The Center of my Universe

Infinite, ever-expanding, and multi-dimensional; I invite you to explore the three-dimensional realm where time ceases to exist and reality collapses in on itself.  I need you to make transcendent, unbounded love to me.  Your kiss, the feel of your full, sensual lips against mine, launches rockets of desire within me and makes me go into orbit.  Spread my legs, lover, gaze upon the heavens.  Taste my sweetness, the cosmic soup that is the source of all life.  Enter my sweet vortex, my black hole of sensuality.  Join with me, let our heavenly bodies collide in a fusion of spirit, mind, heart, and soul.   I want to feel your God particle planted deep, deep inside me.  Stars collide when I feel waves of not sound but pleasure consume me.  The feel of your mass pressed densely to mine, becoming one with me, bonds us at an atomic level.  Our limbs intertwined make a double helix of sensual, erotic delight and our intimacy and love defy every known and unknown law of physics.  Timed perfectly, our orgasms allow us to know our true higher selves, to have an out of body experience of an inconceivable, explosive, truly divine magnitude. 

Our bodies, united, have answered the question of the ages.  It is not a battle of science versus religion.  The union of our souls proves the theorem that God is the energy that animates our atoms.  Our collective consciousness, our energetic union cannot be created or destroyed, it will exist eternally, it has always existed.  Our love was created before time began and it has evolved over billions of light years to become this wondrous, complex system of light and dark, positive and negative, of masculine and feminine.  You are my sun, I your moon, and together we are the stars that light the way to the truth and to the light. 

Copyright 2015 AfroerotiK 

Image taken from the internet as free to share

Rethink What You Know

Being Selective:

As sexually liberated as I am, I don’t want to do EVERYTHING with all my partners.  I wouldn’t say that I pick and choose what men I do certain things with but I do not give away my goodies casually.  Not every partner is deserving of everything I have to offer.  Especially if his motivations are not pure or transparent.  My partners and I get tested prior to having sex so it’s not about the higher risk for HIV.  It’s about the fact that it’s something so intense and explosive and thrilling and I don’t want to share that with just anyone.  I want to explore anything and everything with my partner.  I want to experiment and find new and exciting ways to please my partner and I’m always looking to introduce new levels of play with my partners.  I don’t, however, have casual sex, friends with benefits, or fuck buddies so I’m vastly different than most people in that anyone who is invited to share my most sacred space only gets an invitation because he has passed my very rigorous standards.  Were I to have casual sex partners, I would certainly not be motivated to give them my most erotic self; I would limit that to only the partners who had proven themselves to be exceptional. 

Swallowing:

If I’m in a relationship with my partner, I don’t have a problem swallowing my man’s ejaculate.  That being said, unless his diet is vegan and he takes extra precautions to eat well, drink water, drink pineapple juice etc., ejaculate doesn’t taste great.  It’s not the worst thing in the world but it’s certainly doesn’t taste like pussy, that’s for sure.  Most of the men I date at this stage in my life are in their 50s.  They don’t have the recovery time they had when they were in their 20s.  Cumming more than once a night is not very likely for the men I date.  That being said, at this stage in my life, I’d rather save that nut for our intercourse if we have time and energy.  If we’re out and I’m giving him head as a special treat or it’s something I want to do just to please him, I don’t have a problem swallowing at all.  The problem becomes when most men hold a woman’s head to force her to swallow.  I say, if you want me to swallow your nut, you need to be able to show me that you will eat it too.  If it’s disgusting to you, and you want eat your own, then don’t expect me to swallow it.  Most younger men are selfish.  They only think about their pleasure and they will hold a woman’s head to force her to swallow or they will cheat on a woman if she doesn’t swallow in order to appease their ego.  That’s where the problem lies. 

Satisfaction:

I would like to think that women and men will eventually come to understand that when they allow themselves to be emotionally open, honest, and vulnerable with a partner, when they expose their secrets, when they open their hearts and souls to loving and being loved that they will experience greater pleasure than just a maintenance date or a casual fuck.  Satisfaction comes from being able to tell all your sexual secrets to another person and knowing they still love you, want you, crave you.  Satisfaction comes from pouring out your heart and soul to someone and being able to be emotionally nude and go to a place where you don’t have to hide.  Most people assume that satisfaction and pleasure comes from some magic nut that makes you lose your mind.  We are sexually immature when we look at sex that way.  There will always be someone with a bigger dick, a bigger butt, someone more attractive, that’s not where satisfaction lies.  Satisfaction is in the connection and the bond and the unadulterated intimacy you form with your partner.  Once you get that, you won’t want to look for anyone else to satisfy you. 

