“Oh my sweet,” he said, beaming, embracing the flowers and rewarding me with a soft and gentle kiss. “You are so good to me.”
“Not as good as you are to me, honey,” I said, nibbling an earlobe.
“And what is that smell so good?”
“I’m making dinner.”
“Mmmm,” he moaned as my lips left his ear and explored the soft crook of his neck, “That is good because I am hungry.”
“So am I,” I growled softy. “Hungry for you.”
* * * * *
He lounged luxuriously in the bubble bath I’d drawn for him while I attended to the last-minute details of our candlelight dinner. It took everything in my power not to join him, but we were both giddily aware of the amorous bedroom dessert following our dinner at the dining table.
I couldn’t tell if it was the heat in the kitchen or the heat in my heart and loins that had me so hot. But I had a very good idea to whom the blame should be assigned. Just the thought of him languid in that shallow tub of bubbles aroused me. The image of his glistening, brown, wet skin, sexy and playful amidst the fragile fluff of white translucence, was a sensual distraction. The picture of him in scented water, teasing his hefty hazelnuts and lazy, luscious pinga cradled between his lovely muscled thighs, made my mouth pucker like a baby begging for a bottle.
With little triumph, I melted butter in a small saucepan. I then added garlic, black pepper and the mushrooms I sautéed.
But even the mushrooms distracted and attracted me. The nice and nasty thoughts of his copper-colored pecker head I craved too often, too much and too anxiously filled me with desire.
Preparing the salad, lightly dressed with cranberry vinaigrette, was no relief. As I tossed it into a medley, I could only think of tossing his salad, jabbing my tongue deep into that beautiful ass that so often did a slow dance on my face. It was a treasured smothering. It was a rock-steady facial lap dance.
I shook myself out of the dizzying reverie, scared I’d ruin the meal; pay more attention to my hardened rod between my legs than the moist and tender hens roasting in the oven.
I bent down, opened the oven door and checked on the roasting twins’ crackling succulence. They were as golden brown as everything I loved so much about my golden Étie—the face, the neck, the abs so taut, the chest so firm, that flattened stomach, that thick and luscious brown pinga congenially present in that silken patch of pubes between his long, luscious legs.
Oh how I adored his lovely legs, his thighs and his ass so tight and tasty. Head to toe, my boy beauty was buzzed, and I was ruined to the tee, knowing it all belonged to me.
I had to catch myself again as I’d forgotten just that quickly how long I’d been prostrated in a haunch before the sizzling fowl.
I took the plastic ladle I’d forgotten was in my hand and dipped it into the roasting pan. I filled it with the steamy juices, then basted the pungent Rock Cornish game hens stuffed with rice as wild as my sweet imaginings.
Over and over, slowly and deliberately, an attentive bathing I gave them. My mind surrendered me to thoughts of bathing my sweet baby in that far-off tub I longed to share.
But I did not dare. I was fully but despairingly aware I had food and sustenance to prepare for my sweet, knowing he would be starved for it and me, as surely as I was and would be for him,
Still on my haunches, bended knees, tippy-toes and legs spread wide, my wood was now a brick against my inner thigh as thoughts of him fucked with me without relief. I touched the outline of it with my right hand while with my left I bathed the other birds with golden juice, spiced with heat and herbs.
After my steady slathering, I closed the oven door and stood. With everything within my weakened willpower, I tried to will away my hard-on, even as the vision of my beloved rendered that a futile undertaking.
I distracted my desires with the muffins on top of the stove. But as I delicately placed each muffin in the pan, evenly spaced, I felt his arms ease slowly around my waist, giving me a maddening and sudden rush. The scent of him, his bathing fragrance, his warmth shivered me. His soft moist lips that gently nibbled at my neck, his hardened dick pressed naked against my ass, caused me to moan and close my eyes with a deep and tingling soothing.
“Let the muffins wait, my love,” he whispered in my nibbled ear. “I’m hungry for the cakes.”
“Oh yes, my baby,” I sighed and cried. “They’re all yours, baby, all yours for the taking.”
His hands unbuckled my belt and unzipped my pants, then pulled them down. I stepped out of them, turned off the oven and spread my legs, bent over and braced myself against the stove, grateful for what I was about to receive.
I felt him go down on his knees. He spread my ass cheeks delicately, then licked my crack with his curious tongue, all the while fondling my stiff and dripping dick.
“Oh God, baby, yes, YES!” I moaned recklessly as he jammed his tongue inside me, slobbering my wanton hole, making it moist and ready for that thing I needed most of all.
Now ready to fulfill my wish, I felt him stand. Leaving my moistened asshole, his tongue glided slowly up across the small of my back, slowly up my spine, my shoulder, then my neck, biting it lovingly. And then I was sweetly stunned by his fat and friendly pinga entering my asshole’s door. Its thick and sultry salutation filled me with glad tidings of love and lust and gifts of total satisfaction.
The feel of his thick length slowly grinding my starving hole sent me into a slow and steady reeling that longed to have it hard and fast, to catch up with my asshole’s greed.
“Yes, baby, yes,” I begged as I held onto the stove for dear life. I buried my chin in my beating chest, then bucked my head like a soul singer on drugs and glory.
“Harder, baby, HARDER!” I commanded like an unrepentant whore. And he obeyed with a pounding that had me nearly snatching the stove out from the wall.
I huffed and puffed with the sensation of the intolerable pleasure, the beating and the bathing that his sex-crazed dick slam-danced against the joyful walls of my grateful, gluttonous, nasty ass.
I felt it come, the rumble and the tumble, that sudden storm that signaled all the lovely fury of the nut. I screamed with a blinding, dizzying glee as I felt his dick inside me jiggle with a sudden spastic swell. And then it exploded, filling me with all his love. Bucking on my back, he whimpered in Spanish as he filled me good to the last drop. He twisted my nipples as he called out my name. He then grabbed my own bursting dick, beat it with a fury until I shot against the hot oven door, where it sizzled…and sizzled…and sizzled…
Chapter Five
Early Sunday morning, we took the long scenic drive along Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu’s Zuma Beach, one of our favorite getaways. It was the perfect locale for Étie’s photo shoot. It also sparked loving memories for both of us, sweet remembrances of the first time I captured his devine beauty with my camera. It was on what Étie had called his escape, a small, secluded, black rock cove hidden beneath the Malecón in Santo Domingo.
I wanted to get several shots of him splashing in the beautiful cobalt blue Pacific, drenched in the sparkling Southern California sunshine, a Herb Ritts homage to his Afro-Caribbean island beauty.
The soaked white linen Ermenegildo Zegna shirt he splashed in clung sensually to his neatly chiseled chest and torso, revealing his midnight nipples invitingly. His sheer and sexy Moschino swim briefs hung low and tight around his small waist like the way his hands had held my waist that night he made love to me against the stove.
I was grateful to my professionalism for keeping me focused, although the growing stiffness in my pants was an undeniable salute to the fabulous love we often made.
He then stripped naked, dried off, slipped on a simple pair of white jeans and a plain white T-shirt and then settled with meditative poise on the warm beige sand. As the setting sun played on his face with a Rembrandt glow, my camera came in close and made the kind of love to his features that were more brush stroked than digital.
Étienne was my nature boy.
That long and satisfying shoot made for a soothing sleep that night for the both of us. The love we made before falling asleep in each other’s arms was slow and soft and gentle. The warmth I found between his legs was as moistly sweet as his mouth in which my tongue slow-danced with his.
I woke up at six the next morning, and paused a moment to behold my sleeping baby. He didn’t have to be at work until ten, and he looked as though he was so enjoying his peaceful slumber. I kissed him gently on the forehead, careful not to wake him, then headed for the kitchen where I put on a pot of coffee.
