Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3

  All she’d ever wanted throughout four years of math classes, English classes, sciences classes, and all the rest, was for some guy with strong hands to grab her by the fly and get her off on her own jeans. Why could nobody damn well figure that out? And, hell, for that matter, why could she never tell anybody what she really wanted? But that’s what girls were like at that age—they strived to meet the man’s needs.

  Now she was older. Now she was a woman—strong, powerful, and opinionated. Her husband didn’t mind indulging her cravings, but in all the years between then and now, she’d forgotten about this deeply held love of denim.

  Angelique still had her hands back against Ryan’s desk as he rocked her back and forth, alleviating the pressure on her clit before laying the force on strong. Back toward the desk, and then forward toward Ryan’s bare chest, he compelled her to ride her jeans like a bull. He tossed her around at varied speeds, at varied pressures. One hand at a time, she reached up and grabbed hold of his neck. She clung to him, panting and whimpering as he rocked her body in time with the 1980s dance beat downstairs.

  Ryan swung around until he was the one leaning back on his desk. And then the hand on her ass started to move. He slipped his thumb in between her flesh and the denim until he was holding her jeans at the back the same way he was holding them at the front. The seam now pressed against not only her throbbing clit, but against her asshole, too.

  “God!” she whispered, clinging to him. Was she more awed or turned on? Hard to say, until he pulled her up high enough for their lips to meet. When he drew her tongue inside his mouth and kissed her, Angelique became his wild woman. Shifting her suspended body on the miracle denim, she thrust her hips. Ryan responded by bouncing her on her own jeans. Grasping his shoulders, she threw her legs around his waist. He rose to that challenge by flossing her wet slit with denim. The closer she got to her husband, the closer she came to orgasm.

  Some might say she’d lost control downstairs at the dance. Angelique knew this was her moment of abandon. Her body bucked and thrust against Ryan and the denim. That wonderful seam slid to the side of her clit, and she struggled in his arms to land it smack on top of her pounding bud. Boy, she would be sore in the morning, but right now she didn’t give a flying flock of seagulls. She was going to come, and it was going to be huge. There was so much pent-up energy inside her body she could feel it sizzling in her fingers. Her heart beat as erratically as her lunges against Ryan, and she didn’t call it quits until all the throbbing warmth in her pelvis banded together to erupt in the most volcanic super-orgasm she’d ever experienced.

  Ryan held her until she couldn’t stand the pressure against her clit. It was too much now. Any more of this and pleasure would turn to pain. He laid her out on the table like a crying infant and cut off the seam of her jeans with that same pair of black-handled scissors. Her body pulsed and seized, and she latched on to her husband’s hand and kissed his palm again and again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Tossing the scissors in his desk, he cupped her face in his hands before bending to kiss her forehead. When he pulled away from her, every bone in her body felt the loss of him. Even this stark room of washed blackboards and generic desks spoke little of Mr. Lambert, her husband, the teacher. She’d always been so proud of him, and look what she’d gone and done! Embarrassed him in front of his boss and his students and his colleagues. After all that, he’d still indulged her denim fantasy. This man was perfect. He was perfect, but was he angry?

  From his cupboard by the classroom door, Ryan pulled out a long raincoat and used it to cover Angelique’s half-naked body. “Put this on and wait for me in the car,” he instructed. “I need to talk to the principal.” His face was stone, utterly unreadable. “You stay in the backseat under the blanket. Once I’ve made our excuses, I’m taking you to Makeout Point … and that pussy better be hot for me when we get there.”

  When he’d slipped out the door, Angelique set her fingers on her lips and smiled. Who could resist tight jeans?

  The Pussy Pleaser

  Cairo

  Pussy, in my opinion, is one of the most preciously delicious wonders of the world. Real shit. Muhfuckas have lied for it, cried for it, and ultimately died for it. So why most cats don’t cherish it is way beyond me. But, hey … it’s not my issue and definitely not my worry. See, I’m a connoisseur of pussy—good pussy, that is, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Real talk, I can spot … uh, sniff out … good pussy a mile away. Call it a gift. Call it a curse. Call it whatever you want. Fact is, I can tell whether a woman has that goody-goody-make-a-nigga’s-knees-buckle type of pussy, or if she has that Run-Forrest-Run-I’ma-strip-the-skin-off-ya-dick–type shit instead.