Individuality:

What every woman wants in sex is different.  It should be based on her own body and turn ons.  I crave creativity, sensuality, eroticism, a willingness to go beyond just a pump and dump.  I want seduction and passion.  I want a slow, simmering building of extended foreplay that leads to mind-blowing sex.  I look for a partner who is committed to being honest.  That turns me on.  Fuck, that makes me explosive!  I’m definitely NOT looking for someone who thinks that blowing my back out is going to make me come back for more or someone who doesn’t care about me as a person.  I look for a man who is expressive.  He needs to be able to talk in bed and more than just saying, “Whose pussy is this?”  He has to tell me what turns him on and why.  He has to tell me what makes him feel good.  He needs to be able to communicate to me in very explicit terms what he is experiencing in the moment. 

Making Love:

Most men think that making love is fucking slow.  That’s not making love, that’s pretending to be tender when you really want to be blowing a woman’s back out.  Making love is being in love with my partner and having mind-blowing sex with him.  It can be fast, slow, it can be vigorous and rough.  If we are in love with each other, it’s making love.    I want to fuck like animals with the person I’m in love with.  That’s making love.  The connection is what makes it making love, not the pace at which the man pounds the woman. 

Inhibitions:

I’m not at all sexually inhibited and I haven’t been since I was in my 20s.  Most of what I had to overcome then was just insecurity about my body.  I was tall and skinny but somehow, I felt that I was fat and out of shape.  I think every woman goes through the counting stage.  You count the number of men you have sex with because you don’t want to hit that number that makes you a slut, whatever that number is for you.  Once I hit my 30s all my minor inhibitions disappeared and I was completely comfortable with my sexuality, what I wanted, what I needed, what I asked for, and how to get it.  Most people, and by that I mean men who want to fuck me and women who want to condescend to me because I’m not promiscuous, think I’m inhibited because I refuse to have casual sex.  I’m not slut shaming women who want to have multiple sex partners at all.  FOR ME, I choose not to share my most sacred space with undeserving me.  That’s not being inhibited, that’s being selective, having standards.  With my partner I’ll do anything and everything that we choose to explore as long as it’s consensual. 

Freaky:

Black people LOVE to throw the term freak around.  Sadly, pathetically, the term is used in place of meaning healthy sexuality.  There is nothing freaky about liking sex, wanting sex, or enjoying sex.  Unfortunately, because Black people are sooooooo incredibly sexually immature, they associate enjoying sex with being freaky. Even Black people who claim to be freaks are sexually conservative.  Most times they don’t like anything other than regular oral/vaginal sex and at times anal.  Being expressive with your partner isn’t freaky, it’s normal.  Exploring different fantasies with your partner isn’t freaky, it’s normal.  Wanting to open up your relationship and be poly isn’t freaky, it still falls within the realm of healthy sexual expression with your partner.  Freaky is wanting to mutilate your genitals for sexual pleasure.  Freaky is being aroused by inanimate objects more than human beings.  There are a whole host of things that are abnormal and extreme that are freaky but Black people are not into any of them for the most part.  As long as we identify ourselves as freaks for liking sex we are sexually stunted and immature.  I am sexually empowered.  I am sexually expressive.  I’m sexually mature.  I’m not a freak for enjoying pleasure.  I’m not a freak for wanting to explore sexuality with my partner.  I’m not a freak for liking more than vanilla sex on a Friday night with the lights out.  There is nothing freaky about my sexuality. 

Horny:

When I’m insatiable, when I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin with desire, when I can’t focus on anything but sex, I feel like a laser, everything is centered on the sensations of pleasure.  I crave stimulation.  I need visual stimulation, I need physical stimulation, I need the pleasure that comes from the journey, not the destination.  For me, when I get in that zone, I’m all about the sensations that come from arousal, I don’t really want the nut so much.  I want the pleasure to last as long as possible.  I never feel tense or evil or anything negative.  I feel a certain amount of frustration that I don’t have a partner with me to help me express my sexuality but that’s secondary to the sensations of wanting my nipples played with, wanting to revel in the sensations of my clit being stimulated, in feeling my wetness flow. 

