My name is Summer Wates. I got wide, succulent lips that can wrap around a dick twice. Well, except for Shep’s; he’s hung like a horse. He let his buddies at Sanitation, where he’s been a truck driver for fifteen years, inflate his brain with all that macho jazz. OK, he’s well-endowed enough to dent my walls, but after a while he was forgetting that my fleshy brown and pink pussy ached to feel his thick, long tongue lathering it up in all the right places. Sure, it could take on his huge dick twice in one night. The thing is, I was jonesing for pussy all over this housing complex.
My situation was both a blessing and a curse because I had to keep it a secret or else lose my boyfriend for good. I’d already seen his eyes popping à la Bernie Mac every time Charlene Jones, a.k.a. Cha-Cha, swung her Pam Grier boobs over the entrance to the numbers spot on St. Nicholas Ave. It wasn’t like me to be jealous of a woman who ranked one level above hooker and served as bait for a storefront gambling racket. After all, I had a pretty nice rack, too, even if it was a few letters of the alphabet behind Cha-Cha’s. And mine didn’t pose a danger during my daily calisthenics. Then again, mine didn’t have the pendulous power to hypnotize Shep, or else by now I would’ve suggested to him, on the count of three, to ignore Cha-Cha’s tits. Yeah, I was always supposed to understand.
Shep didn’t understand, though. He surely needed to, because he’d been leaving me waiting. Waiting for him to come home, siren blaring, like Tank in “Emergency.” Waiting for him to return home and throb inside my wetness all night until I understood the passion and endurance about which Maxwell crooned in “Til the Cops Come Knockin’.” Yearning for him to whisper words that would coax out my fluids and to lash his tongue amid my folds until I reached the Ripertonian octaves of “Inside My Love.” Waiting for him to come home and give it to me good just like in that Usher song “Daddy’s Home.”
Inspired by the Daddy’s Home video, I dragged a kitchen chair into our hallway. On the seat I placed a black, braided-leather whip that I’d sniped in an eBay auction. I decided against bending over the chair, though. Why tempt fate, as in a broken collarbone? I rationalized, neck to ankles in black latex lingerie. Looking back, I was a hot mess, stumbling around knock-kneed in not-yet-broken-in, high-heeled pleather booties, no less. Make that Payless.
I squeaked over to the bathroom to hide behind the door. Only my heels were more musical than my body harness, sounding like hooves down on Crosby Street’s cobblestone. Just for going out of my way to arouse my man, I deserved for him to surprise me with an early arrival, dropping his canvas bag to mount my latex-spanked hide. Yeah, right, I thought. I allowed the more futile sex fantasy to gallop away and focused my energy on pinning my voluptuousness between the creaky bathroom door and the sturdy wall.
That was the longest twenty-six minutes I’d ever spent, vertically, in black latex. Like an erotic ninja, I was invisible and inaudible — well, the latter if my thighs managed not to rub together and emit sparks. The only time I liked burning rubber was when I used to grip Shep’s dick from inside my v-cave while he drilled the pink from above at Superman speed.
Tucked in the dark corner, I’d ventured galaxies away from Shep’s Lois Lane fantasy, which used to rev up our courtship days. My pinched toes were speaking Japanese already, and I’d lost about fifteen pounds from my encasement. For half the twenty-six minutes, I made a fan of the wooden door as if to summon up a breeze from the alleyway beyond the bathroom window. My libido battled with anxiety for my soul, while the perspiration oozed from my pores and made intimate contact wherever the latex clung to mocha curves.
Sometime before my near auto-erotic asphyxiation, my would-be hero came home. I’d later realize that the only hero was the soggy one in a brown paper bag: a lukewarm half of a meatball parmesana sandwich. Wedged behind the door, all I heard, in Shep’s annoying Black Italian accent, was: “Hey, doll. I’ma home. C’mona out here and gitta dis juicy sammicha.” And due human-beatbox breaths later: “Summer, lemme breaka you offa piece a dis.”
With all the time he spent wolfing down his half of that “sammicha” in the kitchen, I was melting in a Wicked Witch way under all that latex. Like my name, it was more sweltering inside than outside. It was burning up especially in the inner city, like Stevie Wonder’s 1980 album. Luckily Shep hadn’t needed to use the bathroom first, or else he would’ve discovered me doing my best Jill Masterson (re)pose – albeit in glistening black, not in glittery gold. Upon hearing him lick his fingers and leave the kitchen, I peeled myself from behind the door to peek into the hallway at his reaction as he approached the whipping chair.
