Say Yes

We've been out for dinner and drinks. We come back to my place for conversation and listening to music. To the casual observer it’s just a girl’s night out. You know I want more but we don't even discuss it. It’s late and you say you have to leave. I walk you to the door and you stall. You want me to make the first move you don't know how to say it. I sense your hesitation and I absolutely can't wait another moment. I lean in close and I start to gently, softly kiss your neck. You throw your head back and you let me make love to your neck with my mouth. I push you gently against the door and you moan. Your hands reach out to touch my waist and I almost explode. I want to kiss you so badly and our lips are millimeters apart. Your eyes tell me yes. But I need you to say it.

Ever so imperceptibly, you pull my body closer to yours but it’s still not enough for me. You have to say it. You have to say something. I run my hands up and down your sides to your back and your hips and you're moaning softly but audibly now. I lift your face and look deep in your eyes and you say, "Yes." It's just one word but I know what you mean. I take you by the hand and we walk to my bedroom. I want to be assertive with you; I want to give you the space to think that you're not in control. But you are. You want it. You lay back on my bed without me even having to ask. I climb over you, our bodies just inches apart, and we kissed for the first time. You know you're safe with me and you say, "Don't stop."  That turns me on more than anything you can imagine I make it my business to give your body pleasure like you've never felt before.

Yes! I want that to be "our" word. I want you to control me by making me wait to taste you. I can't do anything to move forward until you say yes. I want you to tease me for months. I want to see your sexuality blossom and grow. I want you to become more and more assertive, telling me how to please you, teasing me. I want you to know that I want to make love to you, and eat and you control every bit of it. Force me to think of creative ways to please you and tease you and make you come back for more. I want to see your confidence grow and blossom. I want to see you tease man and turn them on and know that it's because you've mastered the art by teasing me. I want to figure out creative ways to tease you and please you for weeks between the time you let me kiss you and you let me put your incredible nipples in my mouth. I want my roommate to walk in and see my hand up your shirt and you tell me not to move it. As he lingers and tries to watch his dick gets hard and it turns you on. I want you to excuse us and take me by the hand and lead me to my bedroom knowing that he's listening and stroking his dick imagine what we're doing. I want you to be exceptionally loud. I want you to tell me what you like.

I want you to bring an overnight bag knowing that you can stay any night you want. I want you to take a shower and know that I'm masturbating in the bedroom waiting for you thinking about you fantasizing about you. I want you to introduce me to people as your girlfriend and put your hand on my thigh on the small of my back and only you and I know that we mean more. I want people to see us and assume we're lovers and they never know that I've never tasted you before. That you're making me wait.

I want to lick and kiss your inner thighs and know that I'm not allowed to put my mouth on you until you say yes. I'm going to be consumed with emotion the very first time I touch you pussy and feel how wet you are and kiss you. I want you to see the look of desperation in my eyes when I finger you and I take my fingers out and they're covered with your juices and I want to lick them but you don't let me. And you know that I won't lick some until you give me permission, until you say yes. Even after you leave. I want to smell your pussy on my fingers for hours.

I wanna fuck you so bad. Make me sit across the room and watch you fuck yourself with toys. Get on your knees with your ass up and your head down and tell me to eat your pussy. Demand it. I want to hear you scream into the pillow. I want to make you into this insatiable woman who's not afraid and ask her what she wants, to show her arousal. I want you to feel confident telling me about your fantasies with other men. I need you to know that I would be completely faithful to you.

I want to hear your chanting yes, yes, yes as I'm between your legs and you grab the back of my head and you flood my mouth with your cum. I want to take you out of town, wine you, dine you, and then, in the elevator on the way to the hotel room, I want you to look me in the eye and tell you to make you cum. In front of the security cameras. God, I want to finger your pussy and feel you moaning and chanting yes into my mouth as we Kiss passionately. The doors open, a man gets on and sees us and you tell me not to stop. My hand between your legs fingering your wet pussy and you’re coming and he's watching and you don't care because it turns you on.

And then one night, after we've been out, and we come back to my apartment, step inside the door and you lift my eyes to yours and say yes. On that night we make love for the first time. We make love to each other. Uninhibited. Equal. You taste me. We surrender to each other. We tell each other that we are in love with each other with our bodies and our lips and our hearts. We both know it’s not happily ever after love but it's real.

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK

The Original Man

The power of a people reside in how they tell their stories.  For descendents of slaves, African Americans, we don’t have many written records of the powerful stories our ancestors.  The voices of those whose blood courses through our veins were effectively silenced by the system of chattel slavery.  Slavery isn’t even something we as Black people want to talk about; it’s something we want to place in its own little compartment and reference it when we’re talking about racism and put it right back the second we start to feel pangs of inferiority and shame. Yet, there were true tales of survival, triumph, fortitude, enduring love, and even lust that slaves shared that have gone untold for centuries.  This is one such story. 

E’ry night, I gotta sneak out ‘n tend to my man.  He taint none uh my husband on paper cuz ole Massa says niggers not ‘posed to get married legal ‘n all like de white folks but we jumped de broom under de full moon so I says we’s married.  Maw says it too so dats good ‘nuf fo’ me.  Adam, dats mu husband’s name, like in da bible, like de first man dey ever was. Dat ain’t his real name.  His real name is . . . well . . . I cain’t say it outside ma head cuz it don’t be ‘lowed fo’ slaves to have no name lessin’ a white person give it to ya.  Adam is big ‘n strong ‘n black as midnight.  He stands tall as a tree and his arms be as big as a canon.  His eyes is dark and sad, you kin see de sadness in ‘em like when he be lookin’ at sumtin that don’t be dere. He say he be memberin’ his real home, his real kin folk.  He’s smart cuz on de boat over here, da captain learned him to read ‘n write ‘n do figgers but dis here Massa don’t know nuffin’ bout dat. 