Faking It

I was socialized to fake orgasms. I don't know how. No one ever said to me, “When you are having sex with a man, you need to cater to his ego and make him feel like he’s the best lover in the world,” but I swear that’s the thought going through my mind every time I do it.  . It's something in the way we socialize girls/women. I don't know what the something is, but it's prevalent. I swear I'm NEVER going to fake an orgasm again, and then, I always do it to boost their egos. I can't even stop myself sometimes. If, me, Miss Healthy Black Sexuality, can't help but fake it, it's an epidemic for sure because most women aren't self aware enough to know that they are faking it. 

Most women don't know the difference between getting wet and having an orgasm. I hear it all day, every day. "Oh, I came from him just kissing me." That's not an orgasm, that's arousal.  And I dare say that most men have never even been given a basic primer course on women's bodies to know how to make them orgasm. I met a male escort, a man who made his living having sex with women, and he had NO CLUE where a woman's clitoris was. He was pointing to the hood and calling that her clit. How can a man give a woman an orgasm if he thinks her hood is her magic button? Thus, a whole lot of faking is going on. 

I faked every orgasm until I was in my twenties and I didn't even know it because I had never had an orgasm before. And this was LONG before the advent of porn at your fingertips. Today, children are seeing porn on average at 10 years old, some even younger. They are being socialized to yell and scream and call out to God before they come close to having sex.  Plenty of girls can masturbate and do not know how to give themselves an orgasm. I sure as hell did something up until the age of 24 or 25 and I thought I was having great sex. I remember the first time I had an orgasm and I was like, "Are you serious? That's what I should have been feeling all along?"

If a dude tells me he has given a woman five orgasms in one night, I run the other direction because 9 times out of 10, she was faking and he has NO CLUE how to truly please her.  And with men addicted to porn these days, they think that pounding away is what gives a woman an orgasm. They have NO concept of what real foreplay is or how to do anything other than "hit it". When most women tell them that they are doing a great job and yelling and screaming how great it is, they will never learn either. 

In my last relationship, I think I faked it 50% of the time. The sex felt good but I didn't cum and I just yelled and pretended I was out of habit. He wasn’t a bad lover at all.  He certainly wasn’t a great love either.  He was a one trick pony in that he knew how to fuck like a rabbit and he thought that was his calling card.  He had a little dick and he was plagued with low self-esteem so he needed to call (other) women names and slap them and degrade them to feel more like a man.  Was he sensual, tactile, erotic, spontaneous, creative, tender, or anything that would make him a truly great lover.  Not even close.  His techniques were what he learned when he was 14 and pounding away at whatever little girl got hot and bothered and he didn’t mature past that stage.  I’m guilty of letting him think he was a much better lover than her really is.  For whatever reason, I just go into “faking mode” and start screaming that I’m cumming and I’m really just feeling the pleasure of penetration, not a real orgasm.  It's a hard habit to break. 

I have had numerous women, too many to count women, tell me, "I can't have an orgasm with a man unless he's 10 inches or bigger." First and foremost, the number of men who have 10 inch penises is so small that they it's virtually impossible to meet more than one man with an appendage that large, let alone a succession of them. What most men call their 10 inch penis is really about 7 inches, which is larger than average but significantly smaller than almost a foot. Second, a woman's G-spot is located about 2 inches inside her vagina. You don't need a foot of dick to reach that. What women feel as the pleasure/pain of having their cervix hit by a large penis is what they are calling an orgasm. Again, knowledge of women's bodies . . . none. And 3. brothas with very average and sufficient penises at around 5 or 6 inches are feeling inadequate and ashamed when they are perfectly capable of providing a woman pleasure but they try to overcompensate by hitting it and stabbing it and killing it and all the things men with larger endowments do in porn. I can't handle the myths, lies, and dysfunction anymore and we need to talk about the issues that are debilitating to us as a community and in almost every instance, it comes back to our views on sexuality.  We have to start having more empowered, enlightened, and informed conversations. 

Body Parts

Filling the Void

Who would have thought that after a year of sitting at home alone, I would be on a date? Not only a date, but a date with a great guy. I’d been standing in the grocery store, minding my business, when the gentleman in front of me turned around and said, “Can you watch my daughter for two seconds, I just need to run and get some Pampers, right there.” He pointed to the aisle directly behind us and then his toddler. She was wearing the cutest little t-shirt with Kente embroidery on it and the brightest smile you’d ever want to see.