Man, he must’ve had some rough rounds on the garbage truck that day because he just kicked away my prop and scolded, “Bring yo squeaky ass out da damned bathroom! I should put you in restraints, and not da kind dat turn you on.” I complied, snarling. The soles of my feet were sloshing in sweat, my strangled pussy lips smacking in cum.
Instead of singing in Usher’s urgent notes, Shep kept cursing under his breath that he was going to strip my whip down to make a fancy belt of the leather. My boo may be handy, but often it’s in the wrong damned way. No way was I going to confront him about it that day. Always was fearful of him, but still I yearned for him. And I waited.
Each day I lingered, unable to focus on where our relationship was heading, because my pussy throbbed something awful. It ached for a real, caring touch. That of a female. Sometimes I got knowing looks and pursed lips, but I’d been cursed. I’d been raised to believe that lesbians were women with the “nasty disease.” Anyway, most of the come-hither motions were by women who were old enough to be my Moms. That wasn’t happening.
Then one morning, temptation knocked on the door. I’d scheduled a personal day – on a Wednesday, Shep’s only day off. I wanted to start off the hump day right, by pleasing my man as best I could. So for the sake of our relationship, I cast off my desire to cherche la femme in case my intuition had been deceiving me. Then came that rap on the door. And it sure as hell wasn’t Aretha Franklin.
It all happened so innocently. Maybe things would’ve been different if Shep hadn’t been so damned hot-tempered. I’d put up with the mysterious bowling nights. I’d never known a man to bowl so frequently each week without ever having joined a league — or at least owning his own bowling ball, bag and shoes. Then one day he donned a pair of high tops and walked out on me. That was a year ago, but I remember it as if it happened yesterday.
* * *
In the honeymoon phase of our relationship, Shep had been such a tender, attentive lover. He was practically Babyface, during the era that he was crooning and howling about whip appeal. Knowing how much I love oral, he – Shep, not Babyface – never failed to please me. I loved giving and receiving, but apparently I went overboard in the months leading to our breakup.
My intuition had tried to warn me that I’d been watching my favorite hardcore porn DVD, The Blacker the Berry, The Sweeter the Juice, too many times per week. Still, I couldn’t believe my ears when he complained on that fateful Wednesday morning that he was tired of awakening to find my plump lips enveloping his morning wood. I turned so embarrassed and my clit almost totally lost its erection. I’d already changed panties twice in the middle of the night, but as always my bud was humming and throbbing in my wet, cotton girl shorts, making me crazy. While Shep didn’t have a problem with me slobbing the knob in the beginning of the relationship, now he was accusing me of being hypersexual.
“You heard me right, Summer. I accused you of being a nympho!”
“A nympho?!” I repeated after Shep as he struggled to pull on a pair of cargo pants over tented cotton boxers in baby blue. Then I thought to myself (else risk getting slapped a bigger pair of lips): The brother doesn’t even know how to spell nympho. Though, he despised hearing repetition more than he hated using a dictionary.
“Yeah, I’m talkin’ ’bout you, Summer. You one nasty bitch!” he retorted before I could insult him introspectively.
“Shep, you watch your damned mouth!” I returned, turning my back to him and heading down our narrow hallway toward the kitchen. “You didn’t have any problem with me sinking to my knees on the side of a dirt road when we were dating less than a week, so what’s up? Or how about – ”
“How ’bout shuttin’ dat fat lip o’ yours and fixin’ your memory on da expensive engagement ring I gotchu last winter,” he said. “You don’t get me. I was plannin’ to jump dat broom witchu, girl.” He was almost wimpering, the way he emphasized girl.
“’Girl’? Shep, I’ve been a woman for as long as your dick’s been gettin’ hard,” I said, standing with my arms akimbo and my strong legs spread in front of the fridge. “And as for that so called diamond ring, it couldn’t even cut glass, but I see you clearly now for who you are.”
“Dat shows how much you know, smart ass. It took me a whole damned year to pay off dat ring,” he said through spittle, “and you wasn’t even worth da trouble. Still ain’t.” He took a seat at the kitchen table but not before creating skid marks with the chair. “Fix me a cup of coffee like you used to every morning.”
“OK, if the ring was worth all that money, why’d you make me butter my finger that day so you could slip it off, run down the hallway and hurl it down the incinerator?” I asked him.
“I shoulda tossed yo big behind down da incinerator,” he menaced.
“What are you turning so hot for? Are you supposed to be some prize? Hmpf, I’d do better rifling through the toffee popcorn and peanuts in a box of Cracker Jacks to–” I was planning to continue my tirade, but Shep’s brawny brown fist pre-empted my next wisecrack.
