by 26 Nights (Memoirs of a Contemporary Gentleman) [MF] (retail) (epub)
Arnold put his cock in it.
Nancy said something around his flesh. It was muffled, but there was no doubt in my mind that she was exhorting her husband to watch her.
I closed my eyes again, and reached once more for Nancy’s breasts, clasping the resilient mounds, playing with the rock-hard nipples. I heard Arnold’s breathing become louder and faster, then turn into gasps and moans. I’d had a sample of what Nancy’s mouth could do, and was not surprised to hear him swiftly approaching his climax. Soon he groaned loudly several times, and when I heard him move away, I opened my eyes just in time to see Nancy swallowing the last of his sperm, smiling over at her husband as she did so.
“Did you enjoy that, Brucie?” she inquired.
“Not as much as you did, I’m sure,” Bruce rasped.
“Damn it, I’ve had enough of this,” I gasped. And with a strong effort of both body and will, I heaved up, unseating Nancy onto the soft rug, then rolled her over and got on top of her, quickly rejoining our bodies. But now I was in control, and began to thrust strongly into her, driving both her and myself toward a long-delayed consummation. Nancy moaned happily and clasped me with arms and legs, moving with me and against me, and crying out to her husband that she was going to come. Soon she did, bucking and twisting beneath me, and a moment later I joined her.
After a brief pause for breath-catching, I rolled away from her, certain that I was finished for the night. But not Nancy.
“All right, Brucie,” she said, her voice still somewhat breathless. “You can come and lick me out now.”
I looked over at Bruce, and was startled to see that Arnold was kneeling in front of him, doing unto Bruce what Bruce’s wife had done unto Arnold. Evidently Arnold’s duties in this household were many and varied.
“Never get enough, do you, you slut,” Bruce asked rhetorically. But he pulled himself away from Arnold, got up and walked over to his wife. As he lowered himself to the floor, I started to get up.
“Don’t go away, Steven,” Nancy said, reaching out for me. Her hand landed on my thigh, and swiftly slid upward to find my crotch.
“I’m through, Nancy,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got to—”
“No, no,” she protested, turning over and raising herself enough to look at me as I lay on my back. Her fingers stroked. “We’ll get you ready again, don’t worry.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “But it’s been—”
I stopped because Nancy had taken her hand away and was now stroking me with her hair. Her head was bent over my crotch and she was moving it slowly from side to side, letting the soft strands of her silky red hair brush back and forth across my loins. And in spite of myself, I felt my incorrigible maleness twitching to life again.
“See?” Nancy breathed. She was on her knees, and I felt her warm breath as her mouth came closer to my reviving phallus. Then her lips, and her tongue …
“Now, Bruce,” she said. And then Bruce was lying on his back, with his face beneath Nancy’s crotch, pulling her lower body down to him. She moaned around my hard flesh. I was also vaguely aware that Arnold was crouching over Bruce’s body, but I couldn’t see what he was doing, nor did I especially want to. Bruce’s moans were muffled in Nancy’s flesh, and hers were muffled by mine, and mine was not muffled at all, as Nancy’s magical mouth, lips and tongue brought me swiftly to full readiness again, and then slowly to explosive bliss.
It took me longer to recover this time, and when I did, Arnold was nowhere in sight. But Bruce and Nancy were holding each other, clinging together and crooning like wounded pigeons.
“Oh, God, Nancy,” Bruce was sobbing. “Sweet Nancy. Oh, God, I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right, Bruce,” Nancy whispered. “It’s all right, darling. I love you. I love you, Bruce.”
It was all too strange for me. I got dressed as quickly as I could, then headed for the door.
“Good night, Steven,” Nancy called after me. “Call me soon, won’t you, dear?”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Sure.” And I left.
In truth, however, I had no intention at that point of calling her again, soon or ever, and in fact I made a mental note to throw her number away as soon as I got home. Which I did.