“Sure, go ahead.” No sooner than her father walked away, the little girl stood up in the cart and made a lunge for the candy, trying to leap like she was the star acrobat in the UniverSoul Circus. I grabbed her just in time before she took a big spill on the floor. “Slow down there little lady.” Rather than her being scared by a stranger, she fit in my arms perfectly and started playing with my earrings and talking to me quite fluently in little girl baby talk.

By the time her father came back, he was apologizing. “I’m so sorry. Let me guess, she made a dive for the candy. I don’t let her have sugar and her mother does so we go through a period of withdrawal every time it’s my time for custody.” She was smiling at me with this little innocent, angelic, brown face and all I could do was come to her defense.

“Nooooo, she . . . it wasn’t like that. She was just , , , “ I wasn’t very good at lying and I just stopped in mid sentence. “What’s your name, Princess?”

She told me her name quite promptly. I didn’t understand what the heck she said but at that point, she was focused on my necklace and jabbering away about something I’m sure only another two year old or a parent could understand. “Her name is Shakhari, and she is indeed my little princess. I’ll take her back now, thanks.” Shakhari was having none of that and she grabbed my neck and laid her sweet little head on my shoulder. “I share joint custody with her mother and when she lives with me, my brother, and his two sons; she’s the only woman in the house. She has a need for female bonding that defies logical thinking. That estrogen is some powerful stuff, right?”

“It’s okay, I’ll hold her, go ahead, it looks like you could use an extra hand.” While Daddy was unpacking the cart, getting his super savings card swiped, and paying, I was checking him out; he was actually very cute. He had a full beard and a delicious looking chocolate complexion and a shopping cart full of health food. I whispered in Shakhari’s ear, “You know, your Daddy is pretty handsome.”

That must have been the magic phrase because almost immediately Shakhari wanted to go back to Daddy and she reached out to him. He scooped her up and kept loading his cart with the bags like he was the featured juggler with UniverSoul. Right before they were ready to leave, he said, “Say goodbye to the pretty lady, Shakhari.” She blew me a big kiss and I could hear her saying bye-bye over and over until they were well beyond the automatic doors.

I paid for my groceries and made my way to the parking lot. I was putting my groceries in the back seat and still thinking about Dad and that sexy smile when I heard someone say, “Excuse me.” I looked up and it was Dad. “I didn’t get your name. I’m Vernon; I wanted to thank you for taking care of my little lady. I was wondering if . . . Do you think it would be okay if I gave you my number and you could give me a call . . . that is if you aren’t married or seeing someone or anything. Sorry, I’m not very good at this. I haven’t dated in a long while so I’m a little out of practice. I’m sorry.”

I extended my hand, “I’m Deborah, nice to meet you. There’s no need to apologize.” He handed me his business card with his home and cell phone numbers written on the back. A week later I was on a date with him, sitting at a table staring into the dreamiest eyes possible and pinching myself that he was so amazing.

The chemistry was just there, it wasn’t forced or anything, we just seemed to connect. He told me that he’d moved to the area two years ago, a little before Shakhari was born, and his pregnant girlfriend at the time had no intention of moving away from her family, and they had no plans to get married. “I got a chance to really make a difference,” he explained, “so when my brother told me they were opening an Office of Minority Affairs in the county, and were looking for someone to head it up, and he could get me an interview, I jumped at the chance. Janet is a massage therapist on a cruise ship for 3 or 4 months at a time so it works our perfectly that I can take Shakhari, my brother and his two teenage sons are the perfect babysitters whenever I need them. When she is with her Mom, I feel like my entire life is on hold.” He explained to me that he’d largely gotten caught up in his ex’s looks and while he could have made better choices in a partner, and used a lot more precaution, i.e. protection, he was making the best of the situation and being the best father he knew how to be.

The more we talked, the more attracted I was. Sure, we’d talked on the phone, gotten to know each other a little bit before the date, but there was something about being in his presence, smelling his cologne, seeing those shoulders, just being in the company of a man that was intoxicating. I told him my sad story, of how I’d let myself love a man who didn’t love me and how it had fucked with my self esteem so I’d been alone for a while, just trying to work on myself. Isolated was a better term for it. I’d sort of shut myself off from the rest of the world to figure things out and make sense of it all. Usually, when you admit flaws to a man, they run 100 yards in the opposite direction but Vernon was hanging right in there with me, it didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. I could tell from his actions and his words that he was really interested in finding a woman of substance, which is rare. Most men are looking for a woman of beauty, who won’t question them or demand anything of them. He explained that after Shakhari was born, he was intent on finding a great role model for his daughter and a great partner with whom he could build a life together. Boy was I glad the recipe I was using called for shallots that night and I had to run to the store.

