Succulent

by Zane

  Sanad continued, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. All I want to do is bond with you; use our voices and our bodies to communicate with each other.”

  “Our bodies?”

  “Yes. I saw you out there and you’re so beautiful. I had forgotten how beautiful you are.”

  His voice, it was so powerful. I had forgotten how the sound of his voice excited me. I adored this man. He was the love of my life. Was he playing with me? I could hear him moving toward me. I put my hands up in front of me so that I could feel him coming. As he got closer, I could smell him, then I finally felt him. He grabbed my hands.

  “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe. The drink the woman gave you was spiked, but it was harmless.” I tried to move away. “Wait! I know that was harsh, but it’s no mistake that we’re both here tonight after all these years.”

  He stroked my face. I was crying. He kissed away the tears. I couldn’t resist him, though I wanted to slap the shit out of him and tell him that if he wanted to fuck, all he had to do was ask. This little game was unnecessary.

  My hands began to roam his body and I began to unbutton and remove his clothing. I needed him inside me. After all the sorry bastards I had fucked over the years, trying to recapture what we once had, I figured that I could at least have it again, if only for one night. He owed me that much. I felt like this was a game he was playing, one that I didn’t deserve. He and I had shared something special, or so I thought, and this in-the-dark bullshit was just plain weird. Yet and still, I wanted him ten years strong.

  “I knew you would be here. I set this up so that you and I could be together. I watched you come in. I’ve been excited all night, thinking about making love to you.”

  He was stroking me now. I spread my legs to allow him to go as far as my body would allow him. I didn’t have any panties on. He let out an evil chuckle. He always liked when I didn’t wear panties. He was still talking, but I wasn’t listening.

  “Talk to me, Lela. I want to hear your voice.”

  “I love you,” I told him as I kissed his lips. It wasn’t a lie and it was all I felt I should say.

  “I love you, too.”

  Those were the last words. Now it was all about our bodies communicating.

  He was foreign, yet familiar at the same time. His skin was so soft. I wanted to eat him alive, but I decided I should go at his pace. He was being soft and melodic, grabbing my face in the darkness and placing romantic kisses all over me. I held on tight. I had already removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. Damn, he smelled so good. He took the fingers that were in my pussy moments ago and placed them in his mouth and then in mine. I sucked his fingers as if they were four little dicks. I could feel his big dick against me. I missed him so much. Was I still unconscious? I had dreamed of this. Was I dreaming again?

  His rough push against the wall made my nervous thoughts disappear. He wanted to get rough. Now that’s what I’m talking about! Our tongues danced in a rough rhythm as I ran my fingers through his curly ringlets, and he roughly grabbed my ass.

  “Damn, baby, did you lose some of your thickness?” he asked playfully.

  I was embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m not a ten,” I sassed back, thinking about his new girlfriend.

  “You’re a twenty, baby.”

  He pulled my dress up. I removed his shirt and unbuckled his pants and slid them and his drawers down. I was planning to give him head when he eagerly picked me up and smoothly slid his dick in my wet, tight pussy. No one ever got me as wet and excited as Sanad did. Try as they might, they simply didn’t have what he had, and I never loved any of them. We had passion.

  He fucked and made love to me—something he was skilled at—against the wall as if my pussy were feeding life force into his dick. Maybe it was the other way around. Lord knows I was in need of life force from any source right then. He slid the top of my dress down and removed my bra with his mouth and hungrily sucked, licked, and bit at my breasts. In this position all I could do was smell the sweet scent of his hair and take every inch of his thick manhood. His rock-hard dick felt so good moving in and out. His hands, God, how I loved his hands; they were so big and so perfect.

  I removed his hand from my right breast and began to suck his four little dicks again. I could hear him moan in pleasure. I loved to hear how good my pussy was, translated in his moans and groans. I was tired of being fucked on a wall. I wanted to enjoy his entire body. I pushed him off me.

  “What are you doing, baby?” he gasped.

  I didn’t have anything to say. It was all about action.

