in the pool house because there wasn’t a drop of pussy juice left on his cheating-ass face. The rest of the evening was uneventful. He grinned at me across the room a few times, raising his glass to me once, but purposely avoided coming close to me so he wouldn’t give himself away.
The man just knew he had gotten him some pussy on the sly. If he only realized his whole world, as he knew it, had just come to an end.
When I went to get my blazer from the closet in the front hall so I could leave, Fatima followed. “How did it go?”
I simply told her, “He went for it, Sis!” Then, I told her about the panties in his pocket so she could accidentally come across them. That was all she wrote and it was done.
Just as planned, Fatima rescued the panties before he could hide them. I knew he would keep them because, just like serial killers, men like to save souvenirs belonging to their victims. They regard dogging out a woman as the end-all and be-all of manhood.
Also as planned, the incriminating videotape was found. I figured out why Fatima had brought Camisha into the whole plot. Strictly for climactic effect. Camisha showed up at their house a couple of days later with the evidence in hand, the concocted story rehearsed to the tee. Camisha came into their home, confronted Javon right in front of Fatima, slapped him across the face, and threw the tape in the living room VCR so Fatima could see what lowlifes her husband and best friend were.
That all got the ball rolling. Fatima called me on the phone, politely asking me to come over as if she were setting me up for a downfall. When I arrived, Camisha was still there and Javon was sitting on the couch looking like a sick puppy.
Fatima cussed me out and threw accusations like wildfire. When I denied it and pretended to be caught off guard, she turned on the VCR to play back the tape for my benefit. “Now, bitch, what you got to say?”
We both had to suppress the laughter building up inside. Camisha did, too. The shit was getting rather ridiculous, but I played along and begged her for absolution.
Fatima went on and on about how she should have suspected it because she had found some panties in the pocket of the pants he’d worn to the party the other night. She pulled them out of her purse and started waving them around in the air. She really drew the impromptu play out. Javon was on the verge of tears. I made a mental note to get my panties back from Fatima later. They were one of my prettiest pair.
Finally, I told Fatima I was sick of her calling me a bitch and stormed out. Camisha also excused herself, insisting that she needed to get home. Instead, she pulled her car up beside mine at the bottom of the long, curvy driveway as we were both exiting the property.
I rolled down my window, as did she, and we had a good laugh. Then we both expressed concern over Fatima’s welfare. While she was putting up a spectacular front, Camisha and I both knew it was tearing her apart inside. But, we love her and had proven that love by doing as she’d asked. The rest was between her and her shitty-ass husband.
The Response
“Eww!” Bryce felt like her baked fish might come back up at any second. “You fucked Fatima’s husband? And you say my ass is foul!”
“Oh my goodness!” Lucky jumped in. “I can’t believe you fucked your best friend’s husband!”
An utter stillness came over the restaurant, and for a second it even seemed as if the people in the music video were watching them. “Lucky, lower your voice!” Harmony glowered at everyone as if to say mind your fucking business. “Damn, Lucky!”
“Well, I still can’t believe you did that shit,” she replied. “No wonder I couldn’t get in touch with either one of you over the weekend. Ya’ll were out hoeing.”
“What I did was an act of pure love unlike Miss Knocking Balls Around on the Pool Table over there.”
“Whatever! That’s some nasty-ass shit,” Bryce said, going off. “Ain’t no camaraderie worth all that. He could’ve at least had a big dick, but you fucked a pencil dick ’cause someone asked you to and let them videotape your ass at that. You better not ever run for a political office ’cause—”
“Shut the hell up!” Harmony was infuriated. “Bot
h of you can kiss my black ass with all of your self-righteous bullshit.”
“Well, I can’t really talk,” Lucky said, diverting her eyes.
“I bet not,” Harmony hissed.
Bryce got cynical. “What did you do, Lucky? Fuck one of those white boys you go to school with?”
“Bryce, you know Lucky won’t fuck a white man. Get real,” Harmony said.
“I’m for real. A dick is a dick, especially when you’re going through a drought season and you need to hop a ride on the first available dick that comes bouncing around.”