After dinner, we walked hand in hand by the bay, looking out over the water and up at the stars. We sat on a bench for a while and watched the other couples walk by, kissing and hugging, feeling each other up as if no one could see what they were doing. I got a little chilly and he gave me his jacket and put his arms around my shoulders. It was getting late but I was in no rush to end the date so I asked him if he wanted to come back to my place for a drink.

I had no plans on having sex with him; I just wanted to appreciate his company a little more. Vernon was picking out music in the living room while I was in the kitchen getting out the glasses and opening the wine. All of a sudden it hit me that I had made a huge mistake. Wine, music, alone in my apartment. Duh, that meant SEX! Hot, buck naked, sweaty sex. My hands started shaking and I couldn’t even hold the bottle opener steady. I was trying to figure out a way to put a stop to the whole thing, call it off, ask him to leave, when Vernon came in the kitchen and said, “Deborah, is everything alright? Here, let me help you with that.”

He intentionally stood behind me, pressing his body against mine, and wrapped his arms around me, placing his hands on top of mine, and opened the bottle. My heart was racing out of my chest. I could feel the fullness of my ass against him, his chest against my back, his arms were strong but his hands were gentle. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against his chest for a moment and just stood there. He started massaging my shoulders, and he said, “This is nice, thank you for inviting me over.” I could feel the warmth of his breath on my ear and in that moment, I felt like a woman. I am a woman of course, but when you spend so much time alone you don’t get a chance to FEEL like a woman. I leaned back into him fully, subconsciously rubbing my ass on him, and I could detect the slightest movement in his pants.

That’s when panic hit me. What the hell was I doing? I wiggled out from between the counter and his body and decided that I was going to gain full control of the situation. I was going to fake a headache and call it a night but Vernon beat me to it. “Whoa, look at the time,” he said! “My nephew has rugby playoffs tomorrow and I have to get home to uhmmm . . . take care of things, to get ready. I mean I need to get up early to get the kids ready and . . . well, I better get going.” He was trying to discretely reposition himself and scramble for his jacket to put in front of him.


I walked him to the door and we said our goodbyes. I guess neither one of us knew what was the appropriate thing to do. The date was awesome, there was chemistry out of this world, but we were both out of practice in the romance department. We stood at my doorway and saying what a great time we both had and how we should do it again soon. I knew good and damn well that I wanted a kiss. I could tell he wanted a kiss too. He stood there stalling for another minute until finally I just put my arms around his neck, leaned in close and closed my eyes.

The next thing I felt were his lips pressed softly against mine, his tongue softly exploring my mouth. He pulled my body tightly to his and I cupped his face in my hands. His hands explored my back and the further down they went, the more I moaned into his mouth. We went from 0 to 60 in five seconds flat. One kiss turned into deep soul kissing and there was no turning back. He sucked my tongue gently in his mouth and I got dizzy. His mouth tasted slightly sweet, like he’d eaten a mint in anticipation of kissing me while I wasn’t looking. Our lips parted and he started kissing my neck. His technique was out of this world, gently sucking my hot spot and nibbling on my flesh while his hands were pulling me closer, rubbing me all over. There was no way I was going to let him leave so I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the living room. We both fell on the sofa and started making out like two teenagers in high school.

There is something transcendent about being in the arms of a Black man. Anyone who has every had the pleasure can testify to that. Being in the arms of a beautiful Black man, after months of being alone, is like finding an oasis in the desert after crawling on the hot sands. When I’m in that moment, feeling his muscles, the power of his grasp, if feels like it’s the reason I was created, it’s like climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and reaching the Apex. Pressing his full body weight into mine, he took my breath away. I tried to pull him closer, to become one with him, to somehow feel his breath inside of me. He put his leg between mine and I started humping on him. My skirt was sliding up and I kept trying to subconsciously pull it back down. My mind was so used to putting me off when they made advances; it was hard to turn off that record that allowed me to be fully sensual and expressive with a man.
Truth is, I was scared. I was scared of letting down my guard. I was unsure of how to be sexual with a man anymore. I wasn’t sure what healthy boundaries were. I was playing all sorts of old tapes in my head about being a slut for sleeping with a man on the first date. I’m 30 years old and I was feeling like a teenager on the couch with my mom upstairs, ready to scold me for being fast.

