Lorna’s free hands wander south of the border, first to the enticing round ass that fills out his fading tan pants, then to explore the emerging ethnic invasion behind his zipper. She fumbles, either afraid to unearth his glory or terrified not to. He pushes her colorless, idle hands out of the way and pulls down the zipper and relieves the button with one flick of his hands—hands that now carefully clear a space right there on the wine shelf.
Without warning, and with Lorna’s full breast firmly clamped in his teeth, he swoops her up by the waist and sets her down like a spirit on display. Cold, dusty, cheap table wine flanks one leg, a fine Northern California cabernet sauvignon the other. Lorna is keenly aware of the duality. She is at once an esteemed anthropology scholar of merit, and a split-legged slut in a flowery skirt with her pristine and patriotic panties pulled low.
He couldn’t be bothered to take them off. He simply slides a hand inside, shifts them to the side of her drenched lips, and enters with a force so jarring that even he pauses. She welcomes his generous girth with tight but open arms. Yet he senses that he has many walls to knock down and he immediately sets about the task.
Lorna’s legs attach themselves to his active waist. Her ankles hook like a bra behind him at the exact moment that he finally unlatches hers. Her heavy breasts weigh on his chest, her nipples screaming for attention. She lifts her shirt and he wastes no time answering them back.
Her arms slide down from his neck. The intensity of his deep thrusts cause her to mark his sprawling bronze back with bloody scratches, sanguine symbols of her primal pleading.
“Fuck me,” she repeats in his ear. Over and over, each time a reincarnation of a new appeal.
“Fuck me.”
Inquiry. “Fuck me?”
Command. “Fuck me, you bastard! Fuck me like Cinco de Mayo, you son of a bitch!”
Each time a step higher, an inch closer to her delicate borderline.
The deep desire increasing with every strong stroke coupled with the pressure of the tip of his manhood colliding with ease against her G-spot drowns out the sound of the jingle above the door. But not the voice that follows.
“Lorna!”
Before she becomes tense, before she can open her eyes and spy the tiny red spider crawling on the rusty shelf just beside her bare thigh, before another drop of sweat can drip from her bangs, before she spits another explicit curse…brawny, bronze hands lift her modest ass up off the shelf. He holds her up above the height of the highest bottles, his mighty erection pointed skyward, only a breath away from her raw lips, and slams her down hard back onto him. And holds her there for an extended stay.
Lorna has no words. Her mouth and eyes are as wide as her legs. Her inside walls leap uncontrollably around his exquisite dick and an involuntary tremor sends her foot flying, kicking a robust jug of Carlo Rossi Chablis to the cement floor.
“Lorna, are you in here?” calls Tom, limping into the last aisle of the liquor store. He is bruised, his clothes torn. He walks down the empty last aisle past aging bottles of Northern California cabernet sauvignon, in search of his wife, broken glass and a pool of white wine beneath his sensible loafers. Tom inhales a vaguely familiar scent, and follows it to the open door at the end of the back aisle.
It is clear that Lorna Landry can no longer focus on the job at hand. She can’t seem to remember to press record on the MiniDV camera. She can barely drag herself out of bed for the eight A.M. vigilante call times. She hasn’t eaten a full meal in weeks. Not since the Bronze Bomber filled her to capacity. The withdrawal is unbearable, and her husband, Tom, takes notice.
He knows Lorna better than anyone. He believes he knows her better than she knows herself. An arrogant and haughty asshole, yes, but Tom has reason. He plucked Lorna from relative graduate school obscurity and molded her into a scholar after his own heart. He intuitively pegged her for an insecure and self-conscious young woman in need of direction. He promptly assumed the role, under the guise of academic advisor and mentor, crafting a secret map for her future, then carefully pulling the strings as she traveled along.
It never occurred to Lorna that her success was prefabricated. It never occurred to her that Tom isn’t the man of her dreams, despite being twice her age and physically unappealing. They both know their limits. The roles in their marriage are clearly defined. It was never about passion and attraction. Tom would never be able to satisfy her sexually, that much he always knew. Their arrangement is about success and accolades. And together they amassed many.