  I’ve been fucking since I was fourteen. And over the course of twenty-two years, I’ve sampled, savored, and slayed enough pussy to know when a woman has that bomb-ass pussy neatly tucked in between her thighs. How? I can’t answer that. It’s a knowing. Because of that knowing I can tell exactly what her body needs way before she opens her mouth to tell me. It’s like I have this telepathic connection to a woman’s pussy. It speaks to me. It calls out my name. And I can tell when it wants, needs, to be fucked, or simply yearns to be made love to.

  Like right now, which is why I’m sitting here, licking my thick pussy-eating lips at these three honeys sitting across from me in the American Airlines waiting area for flight 1879 to the beautiful island of Curaçao. Hands down, Curaçao—situated slightly off the coast of Venezuela—is one of the Caribbean’s best-kept secrets. Whew, beautiful peeps, beautiful weather, good food, and no damn hurricanes. It can’t get any better than that. Although considered a part of South America, it’s also a part of the Dutch Caribbean. And it’s my secret hideaway spot, where I go when I wanna escape the hustle and bustle of life and bullshit. It’s my time to do me, solo. In the last four years that I’ve flown to the island, I’ve fucked some of the most amazing women. Some locals, but mostly tourists, like me. Chicks I either met on the plane en route to Curaçao and vibed with—if they’re sitting in first-class, that is—or those I’ve met at one of the bars at the hotel where I always stay. Either way, I’m guaranteed to sample a sweet, sticky dish—or two, or three—of piping hot, wet pussy.

  I gaze at the three beauties as they situate their handbags and carry-ons in front of them and take their seats. They’re all sexy as fuck. One has a caramel complexion. Another’s skin is the color of molasses. But the one who really catches my eye is the one sitting in between her two girls, with the smooth, dark-chocolate skin and long, thick eyelashes wrapped around doe-shaped, brown eyes. Her V-neck blouse is showing an ample amount of cleavage, and the way her cantaloupe-sized tits are sitting up all nice and perky tells me she’s rocking a good bra. There’s something sexy about a woman who takes pride in her undergarments. I try to picture what type of panties she has on; something lace, maybe silk. I imagine them to be thongs, neatly pressed up against the mouth of her pussy, the place where my tongue wants to be.

  I take in her long, slender fingers and manicured nails. Glance down at her strappy-heeled feet and see mouthwatering toes peeking out. Subconsciously, I lick my lips. Yeah, the chick is bad. And I know—without a doubt—that she has some good-ass pussy.

  My eye catches hers. In a flash, I imagine her swirling her pussy on my tongue, tossing her head back and moaning. I envision her sweet jewel stretched and open from hours of fucking. I breathe in, deeply, imagine her smell; the tangy scent of her pussy stained on my lips, tongue, and fingers. I can visualize how her pussy is: wet and tender from an early morning fuck; glistening cunt lips splayed open by her long fingers, beckoning for my dick to enter. I grin, blinking back all the nasty shit I wanna do to her if the opportunity presents itself. Damn, how I hope it does.

  She shifts her eyes. I shift in my seat, pressing my legs shut, hoping to pinch off the slow swell of my cock before it starts to brick up. I’m not the longest-dicked muhfucka there is, but at seven-and-a-half very thick, meaty in
ches, I’m damn sure not the shortest either. Still, I don’t want my shit getting hard when there’s only fifteen minutes before boarding. The last thing I wanna do is stand up and give onlookers an eyeful of fat cock bulging from my baggy sweats. Advertising my hard dick in public isn’t how I like to do mine.

  I decide it’s best to click off my overactive imagination now before I awaken the “Pussy Pleaser.” Yeah, that’s what they call me. A muhfucka who knows how to use his tongue, fingers, and dick to please the punany and make that shit weep. It’s also the nickname given to my dick by a chick I once rocked with. Whew, she had that goody-goody. But shit, she was a nutcase! Now that I’m sitting here thinking about it, it seems like most of the good pussy I’ve sampled has been attached to a nutty-ass broad. Go figure. I shake my head, glancing over at the Chocolate Beauty one last time on the sly. I wonder if she’s a damn nut, too!