Vernon must have been having the same apprehensions, well, at least comparable ones. He sat up and moved to the far end of the sofa. I was still lying there, with my legs spread, breathing heavy, and a look of tortured lust on my face. I could clearly see the outline of his dick tenting his pants and he made no efforts to hide it.

“Is everything okay,” I asked, sitting up and trying to gain some composure.

“Sure, I’m cool. It’s just that I’m not really sure that we should be doing this. I can’t lie; I want to be with you. You CAN’T imagine how much I want to be with you right now. It’s just that I don’t want my judgment clouded because it’s been so long since I . . . you know. I’m into you for a lot of reasons but I don’t want to just get caught up in the moment because I’m trying to fill the void, feel me? I’m not sure if I’m thinking with the right head.”

I think we both needed that minute to catch our breath and regroup. To be honest, the fact that he wanted to slow things down made me want him that much more. Not completely because you always want what you think you can’t have, but I’m sure that had a little to do with it, but mostly because he was actually thinking about the consequences of us getting too carried away. That was a first. Every other man I’d been with, once we’d gotten to the dry humping, spit swapping, simulating sex stage, there was nothing short of a natural disaster that could get them to think about anything other than fucking.

He pulled my skirt hem down to my knees, rather reluctantly I could tell, and then he pulled me onto his lap. We talked for a few minutes but neither of us made a move to end the evening. I tried to move to sit next to him, expressing that I was fearful that I was hurting him, and he sucked his teeth and gave me a look like, “Gurl, pleeease, don’t even think that you could hurt me.” I TOTALLY felt like a woman in the moment.

It was only then that all the work I’d done on myself, redefining and healing, kicked in. I was a vibrant, vital, woman with a lot to offer and sexual needs, the need for human contact. I was deserving of pleasure and sensual release. Yes, I wanted a relationship but more than that I wanted a man to appreciate me for more than being just a piece of ass. I was reasonably confident that Vernon didn’t just want a one night stand. But the real kicker was in coming to terms with the fact that, even if he did, even if having a sex on the first date wasn’t what I’d been conditioned to think a virtuous woman did, I was empowered and responsible for my happiness. I could choose to see the situation as one of opportunity and take ownership of my emotions afterwards, whatever the outcome.

I straddled Vernon’s lap and faced him. I slowly undid the buttons on my blouse, verrrry slowly. He didn’t say a word; he just sat there and watched me. I pulled my blouse off and dropped it to the floor. I took his hands and placed them on my breasts and he started massaging them. I undid the snaps of my bra and let if find a home on the floor on top of my shirt. Instinctively, his mouth found my nipples and started sucking them. I held them up for him, feeding him, throwing my head back and enjoying the sensation of his tongue, moving from one titty to the other, licking my hardened nipples, sucking them, biting them gently, driving me absolutely fucking crazy.

I started grinding on him, undoing the buttons on his shirt. He said, “Wait, shouldn’t we . . .” I didn’t let him finish his sentence. I kissed him again, this time even more passionately than before, if that was at all possible, and silenced him.

“Vernon, do you want to . . .” I didn’t know what words to use, so I just said what I was really feeling in that moment. “Vernon, do you want to fuck me?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Deborah, I want to fuck you so bad I can’t see straight.” He buried his face between the soft flesh of my breasts and pushed both nipples together and sucked them at the same time.

I grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward my bedroom so we could stretch out and be more comfortable. He kept asking me if I was sure about this. I turned on my mackadocious music, the music I played when I wanted to get in the mood to fuck myself, and I started dancing for him, taking off the rest of my clothes. I slid out of my skirt and he just sat on the edge of the bed, looking uncomfortable. Leaving my red lace panties on, I knelt between his legs and undid his belt buckle. He was looking down at me like he was having an out of body experience. I undid the button and lowered the zipper on his pants. I reached in his boxers and felt the heat of his dick. I pulled it from the opening and looked up at him, licked my lips, and licked the head. I saw his eyes roll back in his head and I knew that was my go ahead. I swirled my tongue around the head and started licking his shaft. I slip my lips sensually up and down the length and took his entire dick in my mouth deeply. He was bucking his hips and I was matching his thrusts. He grabbed my by my shoulders and pushed me away. “Stop,” he said breathing heavily, “I need you to slow down.”