“Go ’head. Cry yo little heart out, Summer,” he said, massaging his fist as if the punches to my lips and jaw had hurt him more than they did me. “Baby, I see you got yo sights set gutter-low, like some two-bit ho.”
“When you had my legs stretched like Olympic gymnast Nadia Comaneci’s, who was the ho then, tell me?” I said, trying not to laugh with my swollen, bloodied lips at his unintentional rhyming. I always knew my man had a rap sheet, but not the lyrical kind. I made no apologies for liking my men roughneck back in the day, but Shep had turned uppity on me.
“Noddin’ into a coma – what?” he asked. “Bitch, you know I keep yo ass wide-awake, bonin’ dat pussy. Hell, I be up to my elbows in it.”
I wiggled away from him, as he pulled on his high tops, and into our hallway, where it was safe to answer. “Oh, you dumbass. Fuck you, Shep,” I growled at him.
“Dat’s one thang you won’t be doin’ to me no mo,” he promised. “Now dat’s what’s UP!” With that, he grabbed his Sean John hoodie and slammed the steel door of our apartment behind him.
* * *
After my flowing tears stung my open facial wounds and soaked the bed sheets, I traipsed into the kitchen and looked around. I thanked God that it had been my apartment, or else that morning I would’ve been headed for the gutter that Shep had mentioned in our argument.
Sucking on a tart nectarine moments later, I felt the sting but also the misery seeping into my skin and dampening my bones. After all, I was living in the projects, and my dating prospects immediately would take a nosedive once the men discovered that. I couldn’t blame them. Who wanted to take the risk of getting mugged or murdered on the elevator, just to get some thirtysomething coochie? That was hard reality, much like the concrete of the prisonlike housing complex.
I wiped away the nectarine juice from my dimpled chin and licked the rest off lips that were puffy like Kerry Washington but elastic like Kandi Burruss’ – except I couldn’t act or sing for shit. Just then, I heard a scratch at the door. I dashed into the corridor leading to the entrance, still smelling musky from unattended lust. The entrance was just off the kitchen, and I hurried there fueled to the max from my glucose rush.
Pressing one eye to the peephole, I watched a wispy woman dressed in a black catsuit arch her back against the wall opposite my apartment door. It was kind of early in the morning, but I just figured she was a new neighbor seeking insider’s tips about Central Harlem before feeling out the area on her own. I was lonely, so I opened the door.
“Hi, I’m Felicia Sykes. I’m new around here,” I heard a sweet voice resonate from a cinnamon brown face.
Felicia was cute, but too petite to be considered gorgeous. I had about three inches on her 5-foot-3 frame.
“What, do you just walk around like Catwoman?” Something didn’t smell right. I tried pulling my short blue, terrycloth bathrobe closed tightly around my bold curves.
Her eyes followed every bend and, when I secured my belt, bounced up to my glare. “I live upstairs but I’ve seen you with – is he your man?”
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Now I was intrigued.
She bit her bottom lip and smoothed back what looked like an auburn lacefront weave. It didn’t matter; she was a beauty in Ohio Players skin-tight black. While it’s true I couldn’t spy her natural hair, I licked my lips at the split-second fantasy that she had a ’fro down there. As intimately as that outfit hugged her body, I already knew I’d need to fish out Shep’s pic comb to fluff out her bush.
“You two seemed so nice together,” she said, interrupting my sex fantasy, “until I heard the arguments starting up from out here in the hallway. Speaking of which, did all that yelling less than an hour ago have anything to do with those two tomatoes you got for lips right now?”
“Don’t you have boxes to open, furniture from IKEA to wrestle with assembling, instead of studying with us long-timers here?” I said with a wry smile that hurt my jaw.
“Well, true that. I mean, I have been here only two weeks, and I’m finnin’ to get my house sold in the ATL. But, uh, I could tell you needed a girlfriend. You know, to vent.”
“I must admit you have something there. And, by the way, the name’s Summer.”
“Oh, as in Donna?”
“No, as in Summer Wates. Nice to make your acquaintance – look, why don’t you come out of the hallway and join me for a cup of coffee inside.”
“Sure, I thought you’d never ask. I mean, we can’t keep Summer waiting too long,” she said with a peppery laugh.
I should’ve offered the sneaky bitch a saucer of cream laced with hot sauce because I could see already that she had feline ways. She pranced into my kitchen like a black Slinky in fuck-me heels. Her heavy black mascara lent an eerie accent to light brown, almost hazel, eyes. I watched her press her slight frame into the chair and felt as if she was entrancing me with her gleaming smile.
“Black, medium or light?” I asked.