“Yeah, but Lucky is into this whole Afrocentric, Black Power thing. No way!”
“Excuse me,” Lucky interrupted. “I can speak for myself.”
They both shut up.
“I did go out with this one white guy from my anatomy class, but only because he kept sweating me and calling me a racist.”
“Say whaaaaaat?” Bryce asked, her eyes full of astonishment.
“Chill out, Bryce. Dang!” Lucky held her palm up to Bryce’s face. “I didn’t fuck him, although I must admit I thought about it one night when I was drunk. I was on my period though.”
“Alleluia! Thank goodness for the menstrual cycle!” Harmony exclaimed. “The last thing we need is for you to start breeding mulatto children and dressing them in dashikis.”
“He didn’t care,” Lucky continued. “He wanted to fuck me raw dog, blood and all. Then he told me if I was too offended by that idea, we could have anal sex instead.”
“Shame on it all,” Harmony uttered.
“Naw, make that a double shame on it all,” Bryce added.
“Can I be honest with you guys?” Lucky was a bit apprehensive of the repercussions her next statement might bring.
“That’s what this lunch is all about,” Harmony said. “Honesty and sisterly bonding.”
“Okay, the idea of anal sex was kind of a turn-on to me and I almost went for it, but…”
“But?”
“Once he took his clothes off, I was completely turned off. He looked like a ghost, his skin was so pale. He had a tan so I really couldn’t judge his lack of melanin until he was butt naked. I couldn’t even hang.”
“I’m as happy as a fag in Dickland that you didn’t fuck no white boy,” Harmony stated. “However, if that’s not what happened to you, then what did?”
“Well…” Lucky said hesitantly.
Bryce and Harmony looked at each other, both hoping Lucky hadn’t written a check her ass couldn’t cash.
“We’re listening,” Bryce said, prodding her.
“Well, I kind of, sort of fucked someone from med school.”
“What is a kind of, sort of fuck?” Bryce asked sarcastically. “You either did the nasty or you didn’t.”
“Aiight, I fucked him. In fact, I fucked the living daylights out of him.” She glanced at Harmony. “You might have messed up your hair and Bryce might have ruined her makeup, but let me break it down for you like this. When I was finished doing what I did that night, I went home, took off my panties, and threw them at the wall.” Bryce and Harmony wondered what the big deal was about throwing panties at a wall when Lucky added, “And those bad boys stuck to it.”
“Damn, you came like that?” Bryce speculated what would happen if she threw her panties at a wall the next time she and George got finished doing it.
“One of your classmates?” Harmony asked with a look of concern overshadowing her face. She didn’t like the sound of Lucky’s story already. It gave her an uneasy feeling, and usually when that happened, it meant nothing but trouble. Lucky shook her head in the negative. It took a moment for it to sink in before Harmony reached over the table, grabbing the sleeve of Lucky’s baseball jersey. “Aw, hell naw! Don’t tell me you abandoned your damn mind and fucked one of your professors?”
“Nope. Actually, it was the dean.”
4
Intellectual Sex
I spent the majority of Memorial Day weekend cramming for exams. After a while, I was at the point where I couldn’t absorb another word in my brain so I took a well-deserved break.
Most people on campus were hanging out. Exams or no exams, it was a holiday. They were determined to get their eat and drink on regardless. I tried to call around to see if I could find someone to hang out with. I must have called too late because I didn’t get anything except voice mails and answering machines.
I was about to just call it a night and crash, but I really felt like doing something. I decided to take a ride and headed over to the Takoma Station.
As usual, the place was packed. Even more so because of the holiday. The band and the ambience were awesome, more than worth the aggravation of struggling for breathing space.
By the time the band started its second set, I had downed quite a few of those $8.50 Long Island Iced Teas. Okay, scratch that. I was tore the hell up. I was so drunk, I lost my balance on the way to the ladies’ room to output some of my input. I tripped on the carpeted ramp and almost fell flat on my ass.
I felt someone’s hands on my waist and realized they were the only things holding me up. They were big, warm, and powerful. I turned around to express gratitude to the gentleman who had been considerate enough to prevent me from making a spectacle of myself.
Much to my surprise, it was the dean of my med school. I was so ashamed, I could have cried. I lowered my head, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me, and mouthed, “Thanks!”
I brushed past him, seeking out the sanctuary of the bathroom. When I got in there, of course there were wall-to-wall sistahs up in that bitch. Sistahs primping in the mirrors putting on makeup, sistahs waiting for the phone, sistahs waiting to tinkle, sistahs talking about all the sorry-ass mofos in the club they were hitting up for free drinks. Sistahs every damn where.
They only have three stalls and I didn’t think I would make it if I waited out the line. I debated about sneaking in the men’s room across the hall. If there were fifty women in the ladies’ room, you know there were only two or three brothas in the men’s room. It’s always like that. I wonder how they get in and out so fast. Half of them nuccas must not be washing their hands.
I was in serious jeopardy of losing my bladder control and shifting my weight from leg to leg trying to prevent a boo-boo when one sistah farther up in the line was kind enough to give me a break.
“Gurl, you look like you’re doing an African tribal dance or something! Go ahead in front of me. I have to go, but not that damn bad.”
I giggled and told her, “Thanks!”
I got in the stall and there was urine all over the damn place. On the toilet seat, on the floor, even on the wall from drunkass sistahs who had missed their bull’s-eye when they tried to squat.
“Ummm, can you hand me some tissue?” This question was directed to the sistah in the stall next to me. I couldn’t see her face but I knew her ass was there for two reasons. First of all, I could see her nasty-ass, corn-infested toes hanging over some gold sandals she had on that were at least two sizes too small, and secondly, because she was dropping bombs in the toilet and her shit was foul. Contrary to popular belief, our, as in females’, shit does stink.
She handed me a roll of tissue under the ceramic wall of the stall. For the third time in five minutes, I was compelled to issue another “Thank you!”
Damn, everyone was being so pleasant to me, I almost broke into a hip-hop rendition of “Kumbaya.”
When I came out of the ladies’ room, I glimpsed around the corner to see if my dean was still there. The place was so crowded, it was like doing a Where’s Waldo? puzzle.
I didn’t see him anywhere so I decided to haul ass before he spotted me again and figured out who I was. It wasn’t that I was breaking any med school rules by being there, but for some reason I just didn’t want him to see my ass drunk. I felt like a derelict and just wanted to head home, get in another hour or two of studying, and then turn in about 2 A.M.
It was cool outside and it sobered my ass up
with a quickness; or so I thought. I was walking to my car and searching through my purse for my keys when his voice froze me in mid-step.
“Have a good evening, Miss Whitfield.”
Oh, shit, so much for lack of recognition!
I looked behind me and he was leaning on the biggest damn, shiniest damn, blackest damn Mercedes I had ever seen.
“Hello, Dean Mitchell. I didn’t think you knew who I was in there.”
He started walking toward me. It had never hit me before, but looking at him under the mixture of the moonlight and streetlamps, I realized he was truly a sexy-ass older brotha.
It was one of those fleeting thoughts though. I didn’t give it too much credence because smoking boots with the dean of my med school was out of the damn question.
Next thing you know, he was standing right beside me on the sidewalk.
“Of course I know who you are, Miss Whitfield. I take pride in the fact that I keep tabs on all of my students.”
“That’s marvelous.” There I was in the middle of the night, sounding like Harmony and shit. Using the word she uses whenever she’s really pissed off but wants to hide it from the world. Her pissed-off word became my nervous word.
“Your first name is Lucinda, right?”
“Yes, but I hate that name so everyone just calls me Lucky.”
“Lucky! How cute.”
“Thanks!”
“You all ready for exams?”
“I sure hope so. I put in hours and hours of studying. I just needed to take a little break.”
It felt like I was talking to Daddy, explaining why I’d left the library early in high school to go to a movie with friends. I started having flashbacks and shit.
“No need to explain that to me, Lucky. Everyone needs to relax; even medical students. Besides, they say cramming is not the solution to good grades anyway.”