But after a while, looking back over the evening, I started to remember how Nancy’s body had felt moving against mine. And I thought about her high, round breasts, the silken sensation of her hair brushing my crotch. And her mouth—that marvelous, voracious, talented mouth. And finally I fished the number out of the wastebasket and put it back in the Rolodex.
One shouldn’t be too hasty about these things.
Chapter 15
ONE OF THE MANY IMPORTANT FUNCTIONS OF my admirable and delectable assistant, Miss Greenglass—one that she fulfilled with tireless assiduity in the face of much discouragement and resistance on my part—was to make sure that my natural disinclination for any kind of work did not materially threaten the success or well-being of the enterprise of which I was the head, and of which she was, it goes without saying, a most essential employee. Distasteful though I may find it (and as liberally as I may delegate most of the responsibility, not to say the labor, to others), it is still the fact that carrying on a business does require a certain amount of unavoidable application to its needs. I suspect that, left to my own unfortunate propensity to neglect these things, my reputation as a successful businessman—not to say my income—would suffer drastically. But Miss Greenglass, calmly but firmly, in her often annoying but undeniably effective way, managed most of the time to prod, goad and manipulate me into performing whatever duties may have been necessary.
It was in fulfillment of one of these duties that I found myself, a few days after my interesting adventure with Nancy, attending a business meeting at the corporate headquarters of Carswell & Haynsworth, a large financial institution with offices on the topmost floor of a new midtown skyscraper. The proceedings, dull though they were, had a satisfactory outcome, and when the meeting ended I left the conference room in company with Philip Haynsworth himself. Outside, he stopped at a desk and handed a folder to one of the clerks. “June,” he said, “ask Opal to type this up.”
My ears, as they say, perked up. Opal? An Opal was just what I needed right then—an Opal or an Olga or an Olympia or an Odessa or … But Opal would do fine.
I swiftly said my adieus and casually followed the clerk as she made her way down a hall to a desk situated just outside an office which I took to be Haynsworth’s. She handed the folder to the woman sitting there. I couldn’t hear what she said, but it was safe to assume that the lady behind the desk was Opal. She was in her early twenties, and her skin was the color of coffee with just a small spoonful of cream. She had the largest, darkest eyes I had seen in quite a while. Her hair was curly and short, and what I could see of her figure afforded no cause for complaint.
I ignored the quizzical glance of the clerk as she passed me on her way back, and proceeded on to Opal’s desk. Close up she looked even more stunning.
“Ah—excuse me,” I said, smiling at her. “I’m Steven Walling. I’ve just met with Mr. Haynsworth, and there’s something in that report we thought I’d better check out. May I see it for a moment?”
She regarded me with an indifferent glance, hesitated for a few seconds, then shrugged. “Sure.” She handed me the folder.
“Thank you,” I said, and pretended to glance through the papers. “Oh yes,” I said wisely. “Yes, that’s fine.” I closed the folder and handed it back to her. “Thank you, Miss …”
“Adams,” she said. “Opal Adams.”
“Miss Adams,” I said, “I’m sure you have been told this many times, but may I say that you are an extremely beautiful woman.”
She must indeed have heard that a lot, for the compliment did not seem to impress her favorably. “Thank you,” she said rather coldly, and turned to start up her word processor.
“You know, this meeting ended earlier than I thought,” I said. “And
as it happens, my lunch appointment cancelled on me. Would you like to have some lunch with me, Miss Adams?”
“No, thank you,” Opal said.
“Anywhere you like,” I said. “I’ll try not to bore you, I promise.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have plans. In fact, I’m leaving right now.” Turning off the machine which she had just turned on, she got up and swept past me.
I wasn’t giving up that easily. I went after her as she walked down the hall and through the office, and caught up with her at the elevator bank outside the office doors. She did not look happy to see me.
“In that case,” I said, “how about dinner? I mean, since we’re hitting it off so well and all.”
“I’m busy,” Opal said. The elevator arrived and the doors opened. Opal stepped inside, and I followed. It was not quite noon, and there was no one else in the car. Opal gazed at the floor indicator.