  I grabbed his hand and guided him to the bed. I turned so my pussy was toward his face and I began to suck his dick. I got it all in my mouth against my gag reflex. I needed it all to fit because I knew this would be the last time. He became lost in my mouth. All I could hear was heavy breathing and gasps for air. I was pleased with myself, as I smiled with his dick in my mouth. I started to use one hand to stroke him as I sucked the head. He began to spank me. I liked that shit. I was dripping wet on his chest and face. He began to finger me, and the sound of his fingers mixed with my juices was more than I could handle. I began to lick his balls and I left no pubic hair untouched as I munched at them while smelling my sweet scent in his hair. He put his face in my wet pussy and I worked it against him with a smack. He came in my mouth for the first time. Ten years ago I would have been cautious, but tonight was the last night for me to show out and try things I’d never done before.

  His dick was still hard and I was far from being done with him.

  “You swallow now, huh?” he asked as he kissed my sloppy mouth.

  In between licks, I managed to let escape, “For you.”

  “Let’s see what else you’ll do for me.” At that moment a piano began to play a familiar song in the darkness. I jumped, but he held me close. “Don’t worry, they can’t see us.”

  “I don’t care if they can.”

  I had assumed someone was in the room besides us, but I didn’t really give a damn. After a few moments of the piano, a woman’s voice began to sing. I knew it was 10, so I didn’t bother to ask.

  “This is our song, remember?” he asked.

  I did. It was the love theme from Romeo + Juliet, “Kissing You” by Des’ree, sung in the key of 10. Over the years I would pop in the CD, listen to that song, and cry like a baby. It was indeed our song, and as I listened to it in the dark with Sanad in my arms, I began to cry again and so did he. He gently laid me down and began to make love to me as we cried and caressed each other tenderly. Homegirl knew the extended mix because it went on for what seemed like an hour; Sanad and I made up for ten years of life without each other.

  We lay there together sticky, sweaty, and stinky with each other’s juices all over us, tired as hell, but holding on to each other for dear life as 10 continued to play the melody of our song.

  “I’m sorry,” Sanad whispered into my ear.

  I had no words. That’s all I needed to hear. The music stopped and I could hear her walking toward us, then I could feel her on the bed. She lay next to me, stroking my hair, and then…

  …I died in their arms.

  Nine months earlier, I had been diagnosed with cancer and was given six months to live, so I was on borrowed time. I prayed to see Sanad before I died, and my wish was granted. Now he will pine for me.

  Modern Cinderella

  Alice Sturdivant

  The annual Stepping Onward and Upward charity dinner is a bore to anyone that usually goes, but for me, a first-timer and eager to try out a new black dress, it was a much needed chance to step into a world that I don’t usually get to see. Everybody has seen the black elite in our city: rich, glittering, and eager to catch up to and outdo their white counterparts. This evening’s dinner was no different, with uniformed waiters hovering discreetly around the numbered tables. As I was led to my table, I was a little disappointed to see that I was the only person being seated there. My disappointment was only lessened by s
eeing no less than five men discreetly look at me as I passed their tables, ignoring their dinner partners for a second and wondering who the newcomer was. Although the nouveaux riches pride themselves on being fashionably liberal and egalitarian, it was common knowledge that they are mindful of just whom they let in their midst and whom they don’t. The Stepping On, Noses Upward, as they were snickeringly called by those not invited to their closed-ranked soirees, believed firmly that society is not about whom you let in, but whom you keep out.

  The chair was far enough away from the podium that I wouldn’t have to pretend to pay much attention to the speakers, and—more important—I wouldn’t seem too terribly rude when I made my early departure. I couldn’t be expected to introduce myself as an intruder—a working-class gate-crasher who had the good fortune to have a friend of a friend give her an invitation—could I? Besides, tonight, mystery would be part of the allure, part of the persona. Tonight, I would be another soft, brown-skinned, well-bred, spoiled beauty who walked with ease in shoes that cost a month’s rent and a dress that showed off curves without seeming to. The triple-strand pearl necklace I’d pulled from my sister’s jewelry box (and sworn never to lose upon pain of death) complemented my caramel skin to perfection and forced me to hold my head high—but the easy smile I lent to the admiring eyes made me out to be friendly, despite my supposed lineage.