  I pull the rim of my NY fitted down over my eyes, slipping the buds of my earphones back into my ears to finish watching the rest of Columbiana on my iPad until it’s time to board.

  • • •

  Two hours and fifty minutes later, we are making our final descent into Curaçao International Airport. Yo, real shit, I can’t wait to kick back and unwind for the next ten days. No cell phone, no emails, no Twitter or Facebook updates; just sun, fun, and, hopefully, a whole lot of good pussy.

  Once the cabin door opens, I quickly grab my shit and dip out toward customs to get my passport stamped, then head downstairs to baggage claim for my luggage. I spot the three beauties as they’re coming down the escalator and making their way over to the carousel. Chocolate Beauty catches my eye again. This time, I wink at her. And she smiles back, blushing.

  I grab my bag, hop a taxi, and make my way over to the Renaissance Hotel. As the driver makes his way around the island, I stare out of the window, taking in all of its beauty. Somehow my thoughts drift back to Chocolate Beauty. I squeeze my dick, deciding that once I get to my room, busting a quick nut is well deserved and much needed.

  After I finish checking in, I get to my room, strip down, beat my dick, then drift off to sleep. I don’t wake up until almost eight p.m., pissed that I missed out on Happy Hour from six to seven down at the Infinity Bar. The bar is located down on the third floor where the Infinity pool and man-made beach are. I jump in the shower real quick, dry myself off, then throw on a pair of Polo cargo shorts and a white V-neck tee.

  The minute I make my way over toward the bar and see three women sitting there talking along with a few other hotel guests, I glance up at the starlight sky, smiling. I know without seeing her face that Chocolate Beauty and her girls are staying right here in the same hotel.

  The bartender looks up and greets me with a smile. “Welcome back, my friend.”

  “Wyndel, my man,” I say, reaching out and shaking his hand. “It’s good to be back.” He asks if I want my usual, a Sunburn: tequila, triple sec, and cranberry juice. Although I’m not much of a drinker, I make an exception to have at least one drink, maybe two, a night while I’m on vacay. “No doubt,” I tell him.

  I catch all three beauties watching me in the wall mirror, seemingly on the sly. I can tell they’re digging what they see. At five foot eleven, 170 pounds of gym body, the body’s right. I look over at them and speak. They speak back.

  As Lady Luck would have it, there’s an empty bar stool right next to the one I have my eye on. I snatch it up. Shit couldn’t get any better. “So how are you ladies enjoying the island so far?” I ask as Wyndel slides me my drink.

  “From what we’ve seen so far,” Caramel says, craning her neck to look at me since she’s farthest away, “it’s a beautiful island.” Molasses and Chocolate agree.

  “Yeah, I love it,” I say, taking a sip of my drink.

  Chocolate Beauty shifts her body slightly toward me. “Sounds like you come here often.”

  I smile. “Yeah. I like beautiful things. And Curaçao is full of beauty.” I lick my lips.

  She smiles. “Nice.”

  Molasses looks over at me. “So what do you recommend we check out while we’re here?”

  I ask how many days they’ll be on the island. “Five days,” she says.

  “I tell you what. How about tomorrow I show you beauties around the island?”

  I can tell I’ve surprised them. Shit, I surprised my damn self. But, hey, if I’ma get up in Chocolate Beauty’s hips, I gotta do what I can to expedite shit. All three of ’em are down.

  I smile. “Cool-cool; by the way, I’m Markeith.” Molasses, Caramel, and Chocolate introduce themselves as Alicia, Mya, and Jade, respectively. “Nice meeting y’all.”

  “Same here,” they say in unison.

  I glance at my watch, tossing back my drink, standing. “So, tomorrow morning, cool? Say, ten o’clock?”

  They look at each other, then me, nodding. “Sounds like a plan,” Caramel says. We exchange room numbers, then decide to meet down in the lobby. I toss a Ben Franklin up on the bar.

  “Leaving so soon?” Chocolate Beauty asks, eyeing me. I can tell she’s feeling right from her Happy Hour drinks.