“Look,” I said, “I’m really not an ax-murderer or anything. I’m a respectable businessman, and I’d just like to spend some time with you.”
She turned to me. “Now why you want to do that?”
Her manner was suddenly different from the corporate coolness she had projected in the office. Her voice was harder, and there was something in those large, dark eyes that was at once fierce and exciting.
“Why? Because you’re a lovely woman, and I happen to—”
“Because you want to fuck me,” Opal said. Nothing like a woman who gets to the point.
“Well … naturally, that possibility had occurred to me,” I said carefully. “But at the moment I was just thinking of taking a meal together. You know, talking, eating, getting to—”
“Hey,” Opal said. “Listen—what’s your name again?”
“Steven,” I said. “Steven Walling.”
“Well, Steve, tell me something. You notice any difference between us?”
“Certainly,” I said. “You’re a beautiful female, and I’m—well, an average-looking male. Vive la difference.”
“And?” she asked.
“And what?”
“I’m black,” she said. “And you’re white. You happen to notice that?”
“Sure,” I said. “So what?”
“So,” she said, turning away to face front again, “I don’t fuck honkies.”
I tried to think whether I had ever actually been called a honkie before. I didn’t think so. “Why not?” I said.
She snorted. “Figure it out.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Prejudice, maybe?”
“Shit,” Opal said. “You a white boy, and you talking about prejudice?” She snorted again. She was the only woman I have ever known who could snort attractively. “What you want to do, change your luck by fucking a nigger gal?”
“No,” I said. “My luck is fine, thank you, and I have known black women before. I assure you that skin color is irrelevant to me.”
“Yeah, well it isn’t to me,” Opal said. “Forget it.”
By now the elevator had reached the lobby and we were heading for the front door. “Look,” I said. “Just have lunch with me, that’s all. Or don’t you eat with honkies either?”
“Not if I can help it,” Opal said. “Besides, I’m meeting a friend.”
“Dinner, then.”
We were out on the street now. Opal stopped just outside the doors and turned to face me. “Dinner?” she said, sounding skeptical. “You want to take me to dinner?”
“I’d love to,” I said.
“Anyplace I want?”
“Name it.”
“Fanny’s Cafe,” she said.
I’d never heard of it. “Okay,” I said. “Where is it?”
“Right near where I live,” Opal said, watching me. “One Hundred Thirty-Seventh Street, near Lexington.”
Right in the middle of Harlem. She was trying to scare me off. I shrugged. “Okay. Why not?”
She looked at me another minute. “You’re not scared you’ll get your white ass stomped?”
“I’m sure you’ll protect me,” I said.
“Hell, no,” she said. “Pick me up at six—if you don’t chicken out.”
Fanny’s Cafe was small and crowded, and the food was excellent. Mine was the only white face in the place, and my presence was not exactly unremarked. Opal seemed to be well known there, but that did not stop the stares—mostly, it seemed to me, hostile—or the mutterings among some of the patrons. It was not the most comfortable situation I had ever found myself in, but I did my best to be casual and to make conversation with Opal, which was not easy. It was pretty clear that she had brought me up here only to try to intimidate or embarrass me, and that our relationship was not going to progress much further.
We had nearly finished our meal when a tall, husky young man came into the place, looked around and walked directly to where we were sitting. He did not look happy.
“What’s goin’ on, Opal?” he said.
“Hi, Calvin,” Opal said calmly.
Calvin jerked his head toward me without looking my way. “Who’s this honkie?” he demanded.
“Name’s Steve,” Opal said. “Steve, Calvin.”
Calvin was not about to shake hands. “What you doin’ with him, girl?”
“What’s it look like?” Opal said. “I’m eating, okay?”
“Shit,” Calvin growled. “Since when you eat with whiteys?”
I thought I’d better do something to assert my masculinity here. “Look, Calvin,” I said, “Opal and I are just—”
Calvin turned to me, pointing a finger in my face, and what blazed from his eyes was pure hate. “You shut the fuck up, honkie, or I’ll fuckin’ pulverize your ass! What the hell you doin’ up here anyway?”
