Silence signified agreement in an oral contract that automatically renewed itself on the second day of January. Unfortunately, Imani had earned only a C+ in the introductory law course she’d selected as an undergrad thirty years ago. Where a public, liberal-arts education failed her in corporate America, a biologically predetermined curvaceousness did not. Ample compensation and her acquiescence allowed her to co-finance vacations with Cisco when his private funds failed to stretch far enough for her to hear those three, transmutable words: “I gotchu, boo.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Pusifuoco began trebling her Christmas bonuses. Perennially she serenaded his boner with a lap dance to Eartha Kitt’s restrained seduction in “Santa Baby.” She eventually chalked up the on-site instances of quid pro quo to a leg-cramping lesson on the travesty of religiosity. He was just another sleaze ball queuing up after work with ordinary sinners for the confessional booth.
Bet he’s between my stockinged thighs more than on those kneelers in church, she pondered one Christmas Eve while dismounting from Mr. P’s cloaked wood just as Eartha was urging Ol’ St. Nick to briskly scale down her chimney for nookie.
For Imani, there was no Christmas tree to trim. Only the kind of trimming on which chanteuse Eartha put a kittenish spin. No yuletide songs or gospel hymns played in rotation in her apartment. There were no plans to watch the statuesque Rockettes expose their crotches in lewd synchronization at Radio City Music Hall, or to attend a performance of the “Nutcracker” ballet just to be distracted by the package bulging from the Nutcracker prince’s leotard. When she desired a greater level of excitement, all she had to do was place a booty call to her man. During their twenty-six years in a type of off-and-on relationship that the band Champaign perfectly captured in their eighties jam, Imani and Cisco had choreographed many an intimate ballet.
* * * * *
One night in late June, as Johnny Hartman’s “For All We Know” went down smoothly like chocolate mousse, Cisco rubbed his hardness through the camel terrycloth while watching his lover scrub shea butter bath gel into her skin in preparation for him. Mmmmm … Mujer … I sure wish I could be that loofah right about now, he fantasized, palm to nuts.
Five feet away from the kind of steamy action that his latest wet dreams were made of, he loitered for some time. Smiling when he wasn’t licking and biting his lips, he stood there stroking his joint until its eye turned cloudy and he was seeing stars. He split the time spying on his woman and watching his nature rise. The delicate splashing of her fragrant bath water had disguised his furtive footsteps ending at the bathroom’s entranceway. Rapt, and sprung like a horny jack-in-the-box, he desired to erupt in her soapy coochie. He was about to fully strip down to his brown and surprise his bathing beauty when, in the distance behind him, he heard her cell phone ringing with its default tone.
Rushing toward the insistent sounds, he silently cursed the caller for disrupting what was going to be anything but a skinny dip. Imani’s cell was vibrating so hard that it nearly somersaulted off the kitchen table’s edge. Tempted by the “Unknown” flashing on her caller I.D., he tapped the “Accept” tab. He’d waited too long. To his surprise, Mr. Unknown followed up his unanswered call with a text: a cock pic accompanied by the caption: “I’ll take you back, my sweet-ass bitch. … Mr. P”
* * * * *
Cisco wasn’t easily deterred. Flashing a glance of annoyance at the small group of voyeurs, he spotted the tallest of the men winking back with the signal of understanding. That’s all he needed. He knew that Imani’s ass was his—even if he only desired her pussy.
“Hey, you alleycat,” he addressed her in his best Brandoesque impersonation. “Rrreeeowww!”
She knew the drill and was about to get it from her expert handyman. Then and there, she was the Millie Jackson to his Marvin Sease—and, whether he had enough to splurge on room service the next morning or they wound up limping to the nearest McDonald’s, he was, as Sease sang, going to satisfy his greedy girl while eating her for his breakfast.
Once Cisco had maneuvered his jacket zipper and spread her coat open, he raised her skirt and ripped a hole in her white acrylic tights. She came to his aid, yanking down her high-cut cotton briefs, exposing steamy wetness to the frigid air. Shivering like her from lust as much as from winter’s chill, he whipped out his turgid cock and lifted her onto it. Matching Imani pant for pant, he thrusted his huge, knobby head upward into “Gina’s” mouth. While “Gina” kept creaming, Cisco cupped Imani’s lips to prevent her from screaming.
“Cállate la boca,” he whisper-barked amid his girl’s stare. He didn’t mind that “Gina” had his manhood in a death grip. Snarling, he reflected, I live to die like this. “Go ahead, bite me. I’m already immortal, my love.”
“Nnnmmmph-nnnmmmph!” was all Imani could cry out into Cisco’s palm as she released a fragrant ocean onto the glacier beneath their feet. No more sex-capades, she promised herself somewhere beyond the final spasm.
After they climaxed together, he let her down easy.
* * * * *
Winter indeed is approaching, but you might need a towel before you reach the end of this penetrating tale. You’ve just read a few sizzling excerpts from Chantale Rêve’s first novella, A Blue Noël, which is filled with erotic twists on sacred subjects. Well, sacred to some. But what else to expect from an author whose words defrocked a flock of maids as readers watched them frolic somewhere on the Right Bank in her first short story set in Paris: “Les Femmes de Chambre” (the sequel coming in 2014).
In A Blue Noël, however, the action begins in “Broke-lyn” – despite money shots that follow. Where the story takes you after that only can be revealed to readers who dare to turn the pages — even if only virtually. At least you can’t get a paper cut.
Copies of A Blue Noël and a handful of Chantale Rêve’s previously published short stories are available for purchase on Smashwords.com. Generous samples of her short fiction are free for mature adults to read — “mature” referring not only to legal age but also to emotional and psychological development.
From New York to Nicaragua, the Netherlands to Nairobi, Nepal to New Zealand: NEGROTICA’s creator thanks you for your unwavering support of her art.
© 2013 Chantale Rêve
All Rights Reserved
Cover Photo: “Mariposa in Blue”
Photographer: Chantale Rêve
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