I stood up and turned around. I slid my panties down over my full hips and stepped out of them. By the time I had turned back around, Vernon was naked and laying on the bed looking like a chocolate vision of beauty. “My turn,” he said, “and he stuck out his tongue. “I want to taste you.” I climbed on the bed and tried to lie next to him. He wasn’t having that and he told me that he wanted me to ride his face. For a woman who was out of practice at having sex, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable being that assertive. I stopped myself before I got too caught up in old tapes in my head and accepted his invitation.

I grabbed the headboard and threw my leg across his shoulder. He stuck his tongue out and said, “Come on, baby, let me lick that sweet pussy.” I lowered myself slowly, letting the lips of my pussy gently caress his lips. He started kissing my pussy, frenching them like he’d done to me earlier. I was biting my lip, trying to stifle my moans of appreciation but there was no use. I felt fucking fantastic. I started rubbing my pussy on his soft lips, sliding back and forth, feeling his tongue in my hole and his lips sucking at my clit. The sensations were out of the world. Before long, I was bouncing a little harder on his mouth, riding his tongue. Grabbing my ass, he pulled me forward and started licking me from my clit to my asshole. I’ll be a black son of a bitch if I could hold back my sounds of appreciation at that point. I was moaning and talking dirty, telling him how much I loved it.

“Ohhhh, yessss, sexy mother fucker. Let me ride that tongue, shove it in me. Oh shit, that feels so good.” He grabbed thighs and pulled me tighter. Poor little thing, I could have suffocated him I was bouncing up and down on his face so hard. I could feel the tremors, they were building and there was no turning back.

I rolled over on the bed, exhausted, but energized at the same time. Vernon rolled over on me and kissed me and I could taste my juices on his tongue. “Do you need some time to recuperate,” he whispered?

I reached between his legs and felt for his dick and rubbed it on the slit of my pussy. “Fuck me, NOW,” was all I needed to say.

“Oh shit,” he said, “Hold on there sweetness.” He reached for his pants on the side of the bed and pulled out some condoms, opened the package with his teeth, and slid it on his dick. I was so happy he’d taken the initiative to be responsible because I would have kicked myself a thousand times in the morning for not insisting that we use protection.

Locked and fully loaded, he placed my legs on his shoulders. He looked down at me and rubbed the head of his dick on my slit. I was sweating, trying to get him to penetrate me. I was still soaking wet from cumming before but I hadn’t felt a real dick in my in so long, I couldn’t wait any longer. Vernon made me wait. He teased me, excruciatingly painful teasing. He pushed the head in and I gripped the sheets. I was tighter than usual I guess, from not having sex in so long, so he had to work hard to get it all in. We were both sweating and grunting and he was going deeper and deeper. Finally, I could feel his balls on my ass and the head of his dick was deep inside me.

Gripping my thighs, he started fucking me. When I say he was fucking me, he would withdraw all the way to the head and then push every millimeter inside me, rhythmically, methodically, sensually. I was twisting and turning, playing with his nipples, playing with my own, rubbing my clit, just adding to the sensations. I grabbed his ass and started trying to get him to fuck me harder. We were grunting and groaning, he was fucking me senseless. He let my legs go and I wrapped them around his back. He fell on top of me and we began kissing passionately. Our sweaty bodies were slipping and sliding together.

“Oh shit, I’m going to cum.”

He fell on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not saying a word. I pulled the covers over us and drifted off to sleep snuggled up next to him. I awoke to the sounds of him getting dressed, glanced at the clock, and it said 5:30.

“Listen, Shakhari has never woken up with me not there so I need to run,” he whispered. “I left the address of where my nephew is going to be playing. Meet us there when you get a chance. I can’t wait to see you later.” He kissed my forehead. Go back to sleep and get some rest and we can pick up where we left off tonight.”

I was relieved. While I was prepared for the big blow off, I was pleased that it looked like things were going to move ahead. Where things were going to go was entirely up to us but I was pretty assured that he hadn’t just taken advantage of me and I was confident that I had truly made the empowered choice that signaled a sensual rite of passage for me as a woman.

(And just so you know, he nephew’s team won the regional title.)

Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK