My lips find a swollen nipple and lock onto it, sucking hard and flicking it with my tongue. Your breathing becomes panting and panting becomes rhythmic cries. I feel my climax building and my control crumbling. I know that I can’t hold off much longer.
Then suddenly you stop bouncing and rock your hips hard and deliberately against me. You become driven. You rock methodically and your cries become louder. A long, low moan pours from you as your head tilts back and your hips frantically twist. The shock waves start through you, racking your body as I hold you tightly against me. Your muscles squeeze me tightly bringing on my orgasm. Even in my ecstasy I am grateful that I could hold off until we could share the experience. Blast after blast of my warm semen sprays into you as I thrust as deeply as I can. My cries join yours and I hold you tightly to me. Pulse follows pulse crashing through me, but finally they lessen and fade. As calm follows a storm, we stay wrapped together, soaked with perspiration, panting heavily, and completely spent. Neither us can or wants to move.
Eventually, as I recover, my lips kiss your neck, your cheek, your lips. No words are spoken. Your soft smile and the look in your eyes are nourishment for me. For it is that above all else that I have hoped for. Then a few kisses and a few whispered words break the silence. A low laugh, then a giggle brightens the room. When you move your body back from me, I am suddenly cold. When you lift yourself up off of me, I instantly feel both cold and empty. I’m a bit surprised when you gather up your clothes without a word to me. Then you turn with your clothes under your arm, smile at me, and extend your hand.
“I need a shower. Join me?”
“Then I’ll massage you,” I reply as I stand up and take your hand, pausing to gather up my clothes.
Your husband and Pat stand up and follow us as we walk toward the stairs. The evening has already been magical and it’s only just started.
* * *
BUZZ-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z!!!!
The screaming loud obscenity of the alarm has brutally shattered me from my sleep and a dream I shall never forget. Pat stirs next to me. Then she flings off the covers, stands up, and moves away from the bed. I fold back my covers and sit on the edge of the bed. My head is cloudy with sleep and my mind wallows in a sea of disappointment. Then as the clouds clear, reality begins to set in. This is Friday! It is this evening when we shall finally meet. It is the dawn of an interminably long day that will suddenly change to one of magic and burning desire when finally I see your face. There are thirteen hours remaining until we meet you and your husband at the restaurant. The countdown has begun.
One Weekend in Toronto
By Claudia Moss
Ever live for the next vacation the Monday you return from a holiday?
That’s me, which is the number-one indicator I need to watch my frayed copy of The Secret until the DVD disintegrates. Yep, that’s right. I have nothing to hide—outside of my personal cell while I’m at work. Other than that, most of my friends know I watch that film faithfully, so I’m reminded that whatever I focus on, if I can see it, and most importantly feel it, damn it, it’s mine. And I see myself free of the academic plantation, with streams of income, and time to please my wife in every way. I know how.
Simple as that.
At work, my daydreams get blasted whenever Deni Epps, one of my professors, slinks into my office and leans in the doorway as though she fancies herself a starlet from an old Hollywood movie, her work wardrobe Victoria and Frederick’s sexy. Suits painted-on and colorful, expensive pumps and wearable art jewelry. I don’t give a precious halleluiah if she is one of Howard’s best lecturers in my English Department. She never acknowledges the memo that nothing about her, aside from her taste in shoes and jewelry, is cute to me. Don’t know what others see when she slithers up, but all I see is a country kitchen, her in an apron, smiling and waving, with that sexless mouth pouting, “Ya’ll come on back, now, hear?”
“Good morning, Dr. Young. I trust you had a peaceful, yet exhilarating Spring Break?”
Her manicured fingertips twirl a gem clip inches above her small cleavage in a soft purple dress.
“I did, thank you, Ms. Epps. How was yours?” Like I cared.
“You always do that after a break.”
Ugh! Lose that pout; it isn’t cute.
I lean back in my swivel chair and give her a baffled, somewhat annoyed expression. “What do you mean?”
“That ‘Ms. Epps’ business. It’s Deni.” Her lips smooch upward kinda sorta beckoningly, a close imitation of the young brothers in my neighborhood here in D.C.: chins lifted—cool and tough; a quick nod, lips bunched, wordlessly saying, “What up?”