While the coffee brewed, I headed toward my studio to take yet another look at Étie’s pictures. I wasn’t mistaken. I hadn’t dreamed them. They were real. Even as the projector slowly dissolved one image into another, in their dreamlike state, otherworldly and mystical, they were genuinely real and yet so utterly unreal. I reached out and touched the mounted screen just to make sure.
“You make me look like movie star, baby,” I heard his sleepy voice behind me, then felt his arms around my waist, his soft lips on my neck. I turned in his arms and kissed those soft lips.
“Morning, beautiful,” I said running my fingers through his tussled hair, slowly brushing away the lock that dangled over his left eye. He drew me tighter into his embrace and filled my mouth with his gently probing tongue that felt so good, I thought it was his dick.
And then I felt his dick stiffen between my legs. He felt mine stiffen between his. Our hearts beat furiously in rhythm. Words were unnecessary.
He grabbed my hand and led me toward our bedroom. The sight of his ass in front of me weakened my knees. I stumbled. He turned to me and chuckled, a sexy, nasty, sultry chuckle. He grasped my dick, which cried for joy with pre-cum. He lowered me down in the bedroom doorway. Never losing his grip, he went to his knees and teased my slick, oozing dick with his fluttering tongue, lapping up pre-cum as quick as it came. I scratched the walls of the bedroom and hallway. He then deep-throated me with a ferociousness that made my asshole jealous. He sensed the envy and pacified my covetous hole with fingers deep and soothing. I sank lower inside the doorway, legs spread, heart pounding, ecstatically torn between pleasured ass and pleasured dick.
“Damn, baby!” was all I could say, as he sucked me deep and finger-fucked me. I needed to do the same. And so we sixty-nine’d across two rooms. I sucked his cock in the bedroom. He sucked mine in the hallway.
And then it happened with a frenzy. He exploded in my mouth, and I in his. And even as we shuddered and moaned and strained with heated delight, not a drop of cum was wasted. Our kisses were filled with the taste of our co-mingled cream.
I so wished he didn’t have to go to work, and so did he. But we did part, and said our goodbyes with a final lover’s kiss.
I watched him with longing as he walked down the street. When he turned around, smiling, and waved at me, I returned the smile and waved just as he disappeared around the corner. I shook my head in gratitude and pitied poor Hardy Ferrell for what he would never have.
The next half hour was spent poring over the images of Étie on my computer screen. The Photoshop touch-ups were minimal and were, in no time, ready to be emailed off to Image Copiers, the photo duplication house in the valley that specialized in headshots and zed cards for actors and models. The prints would be finished and shipped in three days.
I felt proud of myself. Between the beautiful lovemaking and the photo work, the morning had turned out to be satisfying and fulfilling. And so the noontime phone call from my agent extended the joy.
“Hey, Carl,” I answered after seeing his name on my caller ID. “What’s up?”
“Are you sitting down?”
“Should I be?”
“You might want to.”
“What?”
“I just got a call from Harpo.”
“Harpo?”
“Oprah saw your Essence spread. She wants to meet with you.”
“You’re shitting me!”
“I don’t shit anybody about Oprah, kiddo. She wants to fly you in to Chicago and talk about possibly shooting her fiftieth birthday bash in January at her home in Montecito.”
“Are you sure you’re not shitting me?”
“Positive. Now they’re looking at a few people—”
“Of course.”
“But you’re definitely on their short list.”
“What?”
“Yep. They wanna see you next week. Game?”
“Hell yeah game!”
“All right. I’ll get back to you with the details.”
I don’t remember hanging up. In fact, I don’t even remember saying goodbye. All I remembered was this feeling of weightlessness. Yeah sure, I’ve had more than my share of celebrity shoots, but this was big, I mean really big. To be given the opportunity to photograph the most famous woman on the planet was like hitting the lottery. I suddenly felt a great surge of humility and thankfulness for all the good things that were happening in my life. As I pondered the golden career opportunities that were about to happen for both Étie and me, as we luxuriated in the love we shared, I realized profoundly that happiness was not merely a pursuit. It was the reality of a dream fulfilled.