They are on the brink of national, perhaps international recognition. Their vigilante efforts and staunch stance on illegal immigration are catching on. Small news clippings are now turning into features and radio interviews. Any activity on Capitol Hill involving immigration translates into attention on their cause from local media. They know it is only a matter of time before the coveted elite media like CNN and the New York Times take notice.
So when Tom notices for the first time that his young wife is not responding to his prompts, that she is exhibiting signs of weakness, he takes action. He immediately removes her from photography duty and assigns her busywork. On this day, while Tom is out chasing down illegals, he sends her on an elaborate errand, which takes her to the outskirts of town, where a white woman driving solo in a luxury car is as conspicuous as a carcass to a vulture.
And there he is. Lorna sees his back first. Wide and sculpted. Then his ass. Rounded with muscles and draped in faded tan. He stands among a small group of white men this time. Employers, Lorna reasons. She sits in her car across the street, watching him, the task that sent her there suddenly a distant memory. Fear of her surroundings, gone. She has no way of knowing that Tom is her ubiquitous benefactor, even now. Her two fingers sinking deep inside her, bathed in her own sweet water before taking wide, lingering laps around her pulsing pleasure point, is her only urgent concern.
He is soon her full-time endeavor.
They fuck in her car, in dark theaters and well-lit parking lots, in Balboa Park, on the same countertop where Tom neatly cuts his morning bananas, in her two-car garage, in the shower of her guest bathroom, on the toilet seat of the master bath. But her favorite place is, by far, the bed she shares unceremoniously with her husband. That makes her feel like a woman, bound by strong hands and begging for mercy, her face buried in her own pillows. At night, when it’s just her and Tom, she lies on her stomach and defiantly circles her own throbbing clit with her power hand draped in a tiny Mexican flag.
At first, Lorna’s instinct is to inspect his brown back intently for bruises and bug bites. Migratory scars, outward signs of a hard, indigent life. But beyond the work gear, he is groomed meticulously. A cultural anomaly, she thinks. He is more frat boy than farm boy. And what is that fragrance? Her nose had been trained to expect a nauseous mingling of sweat, soil, and sofrito. But he smells oddly cosmopolitan. Manly.
She forbids him from speaking Spanish in her presence. It is like fingernails on a chalkboard to her ears. So she does all of the postcoital talking while he listens intently. She sits for hours, telling him secrets of an unfulfilling marriage, of waning interest in her academic career, of longing to retire early to the expanse of the Rocky Mountains, of the complex and corrupt underbelly of American immigration politics. He sits perched, staring a hole through her, and she can’t help singing like a mariachi. It’s all a joke to Lorna, and she laughs long and hard after every long and hard prompt from the mighty illegal pipe.
Lorna is content with these untranslated confessions. The release is what she has been craving. Before now she was sure that presenting research to a group of receptive scholars was her calling. Now she’s certain she is at her absolute best perched on all fours with a tongue wagging, lathering her from top to bottom. She now straddles a big dick with pride and confidence, having never even seen one up close before then. She devours it at random intervals while riding, videotapes it from every sordid angle.
Instead of restoring focus and order to
Tom’s self-interests, the sex sends Lorna spiraling with disinterest. Again at his wit’s end, Tom takes action.
“Good afternoon. United States Customs and Border Protection. Pedro Hernández González speaking. How may I help you?”
“Pete, how the heck are you? It’s Tom Landry calling.”
“Tom Landry, as in the legendary football coach? Or Tom Landry, as in my old buddy, the prick who still owes me a beer?”
“Well, Petey, my friend, I do believe that several beers may be in order after you pull a few strings for me,” Tom responds with a chuckle.
“And I was hoping to get my kid a signed Cowboys jersey or something.” Pedro laughs. “Long time, Tom, my friend. Good to hear from you. How are things on your end? I hear you and the troops have been busy.”