“I see. So how did you spend your break, Deni? Performing?”
“How else? I performed in ‘The Beauties of Burlesque Show’ in Las Vegas. Fascinating. It had every cell in my body energized and charged from the moment I hit the stage to the second my flight ascended into the friendly skies.”
Spare me the commentary. “Sounds fascinating. Well, listen, Deni, I—”
“I know you’re a busy woman, Dr. Young. Only wanted to welcome you back.”
I clock her look.
Note the googly eyes. And whenever did burlesque and academia mix?
“As much as I’d love to hear about the show and see the photos, I’ve got to pass.”
Then my damn personal cell plays Diana Krall’s sexy, jazzy “You Go To My Head” and I think about not answering it, but I’m coming off as entirely too conspicuous.
“Forgive me. Gotta take this.” There is no avoiding opening my Racer, although she’s posted in my direct range of vision, gazing at me soft eyed, heat brewing from her core and wafting towards me in wanton waves.
Wrong office, Barbie.
My cell’s face illuminates with a picture of one of the most delectably dark pussies I’ve ever lapped. It’s my girl, K.C.
“Hello, darlin’! Always a pleasure to hear your voice, love.”
I shrug, my wrist flicking quickly towards the right window, left hand covering the mouth-watering view, and whisper more emphatically, “Deni, I’d like to take this in private please, if you don’t mind.”
Deni bows, a conspiracy in her tepid, turquoise gaze. Backing into the hall, her fingers flutter a sensual I’ll-see-you-later and she disappears.
“One of my professors, girl,” I whisper, looking at the empty doorway. “Sweats me worse than a student on probation a grade away from The Last Flight Home.”
“Tell me about it. I was that student. Remember our junior year at Tuskegee?”
“K.C. shut up,” I say, laughingly recalling her constant desperation. A blessing things change. No one would know that today. My girl runs Atlanta’s CDC, with a reputed take-no-shit reputation.
“We’re doing it again, Neco. Howard and I are organizing a weekend in Toronto. We know you and the wife are just back from a week in Cancun, but we figured you’d be good to go anyway.”
That K.C. keeps a closet of golden carrots for times such as these. Besides, I miss her fine ass whenever she stays away too long. Howard knows she’s the jam on my toast, the maple in my syrup.
“Our passports stay in order, woman.”
“How about the French Connection? That bed and breakfast with six of the sweetest rooms you could ever wish to fall asleep in. Surrounding restaurants are on point, and I’ve got a few attractions lined up, although—” she growls low in her throat, “you know we ain’t going for the attractions.”
“No, lady, no. Can’t take much more of this conversation. Am at work, Miss CDC.” The papers on my desk start calling me names and threatening to multiply if I don’t cut the conversation short. “Look, babe . . .”
“I know—me, too. We fly out on Friday morning. My travel agent worked the arrangements. Back Sunday evening.”
“Who’s all going?”
“Mimi and Kennedy, Fiona and Derek, and Di and Rusty.”
“Girl, quit holding back. Who’s the oth
er couple? Newbies?”
We normally roll twelve deep.
“A lagniappe, as the French said in Old Louisiana. Wait and see, my love.”
“You should’ve been the English Department Head, and I should be down there safeguarding the city from invading microorganisms.”
K.C. laughs a professional laugh and disconnects the line.
* * *
The day zips by.
I dive into my responsibilities with a renewed zeal, meetings taking place without a glitch; no hassles from students complaining about a professor not extending enough time to complete the semester’s research paper, and no professors gripping about my stipulation to make their office hours more conducive for failing students and ambitious scholars. I’m a firm believer in going over and beyond the call of duty, so that when you get ready to handle up on your business, which might require special consideration, being you’ve given it to others, it flows back to you automatically.
That Layla works the hell out of this philosophy. For example, the girl adores my entire department. Why? I don’t know. She caters a light breakfast for them, complete with a beverage selection on Wednesday, her “hoochie-coo hump day” as she likes to say, and it sets my group off. They love my angel. Probably why they abide me like they do.
The week evaporates after Wednesday.
On Thursday evening, I crawl in after working and volunteering at the local homeless shelter where I help cook and serve the folks, and am surprised. Layla has a tray of spicy Indian food, two goblets of plum wine, miniature vases of orange roses, a hyacinth-smelling candle, and my favorite Layla dessert: her savory sweet self served up exactly how I like her! On my face, around my fingers, under my strap, and above my head.
There’s something about her fine proportions perched on the back of the sofa in our home’s theatre room that drives me insane. And eating her out is damn near up there with breathing.
“Aaah, baby, what did I do to deserve you?”
“Just being you,” Layla purrs, licking the sauce from her curry-chicken fingers. “That was good, huh?” She wipes her fingers on a cloth napkin and stretches out beside me, fingers drumming her slightly puffy tummy.
The fuchsia wrap she’s wearing hugs her body in heavenly places. That short curly ‘fro, sandy and spiky, looks so cute with the huge hoops in her earlobes. I can’t help stroking her under the silky fabric.
“Look at you.” She giggles, lashes fanning high cheekbones. “Want dessert early?” The wrap falls away, exposing supple jet thighs that float open, slowly, one leg hiking the sofa’s back, the other seeking the seat of my pinstriped pants. She reclines languidly.
“When have you known me to pass up your dessert?”
“Never actually.”
She’s thick, just the way I love her, and if she ever lost a pound, I wouldn’t wait on her to pack my bags; I’d drive that midnight train to Georgia, on my way to another Georgia peach, ‘cause you haven’t been loved until you’ve had an intelligent, beautiful, thick, juicy Southern woman.
She’s teasing my crotch with her big toe.
“It’s ready. Been on simmer all day.”
The minute I sniff her uncovered cobbler, my cell sings on the coffee table.
One look at the picture-ID tells me it’s Fiona. “Hey, lady, how’s Boston?” she says.
“Let me see, Fee.” Layla pulls on my wrist, loving, as she does, my pussy phone.
Smiling, I show her the cell’s ID. Pearly-white, the pussy is delicate, its inner lips glisten velvety and tantalizing, the inside a pink, pale sliver between fleshier outer petals, the mound is baby-bottom bald.
“Girl, you know we wouldn’t miss it. Layla has us already packed. Derek got you set?”
“The next day.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“But who’s the mystery couple? When K.C. plans the weekend getaway, she’s gotta throw in a damn K.C. Kicker. I swear I could whip her ass sometimes.”
“Something about that picture excites me. And since she probably won’t volunteer for the ass-whipping, I suggest you take the initiative.”
Layla listens quietly. So do I, while she fingers her clit, pulling the hood back on her sugary nubbin, and then massages it with a forefinger, circling and pressing, deftly causing the tiny lady to swell, redden and spit.
Fiona’s laughter sweetens the silence. “Is she about to serve a sistah dessert?”
“Huuuh uh!”
“That’s all you have to say, girlfriend. Catch ya’ll tomorrow.”
I close the cell and study Layla’s ponany, all juicy, the spicy aroma intoxicating me. There’s no other choice but to fall down in it, inhaling its mingling flavors with my eyes, then my tongue. The first mouthful always sends me. Mmmm. Brown sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg. I lap the wetness she’s stirred. Deliriously delicious, she tastes divine. So I bury my nose right there. Years ago, I learned from an older girlfriend not to be all over the place, calling myself pleasing a woman, learned just kissing her pleasure zone built my hot-ass reputation as Neco, the female Rico Suave.
“Babee, yeeessss,” she moans, body flailing. “Give it to me, Neco, please!”
Her little butt is fucking my face and grinding, pumping my tongue. The moans grow loud and louder . . . then even louder, when I run my hands up and down her back, and bring her pussy closer to my mouth, cup her ass in my palms, before gently easing my thumbs up pass her sphincter muscle.
She goes into a fit, squirming and wiggling. I continue working magic on her little lady in the boat, until she leaps up and squirts another geyser of sugar water, soaking my face and neck with nectar.