“I brought him, you creephead,” Opal said. “Now fuck off, okay?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” Calvin said. “You thinkin’ you gonna do somethin’ with this piece of white shit? You better think again, you hear me?” He turned back to me. “You get the hell out of here right now, man, or I break your face!”
“Hey! Who the hell you think you are?” Opal said. “I said he’s with me, okay? You got nothin’ to say about it, Calvin. Now fuck off!”
“You ain’t gonna fuck no white trash, Opal, you hear me? You ain’t screwin’ no downtown ofay piece of shit, and that’s it! You got me?”
Opal got up, her face blazing, and I rose with her. “Hey, Calvin, get it straight, man. You don’t tell me who I fuck and who I don’t fuck, okay? Nobody fuckin’ tells me who to fuck. I’ll fuck whoever I goddamn want to, and what the hell you gonna do about it?”
“Goddamit!” Calvin yelled. “You tellin’ me you gonna fuck him!?”
“Yeah!” Opal yelled back. “I am! So go screw yourself! Come on, Steve.” And she took me by the hand and practically pulled me out of the restaurant.
“Wait!” I protested. “I have to pay the bill.”
“Let Calvin pay the fuckin’ bill,” Opal said. “Come on, my place is right down the block.”
“Is Calvin your boyfriend?” I asked as we walked.
“Hell, no! He’s just a guy, thinks he owns me or something. Fuck him! Son of a bitch. Nobody tells me who to fuck!”
“Look,” I said. “You probably shouldn’t go to bed with me just because you’re angry at Calvin. You might—”
She glared at me. “What, you backing out now?” she demanded. “Shit, you want to fuck me or not?”
“I do,” I said. “I surely do. I just—”
“Then shut up,” Opal said.
Her apartment was small and neat, but I didn’t have a chance to inspect it too closely. As soon as we were inside, Opal closed the door, turned on the lights and said, “Take your damn clothes off.”
Much as I wanted her, I was still not really comfortable with the idea of her doing this to get back at Calvin. “Opal,” I said, “are you sure about this?”
“Hell,” Opal said, starting to unbutton her blouse. “
It looks like it, don’t it?”
“I thought you didn’t fuck honkies.”
“You gonna be the first,” she said. “Also the last.”
“Really? You’ve never been with a white man before?”
Opal pulled off her blouse. “I don’t need to, baby. You white guys been fucking us for four hundred years.”
“That long, huh?” I said, looking at the taut breasts pushing against her black brassiere.
“That’s just in this country,” Opal said. “You gonna get undressed, or do white guys keep all their clothes on when they fuck?”
She unfastened her skirt as she spoke, then let it fall around her feet and stepped out of it. She wore sheer panty hose, through which I could see black panties. Her body was a wonder, curving from the high firm breasts gradually downward to a surprisingly small waist, then flaring out into boldly rounded hips that tapered into the shapeliest thighs I could remember seeing. And all that flesh one smooth, dark, delicious color, without shade or blemish.
Opal rolled the panty hose down over her hips, then moved to a nearby easy chair and sat down to pull them off. Still half dressed, I went to help her.
“There’s a switch,” Opal said. “A white boy waiting on a colored gal. How’s it feel, after keeping us in slavery all that time?”
“Not me,” I said.
“Yeah, you,” Opal said to me. “A white man is a white man.”
“And a good cigar is a smoke,” I said. “Where’s the bedroom?”
“Forget it, honkie. This room here is fine. Fucking you is one thing, but I ain’t taking no white boys into my bed.”
“Damn it, not all white men are the same,” I said. I placed both hands on her legs now and ran them up over her calves to her wonderful thighs. I pulled those legs apart gently. She didn’t resist.
“The hell they’re not,” she said. “They all hate niggers. Black men are bad enough—most of them hate women. But white men hate blacks and women too. Man, it’s pure shit out there!”