“You know better than anyone that keeping our borders safe is a twenty-four-hour job, and one that all Americans ought to take seriously. That’s actually why I’m calling. I have a tip for you. Can I stop by?”
Tom noticed the Bronze Bomber around the same time Lorna did. He stood out, so tall and handsome. He had the physical qualities of a leader, despite his observant, passive presence. Tom sensed he might be a distraction. The mild, distant stirring in his own loins were all the proof he needed.
Tom slips a glossy 8-inch by 10-inch photo of him into a large manila envelope and makes the half-hour drive over to Pedro’s office in fifteen minutes.
“What, were you calling me from downstairs, Tom?” Pedro says, welcoming his old buddy into his wood-paneled workspace. “That was quick, brother.”
“Well, it’s kind of important, Pete. And I have to be over at the university within the hour.”
“Busy, busy, busy. Well, you have good timing, and I have good news. You just missed a guy from the Times.”
“New York Times? Who? Why was he here?” Tom asks incredulously, standing up from his chair almost as soon as he sits.
“Doing a story or something. Heard all about you. I told him you’d be here, but he said he’d give you a call and set something up.” Pedro slides a business card across the table to Tom. The raised black script is like a hypnotic swinging pendulum before him. This is it. The moment Tom Landry has been waiting for. The national spotlight. Attention that will catapult him to the steps of Capitol Hill along with the nation’s elite advisors and scholars.
“David Rodríguez,” Tom reads out loud. “General Assignment Reporter.”
“I mean, he just left. I’m surprised you didn’t run into him on your way up here.”
“Jesus. No, I didn’t see anyone,” Tom says, folding down the window blind to look out into the parking lot.
“Well, he said he was gonna get in touch with you. I’d guess either today or tomorrow. He seemed urgent to wrap up his work here. Speaking of which, there’s some work you need me to handle for you, Tommy?”
Still slightly preoccupied, Tom hands Pedro the photo. “Illegal. Pretty dangerous guy from what I can gather. An organizer. Possibly violent. Drugs, I’m guessing.”
Pedro pauses to raise an eyebrow. Opens the envelope. “This isn’t your guy.”
“That’s him, Pete. Looks like a goddamn movie star, doesn’t he? Good news is, he hasn’t been here long. A month maybe.”
“Where did you get your info, Tom?”
“Very reliable source.”
“Drop your source. They’re not as reliable as you think.”
“Okay, Pete. I admit, I hired the guy myself for a little landscaping in my front yard. Curb appeal, you know.”
“No, Tom. Seriously. You have the wrong guy.” Pedro slides the photo back across the table to Tom. “This guy in the photo is David Rodríguez, from the Times.”
“What the hell are you saying, Pete?”
“I’m saying, you’ve got the wrong Mexican thug. This is the guy who was just sitting in the chair you’re sitting in right now. Funniest thing, too, he’s not even Mexican. He’s Puerto Rican. From New York City. The Bronx. Doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. Works with an interpreter, can you believe that?”
Tom and Lorna Landry finally make it into the New York Times. And CNN. And a host of other international media. Just as they had dreamed. Lorna’s naked breasts even make their debut on several corners of the Internet. It is all she needs to finally cut the strings on her marriage and wander the expanse of the Rocky Mountains. A woman with her future in her own hands, and at this very moment, Lorna’s own future is situated between her legs.
An Even Swap Ain’t No Swindle
Zane
TAYE
I have never been a brother to freak out over women and be ready to fall down at their feet. On the contrary, women have always fallen down at my feet. From the day I realized that I had a larger dick than most men, I have used that to my advantage. It got me hired at many a job. I would only apply for positions with a female executive in charge. There was not a doubt in my mind that I could get them all in the sack, even the married ones. Hell, I even fucked a couple of devout lesbians. Yes, I brought them back to the dick, if only temporarily.
Then the shit went and happened. I met Alicia Coles when I was twenty-seven, got pussy whipped, and married her. Ten long years went by without me cheating or really even looking at another female in a sexual way. My wife was the shit and I knew it. Tall, with legs for days, smooth, ebony skin, perfect teeth, breasts that fit perfectly in the palms of my hands, and an ass that would make men cry. She was mine and I was proud as all hell to have her on my arm whenever we went out.