It took everything in my power not to call Étie and tell him all our early morning lovemaking had spawned. I knew he was working. I had always felt uncomfortable calling anyone on their job unless it was during their break, their lunch or an emergency, so I sent a text instead—Hi, My Darling. May I take you out on a date 2nite? Dinner @ 8? Yamashiro? Ur Lover Man.
I called Yamashiro Restaurant and made a reservation. Yamashiro was and will always be a special place for us. It was the first restaurant I took Étie to when he arrived in America. It’s a beautiful Asian palace eatery perched high in the Hollywood Hills, boasting unobstructed views of the sparkling city lights of Hollywood below. Its cozy terrace seating, romantic gardens and the six-hundred-year-old pagoda illuminated by pool light provided the perfect setting we always looked forward to.
Within minutes I got a text back. Yamashiro??? Yes, baby, yes!!!
The phone rang. It was my agent Carl.
“Carl,” I answered as if he was a long-lost friend.
“Okay, kiddo, you’ve got a red-eye to Chicago Sunday night. A car will meet you at O’Hare, drop you at your hotel. You do a dinner prelim with a couple of her producers, but you’ll primarily have all Monday to lie around, relax, be at your best for your Tuesday meet with the lady at her studio office. Look for an email with your itinerary and your confirmation info in an hour or two.”
“You know something, Carl?”
“What?”
“This has been one helluva day.”
“Yeah, I know it has.”
“You have no idea.”
“I have an inkling.”
“And it’s not even over yet.”
“No it’s not.”
“God, I need to pinch myself.”
“Well, you deserve it, kiddo. You’re that good.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
“Have you told Étie yet?”
“Not yet. I’m going to tell him tonight over dinner at—”
“Yamashiro,” Carl joined me in the chorus, laughing.
“God, young love,” he continued in a muse. “Ain’t nothin’ like it.”
“I ain’t that young, Carl.”
“Sure you are, kiddo. Love makes everybody young.”
Chapter Six
Étie got off work at five o’clock. At five-ten, he was walking through our front door.
“Baby? Papi? Where are you?” I heard him call as he closed the door behind him. I knew exactly what he needed and I had it waiting for him. The aroma of the scented bubble bath I’d drawn for hi
m floated through our open bathroom door into our bedroom where I stood as spiffy as an anxious prom date. He allowed the familiar scent to lure him to me and into my waiting outstretched arms.
“You look so nice,” he said to me.
“So do you,” I answered, hugging him.
“In these work clothes?”
“You look nice in anything, and you look even better out,” I said as I began to kiss his face, his mouth, his neck, his hands.
I am so funky, baby,” he giggled shyly.
“Your funk is my crack,” I said between kisses.
“My crack is your crack,” he laughed naughtily, shimmying sexily out of the clothes I slowly pulled down with my teeth.
The moment heated us both, but even as our bodies begged for satisfaction, our sensibilities were not without objections. Étie’s warm bath awaited him. Our dinner reservations at the popular restaurant loomed before us. Even a quickie—our kind of quickie—would not be quick enough.
Still, our unabated desires needed some form of quenching. His stiff and twitching rod stared nakedly up at me, causing my own rod to swell inside my pants. We knew nature had to be obeyed. So I loosened my necktie and fell to my knees, bringing him down with me, sitting his naked body down on the side of our bed. I ceremoniously spread his legs, and religiously deep-throated that beautiful pinga of his, pungent with his natural male aroma.
He moaned weakly, softly mumbled Spanish as I sucked him with a gentle, steady rhythm, the taste of his pre-cum dizzying me, the smell of his sweaty balls driving me to ecstatic distraction.
I filled my mouth with all of him. I then buried my face between his chiseled thighs. I licked his sweaty balls and dervished my lilting tongue through the light forest of his midnight pubes before returning to the dick, which I devoured with slurping glee.
Up and down my head soared and plunged, guided by his anxious hands. I slipped my own greedy hands underneath his thighs and found the moistness of his asshole awaiting me.
Hollywood Flames Page 3