A mesmerizing softness floods my senses when her hands touch my head, when she lowers herself, and electrifies me with kisses to my Netherland. The girl’s got mad skills, too, and before long, we climax together, entwined in one another’s arms.
* * *
Although Washington Dulles International Airport is hectic, our flight isn’t. We touch down in Toronto, Canada, and the city feels like an old friend.
K.C. calls to say Howard loves The French Connection, and Mimi and Kennedy, who flew in earlier, were madly in love with the rooms. Perfect. Layla adores pretty rooms, too, as she and Fee and Mimi are good for giving the guys and me the slip, on most trips, so they can play in their rooms or bathrooms in girl bliss.
If we aren’t golfing, the boys and I beg for front-row seats.
Once everyone is accounted for, we dine at a French restaurant, before boarding a one-hour, night cruise that showcases the city’s breathtaking views from Lake Ontario. There is the gorgeous harbour front, the CN Tower, Niagara Falls and the unforgettable Toronto skyline. Hands down, K.C. is the shit, and Howard better recognize.
At evening’s end, we all crash back at The French Connection, reflecting on the blessings of our safe arrivals and the shimmering beauty of Canadian nights.
Then Fiona gets beyond herself, a woman who stands by her word, a woman after my own heart, and saunters over to K.C.
“Sweetheart, you’re awesome, but sometimes I wanna beat your ass.”
She starts batting those long lashes like she does when she’s hot and bothered. Starts sweeping that back-grazing hair, Asian straight and onyx black, and points a French-manicured forefinger inches from K.C.’s nose.
“If I’m that awesome, why you wanna do that? Jealousy?” K.C. banters in her characteristic sassiness, batting her lashes, too, and giving Fee challenging face, as the gay boys say.
“You’re too good, that’s why.”
“At what?”
“Everything. Reason enough for your ass whipping?” Fee pivots and singles out Mimi and Layla accusatorily. “They’d love to do the same, except they’re too ladylike to voice it.”
“Uh huh.” K.C.’s gaze sweeps the women, and a funky smile brightens her classic-pretty face.
“Let’s save time here, Mama, and ask me, because you’ll have more to envy when I tell you,” K.C. pauses
and puts her little cappuccino hands on those warrior hips, showing off her Ashanti thighs and legs in a sexy, short-ass skirt, “the ladies are cooking brunch in the morning in stilettos and ribbons. So ladies, be creative. That’s why I wanted everybody to bring certain things.”
“Darling, that should be fun, but K.C., may I whip your ass tonight?”
“A one-time deal, Miss Fee. Where do you want me?”
Determined, Fiona digs a flathead hairbrush from her handbag. And a fuchsia butt plug. Dainty purple paddle and coils of colorful yarn. Laying her toys on the sofa, she makes herself comfortable and motions for Howard, Mimi, and Rusty to find other seats and, face visibly softening, stares at K.C. and pats her lap.
“Strip,” she orders. “Then ass up.”
“My pleasure.” K.C. obliges, and she and Fiona lock eyes as she strips.
Watching, I’m warming fast, a heatstroke flushing me, the room becoming unbearably hot. I look at Layla. She’s glued to the scene before us, like everyone else, one hand in the waistband of her Capri pants, fingering her kitty.
The sheer sight of K.C.’s ass makes me shudder, just the way it’s shaped, all fleshy yet sculpted and toned, just cocoa pounds of pure female delight. I always want to ride it and spank it and lick it and kiss it! The way her back flows into the tributary of her butt ought to be captured on screen, in photos, in print, on something! Goodness, I love women.
She does what Fiona asks, booty perfectly centered in the lighter woman’s lap.
As Fiona strokes K.C.’s back, her face is an indication of how luxuriant the woman is. Then she strokes that ass, popping the cheeks, rapturously admiring the way the muscle jumps, and shakes. Childlike, she’s oblivious to us now, the pleasure too enthralling.
One finger takes a leisurely stroll up and down the back of the toned thighs and suddenly darts to the crevice between her cheeks. My eyes follow. K.C. moans. Howard is chicken-choking himself with long, absorbing strokes.
SWING! Adventures in Swinging by Today's Top Erotica Writers Page 30