  I had been seated by the waiter and was waiting for my merlot, half studying the program below my place setting, when he showed up.

  “I’m glad to see someone else from the firm is here.” He smiled, his gaze lingering a second longer than was merely polite at the expanse of skin below the necklace.

  I smiled back, my Chanel-glossed lips turning upward invitingly, and nodded. “It does seem a trifle empty, doesn’t it?”

  I wasn’t going to correct him on his incorrect assumption that we were from the same company. Years of working for men such as this made it easy to pretend I’d spent years working with them.

  When he sat down, his smile widened appreciatively. “Well, I guess it’s just us.”

  He was handsome, with chocolate brown skin, big, dark eyes that seemed to focus only on me, and a dimple in his left cheek. He had a precise haircut that could only have come from a barber who only took referrals, from the right sort of client. In sunlight, his hair would have shown the beginnings of what his assistant would have described as “distinguished salt-and-pepper,” but in the dim light of the Whitney dining room, the little whorls of his hair made me wonder what it would feel like against the bare skin of my thighs. He was a little older than I; midforties, perhaps. Experienced.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere before. Did you come to the Hall of Fame induction?”

  What a line, but, hey, I’d bite. He was good-looking, and so was I; plus I only had one night to play at this.

  “No…I don’t usually come to these things.”

  The waiter brought my wine. I caught my tablemate eyeing my hands as I reached for the stem of the glass. I was glad I’d done my own manicure before I left. I looked at his mouth; kissable, definitely.

  “Are you from Charlotte? I could have sworn I’d seen you in the office…the Durham office, perhaps?” he went on, trying to place me.

  While he talked, I studied his eyes, his suit: designer and expertly tailored. The watch that peeked from below his cuff was something French and, while not diamond-studded, had enough flash to let me know it wasn’t cheap. He had the air of a high executive, not a mere businessman; usually just the type that I would consider out of my league. But not tonight.

  “I don’t think we met at the Durham office; perhaps one of the smaller gallery openings?” I found myself licking my lips, just to see if he would follow the quick movement of my tongue. Something about his cologne was making me pleasantly warm.

  His dark eyes caught the pink tip of my tongue against the burgundy shine of my mouth, and I wanted to grin with the knowledge. But even one generation from the farm, I knew better than to show my hand. I sipped my wine.

  “What are you drinking?” His eyes were skimming down the wineglass, examining my fingertips, the delicate skin of my wrist. Again, I wanted to squirm in my chair. My clit was quite interested in the firm lines of his mouth and the possibilities it held. I gave him the name of the wine, and he motioned to the waiter and murmured, “I’ll have what she’s having.” His eyes didn’t leave me.

  The waiter brought his wine, and he reached and took it with his left hand. At first the gleam of the gold band on his ring finger startled me, then I grinned to myself. He’d had practice—we’d been talking for about ten minutes and I hadn’t even seen it. So much for discreetly slipping him my number, I thought.

  He inquired about my family, still trying to place me, and I lied smoothly that most of my family was in Charleston, by way of Barbados. I saw him imagining years of scandalous interracial relationships that ultimately lent me my deep honey-brown skin and my sandy brown hair, now arranged in a pretty, curly bob. I quirked my mouth at his open study and did not look away. He licked his lips and I could feel the flicker of an imaginary tongue on my right nipple, right below the mole.

  “Well, for the next time we meet, why don’t I tell you my name,” I purred, offering my hand and introducing myself. Let him try to look me up in the city social registers; who cared after tonight, anyway? “Alicia Dwyer.”

  He took my hand and shook it softly, his eyes still boring into me. “Kenneth. Kenneth Prince.”