  “Yeah, I have a date with three beautiful women in the morning, so I gotta get my rest.” They smile. And the minute Chocolate Beauty seductively licks her lips, I know I’ma be buried balls-deep inside her, sending her back to the States with a permanent smile on her face. “Yo, Wyndel. This is to cover these beautiful ladies’ drinks. Whatever’s left, keep the change.” I say good night, then head back inside the hotel.

  • • •

  At ten a.m. next morning, they’re already downstairs sitting in the lobby. We say our greetings, then head out the door. I decide to take them over to Punda, the shopping district, then over to St. Anna Bay Channel. We walk through Fort Rif, which has shops, restaurants, and bars, to get to the Queen Emma Bridge into Punda.

  “So where you beauties from?”

  “Well, I’m from Jersey,” Molasses says.

  “Oh, word? What part?”

  “West Paterson.”

  “Oh, aiight; that’s wassup.” Caramel tells me she’s from Philly. And Chocolate says she’s originally from Brooklyn, but lives in Arizona. Although I’m looking at Chocolate Beauty, I ask them all how they know each other.

  “From college,” Molasses answers.

  “We’re sorors,” Caramel adds.

  I smile and for some freaky reason Zane’s book The Sisters of APF comes to mind. I blink back my dirty thoughts.

  Once we get to the shopping district, I let them do them while I find a spot to listen to my iPod. Once they’ve finished picking up souvenirs and whatnot, we head over to Plasa Bien for some local island food, then back to the hotel.

  “Whew, that was delicious,” Chocolate Beauty says, rubbing her belly as we walk back over the bridge.

  “Yes, it was,” Molasses agrees. “Thanks so much for showing us around. We really appreciate it.”

  I smile. “No problem. I’m glad you beauties enjoyed yourselves.”

  “We definitely did,” Caramel says.

  Once we get to the hotel lobby, we hop on the elevator together, exchange more small talk until they get off on the fourth floor.

  “Hopefully we’ll see you tonight at the bar,” Chocolate Beauty says.

  I wink. “No doubt.” I keep my eyes locked on her ass until the elevator doors close. Four days to go before that pussy gets back up on that plane. I gotta fuck her tonight.

  • • •

  I don’t get down to the Infinity Bar until after nine. And I definitely don’t expect to see Chocolate Beauty still there, but I’m pleasantly surprised that she is. She smiles when she sees me.

  “Where are your girls?”

  “Down in the casino.”

  “Oh, aiight. You didn’t wanna get ya gamble on with ’em?”

  She shakes her head. “I told them I’ll meet up with them a little later. It’s too beautiful out to be sitting up in a casino.”

  I agree. Glad I don’t h
ave to worry about them cock-blocking. I order a cranberry juice. We talk a bit. I’m digging the vibe. But after an hour into the convo, I’m getting restless. The clock is ticking and I need to get them damn panties off.

  “Yo, real talk,” I say to her in almost a whisper. “I wanna feel your warm pussy wrapped around my dick.”

  She looks at me, startled, shifting in her seat. She gulps down the rest of her drink and signals for another. “Wow” is the only thing she says at first, taking me in. “You waste no time, huh?”

  “Nah, I definitely don’t. I see what I want and I go after it. And right now I wanna spend time tasting you, caressing you, and slipping my dick into you.” I lock my gaze on hers. I can tell by the way she’s blushing that I’ve made her pleasantly uncomfortable.

  “No need to be acting all shy,” I say to her. I pause when the bartender returns with her drink. I wait for him to bounce, then continue. “I’m grown, you’re grown. I’m here, you’re here. I’m unattached, you’re …” I pause, giving her the chance to fill in the blanks.

  She swallows back her drink. “Married,” she pushes out, staring back at me. I guess she’s waiting for me to shift gears with that knowledge. I don’t.

  I shrug. “Okay, so you’re married. That says and means nothing to me. And, no disrespect, but obviously it no longer means much to you, either.”

  She shifts her eyes, slides her straw in between her lips, and takes a slow sip of her drink. I wish that straw was my dick instead.

  She sets her drink back down on the bar, then starts toying with her napkin. “Is it that obvious?”

  I nod. “Something like that. But it’s all good, baby. I’m not here to judge.” Just to hit them walls right.

  I order her another drink and order myself another cranberry juice. “But obviously shit’s not right at home, ’cause if it were, you wouldn’t be sitting here without your wedding ring on.”