At one point, I got a bit possessive. She stopped being an animal in the bedroom and all kinds of shit started floating through my head. We had this contractor doing work in our basement at the time and I was convinced that Alicia was fucking him. We had met him when we were coming out of Home Depot one day and he handed us a flyer. I am not the type to be fixing shit around the house and was griping that day because we had to go get a new handle and lever for our master bathroom toilet. When he handed Alicia the flyer, I grabbed it, got excited, and immediately asked if he could come by and give us a quote on some drywall work we needed to have done.
I should have known something was up because he handed Alicia the flyer and not me. He was trying to mack and I never saw it coming. I called home one day and Alicia rushed me off the phone, stating that she was in the middle of making that fool a sandwich. I dropped everything that I was doing and sped home like a bat out of hell. When I got there, that maggot was sitting at the kitchen counter—on my favorite fucking barstool—and eating my bread, my ham, and my cheese. Alicia was bent over the counter in a skimpy pair of shorts and a baby-doll tee that had her nipples standing at attention. I busted in there like I was Five-O and confronted them. They both laughed in my face.
He left and it took Alicia all night to convince me that nothing was going on between them. She gave me head until I felt like I was dead. I had no idea my wife could suck a dick so damn well. Like the typical man, instead of being elated that she was going to town on me like that, I was upset and thinking that she had learned some new tricks from ole boy.
It took hiring a private investigator to follow her for two weeks before I believed that Alicia was faithful. It was around that same time that I started thinking about cheating for the first time during our marriage. My business partner, Michael, had met this chick—a Latina—at a business convention in Denver. They say it is cold in Denver but his hotel room must have been on fire because after a three-day weekend, he was so sprung that he brought her back home with him to Maryland.
Her name was Marissa and she had it going on. There was just something about her that made my dick hard every time I laid eyes on her. She was petite, no more than five feet, with small tits and a round ass. The way she dressed was erotic; the way she spoke was erotic; the way she smiled was erotic. Shit, the way she did everything was erotic.
Now Michael and I had been friends for a long time. We rose through the ranks together at an investment banking firm and t
hen ventured out on our own as partners. We had done extremely well for ourselves during the four years we had been in business. Michael changed women like he changed his drawers—until that weekend in Denver. She must have laid that pussy on him something fierce because he had sworn that hell would freeze over before he ever became serious about a woman. They had been shacking up ever since, but he was still holding out on the marriage thing. He was a child of divorce and he was determined to never do two things, get married or have kids.
Alicia and I tried to have children but she miscarried twice and we decided that the pain was not worth it. I could not stand to see the agony she was put through and I never wanted to face that again, so I had a vasectomy. Maybe one day we would adopt, but either way, she was the love of my life. Even though I loved Alicia more than life itself, I still had these intense fantasies about Marissa. I would have done anything to fuck her, just one time, to see if she could live up to my expectations.
ALICIA
Taye was so naïve, or simply believed that he was so fine and so sexy that I would stay faithful. Do not get me wrong; I tried. His arrogance drove me into the arms of another man, not the sex, because that was on point. We met Brian at the same time, at the Home Depot, when he handed me a flyer about his contracting business. Taye thought he was too cute, or too good, to do anything around the house so I convinced him to hire Brian. One day I thought we were busted. Taye came home and found us in the kitchen. We played it off but Brian had been going to town on my pussy when we heard the garage door open and Taye’s car pulling in. That man could eat the lining out of a pussy and my clit had never been so sore.
Taye hired a private investigator to follow me and had no clue that I was on to him. For a couple of weeks I led that detective on a wild goose chase, but made sure that I gave no appearance that something was out of sync. Men still do not realize that women are better cheaters. We are always consciously aware of what we are risking. I loved Taye but there was something missing and after my two miscarriages, we did not have the same closeness that we’d always had before.