“I like my chicks in any complexion,” she purred, her eyes narrowing nearly to slits.
I bet she eats chicks, too, as catty as she is, I intoned. “Your coffee, I meant.” I was a bit annoyed at her assumption. I tripped over the kitchen mat beneath the sink, and she leaped up from the chair as if she was going to pounce on me. That poor chair has taken so much abuse, my mind wandered, recalling the day Shep had done his version of Kevin Bacon in Footloose.
“Why’d you move from Atlanta?” I asked, busying myself with the coffee filter. Then I felt two small, warm hands cupping my plump, neglected buttcheeks. “Oh, wait,” I said. What I really desired was for her to take the lead in moving things along further Down South. I wanted her to feel right at home.
“I got bored with riffraff talkin’ shit ’bout New York. I got family up here, from Harlem to Queens, and the new job my cousin Boozie somehow negotiated for me at the Times Square Westin sealed the deal. With another cousin placing my name on the waiting list for a co-op in Fort Greene, I had to come.”
I longed to cum. This fetching stranger was giving me quite a workout in my kitchen, where the most sensual thing I ever had done with Shep was squeezing lemons for lemonade. We’d made a contest out of it, he and I. This woman’s tender hands were all over my rump, and I loved the massage. She changed the pace, balancing my soft, dimpled globes until I clenched from the foreignness of her caresses. I got so relaxed that I let out a quiet one. “Oooh, excuse me,” I said.
“So you had to wait long?”
“I’m still … mmmm … waiting.”
“Aaahhh,” I heard myself sigh and tried to cup my mouth the way she was, again, cupping a heavy glute. Without warning, she spun me around. My cushiony robe swung open enough to reveal some serious, cocoa-brown cleavage, and her delicate hands were too swift to stop any gesticulation toward modesty on my part. Though hidden from her feline sight, my nipples were marbles.
“You want this, sugah,” she threatened.
“You want sugar in your coffee?” I asked.
“No coffee, no sugah. But I’ll take some cream,” she said, sweeping aside the bottom flaps of my robe with one claw and then the other. After dropping down to her knees, she slipped a dainty finger between my thighs and found wetness waiting.
“Please don’t. My boyfriend – ”
“Just ran out on your fine brown ass … undoubtedly again.”
Her fingers slid up to my shaven vulva, and I released the moans of a long-suffering woman. “Look, fresh cream,” she said, her eyes sparkling like gemstones. She let out a low laugh that seemed odd for a woman of her petite physique.
“Mmmmm,” I continued moaning, as I watched through eye slits as she lodged her index finger in my viscous pussy. In and out she plunged the digit, causing me to stutter out sighs.
She popped out her wet finger and stuck it in the tiny hole of her puckered lips. The only sounds I heard in the kitchen were of her sucking that finger. Then she planted it right back inside my cunt.
“Let me hear you.”
I felt as if my vocal cords were paralyzed, but the organs in my erogenous zones weren’t. “Mmmm, yesss,” I murmured.
“Louder.”
“I caaan’t do thaaat. Ohhhh … ”
She leaned in close to my face, her finger still moving like a thrusting penis. “I said louder!”
I was practically wailing, until her tongue slithering between my fist-stung lips hushed me up. Even Shep had never fingered me like that before — only when he was blaming me for something.
She pulled me down right there on the linoleum kitchen floor. Peeling off her catsuit, she said, “You’re gonna do me first. You ever done a girl?”
“No,” I lied. My first lesbian experience was at dorm. It was a sorority all right, a sisterhood of brazen lust.
I shucked my terrycloth robe off to some distant shiny squares near the trashcan and got on all fours, waiting for her. Now we were both naked and waiting. She slid beneath me, and I executed a series of pushups to kiss her hard on the lips. Falling back gently on my knees, I pulled her into my embrace and squeezed her breasts as if testing clementines for firmness. In the fold of my trembling arms, her entire body pulsated with erotic yearning. She moaned as if she’d been aching for my touches for ages.
Her meandering vocals were my cue to yank back a handful of weave-locks so I could French her deeply. I took special delight in knowing she couldn’t possibly be aware of my horny pussy leaking onto the floor, its juices filling in the grooves in the linoleum tiles. Felicia gyrated in my crotch — an impromptu lap dance.
“Turn around,” I whispered.
Copyright © 2011 By Chantale Reve
Above is an excerpt from my ebook Knock-Knock, which is published in full on Smashwords.com. Copies of Knock-Knock are available for purchase at: http://smashwords.com. Thank you for your support!
Photo Source: www.publicdomainpictures.net
Photographer: Tom Leeds