  I didn’t know the name and was relieved for a second. His hands were soft but capable, obviously unused to manual labor. Those blunt, long fingers were holding mine a little too gently and a little longer than necessary. Lucky Mrs. Prince, home all by herself, I thought. His thumb rubbed the delicate webbing between my thumb and forefinger. Lucky Mrs. Prince, indeed. I looked into those dark eyes and, for a second, wondered if he was the type to close his eyes when he’s deep in a woman’s pussy, or if he preferred to watch everything. His eyes stared back into mine, an unmistakable invitation.

  He was a looker, in more ways than one. He’d definitely watch.

  The waiter brought the artfully arranged niçoise salad first course, and we dropped our hands, neither of us having the grace to look guilty. The conversation during the soup course was unfailingly polite: politics, work. I told him about my writing, and he seemed impressed. Apparently writing as a hobby to help out “the masses” is an acceptable pastime for young black rich folks nowadays.

  He was the CFO of the company; I had no response for that. We talked about the banquet, whom he knew, what I thought of the dinner. He was charmed that I had issues with people who patted themselves on the back every time an “underprivileged youth” made it to college, not stopping to consider the reasons for the lack of privilege itself. Apparently being a bleeding heart was also fashionable. I was too busy enjoying the low rumble of his voice and the tingling brushes of his superfine wool trousers against my stockinged knee to feel patronized. We all but ignored the introductory speaker.

  Our seats were right next to each other, and I realized that we’d been leaning together, talking softly, our heads bowed toward each other. Almost like conspirators. I imagined that we looked like lovers, and just then, we looked at each other and realized…

  We could be.

  I quickly batted away that thought, but it aroused me, this man, his wife away with their children (two boys, he’d proudly admitted after I’d pointedly looked at his ring and given him an accusing look), the tastefully discreet hotel staff, the immaculate rooms upstairs, the fact that these things happen all the time at such dinners, that he was still openly flirting with me and I him, in our polite conversation but wondering if the other would, if given the chance, do what we were thinking….

  The look he gave me made me realize he was thinking the exact same thing. He was remembering my hands, wondering how they’d felt on his skin, looking at my mouth, wondering if I’d just kiss him or if I’d wrap the glossed l
ips around his dick, too. I was wondering if he would fuck me against the door of the room, on the bathroom counter, where I’d swipe all the prettily packaged minibottles of shampoo and soap off when I came, if he’d eat me until I begged him to stop, if the thought of his wife would enter his mind when we fucked doggie-style in front of the mirror.

  His dimple deepened.

  “You have the most delectable mouth, Miss Dwyer.” His breath was warm against my collarbone.

  “And you have beautiful hands, Mr. Prince.” I blushed (prettily, mind you—even for us working-class girls, Southern habits die hard) and was terribly grateful for the waiter asking us if we wanted poultry or beef. “The first,” I answered, probably too hastily.

  Mr. Prince smoothly ordered, then looked at me thoughtfully and whispered, “You’re an intriguing woman, Alicia. I’d give anything to kiss you right now. Anywhere. Everywhere.”

  At first, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him. Then, I wasn’t sure if I should slap him. I wasn’t sure if he’d seen through my high-class act and made me out for a cheap whore. But when I looked at him, shocked, he drew back, his eyes apologetic. I turned from him quickly, as if offended, then bit my lip as if considering something. But it was an act; I needed to distract myself from my now throbbing clit and my damp pussy, oversensitive mouth, and the fact that I was almost ready to pull up the fine linen tablecloth for him to get down there and have at it. I angled my head as if politely listening to the speaker, but glanced over, catching the want in his eyes. I only half hoped he didn’t see my nipples pushing out against the satin of my bra and the thin jersey of the dress.

  The salad had disappeared, barely touched, and was replaced by a beautiful-looking quail in some sort of sauce. I’d stopped caring about food fifteen minutes ago; some sort of record. I couldn’t resist. I squirmed in my seat, pressing my slick thighs together in vain.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you earlier, but please do that again,” he murmured.