Dey call me Margaret on dis here plantation.  When I’s a little girl, I had anuva name but I don’t reckon what it was no mo’.  I jest member dat when I come here to da McKinley Plantation in Latta, SC, ole Misses say she don’t like da name I come wit so she change it to Margaret.  Sometimes, ‘n my mind, I pretend like I’s Eve ‘n he’s Adam like in da Garden a Edun ‘cepin Massa say ain’t no niggers in da bible.  I don’t be carin’.  Sometimes, I closes my eyes ‘n sees us runnin’ around all free ‘n happy like.  I’s scurred o’ snakes sumtin fierce in real life so I don’t eat dat dang apple in my mind’s eye, we’s just be free ‘n happy . . . free ‘n happy. 

See, me ‘n Adam was runnin’ fo freedom when da catcha’s dun snatched us up in some place called Louisville.  Folks say we wuz almost to freedom iffin we wasn’t catched.  T’was my fault we got catched.  I had my moon flow ‘n we was in de woods ‘n I didn’t have no cotton to swab up de blood so we jest walk ‘n walk ‘n walk most de night ‘n durin’ de day we hide.  All de time we wuz walkin’, I was leavin’ a trail for dem ole dogs to follow. Adam dun tried to carry me but he was too tired from walkin’ all dem nights.  I tole him to leave me be and go on but he wouldn’t.  Dem ole hounds caught de smell o’ my blood ‘n tracked us ‘n catched us right on up ‘n brought us back to here to ole Massa. 

Massa tell de ova’sea to do ev’rytin’ to Adam ceptin’ kill ‘em.  Well, he say not to cut him down dere cuz he need him right for breedin’ ‘n all cuz Adam is a good bull.  He make good babies for massa to sell fo’ lots of money.  I kin’t have no babies cuz my insides t’aint right after ole Massa dun used a broken bottle on me dere.  But I’m a fancy, meanin’ I’s yella cuz my pa was my ole Massa, so dis here Massa keeps me round for his “musemint” is wut he be callin’ it.  I call it hell.  See, Adam don’t love me cause I’m half white, he love me cuz I got . . . wut he call it . . . a regal air ‘bout me.  I taint positive wut dat means fo’ sho’ but he say dat I be a queen where he from, a real live queen wit a crown ‘n all. 

Massa say not to beat me.  I was hopin’ to get da whip cuzin I know da pain of da beatin’ be ova in a few days.  Wut massa do to me, dat pain don’t neva go way.  Dat pain be in my heart, you know, you kin’t touch it but it be dere, from de sun to da moon ‘n back to da sun one mo’ ‘gain.  Massa hurt me down dere.  He make sure I know not to run away no mo’ ‘n he make me do awful things to make me pay.  He say I need to know my place so he tell his sons to do things to me down dere too.  Iffin’ I wuz all de way white, I could choose who could know me in de bible way.  Slave gals don’t have no say in dat. 

Adam been down almost 2 weeks.  His fever dun broke but he tain’t ate nuffin’ yet.  I be givin’ him tea with hyssop, nettle, ‘n honey in it fo’ when he get his strength back.  Dey’s healin’ roots from in de bible so I knows dey gotsta work.  His wounds got ‘fected real terrible like ‘n I had ta clean ‘em e’ry night after doin’ ma chores.  I knows he gunna be betta, I’s can feel it in ma bones. 

Sometimes, when I look at Adam, my eyes fill up wit tears and my heart feel like it wanna ‘splode like a fire cracker.  I loves him more dan anythin’ in de whole world.  I knows with e’ry bit o’ my soul dat Adam loves me with e’ry bit o’ his soul too.  Massa say niggers ain’t got no souls.  He say only white folks got souls but he crazier dan a loon.  Even I know a soul is what makes you ‘live, a soul be da thing dat makes you sing ‘n dance ‘n jump around. 

God dun answered my prayas.  Adam is ‘woke.  He’s still weak but da fire be back in his eyes.  Ole Sadie say he pull through cuz he gots pure African blood in ‘em.  Well, dat ‘n de love of a gud womin.  She help me get fixed up nice an purty for Adam and de ovah slaves done left and let us be alone in da quarters. 

I went to Adam in de night.  He weren’t sleep none, he wuz just layin’ dere, eyes open, like he been waitin’ for me.  He say I smell real sweet.  I put some ‘o de missus toilet water straight from Paris France behind my ears.   I let my frock fall to da floor and I stood dere, with nothin’ on but da light from da moon dat wuz lightin up da room, and showed myself to him.  I could see da covers movin’ down below so I knowed he was happy to see me.  I slid under da covers wif ‘im and he was warm to da touch.  He wrapped his arms ‘round me and I felt safe ‘n . . . I felt like a womin is ‘posed ta feel.  I put my leg ova his leg and my arms ‘round his body.  His skin was smooooooooth like a baby.  He put his full sof’ lips on mine ‘n kissed me, real gentle like.  It wuz like he was sayin’ thank you fo’ takin’ gud care ‘o me, not wif words but wif kisses.  My nature dun start ta rise and my body dun start ta squirmin’ ‘n wigglin’ round like a cat in heat.  My lady parts wuz tinglin’ sumpin’ fierce.  I neva get dose feelin’s with ole Massa.  Sometimes, I wishes dat only Adam knowed me like a husband knows a wife but, tain’t so. 

He started to nurse from me, Adam did, just like a baby does from his mama.  T’weren’t no milk coming out o’ me tho’, just noises from me that say I liked it.  And when he started ta touch me in my special place, it felt real good, real good indeed.    His fingers went down where da daisies grow ‘n he wuz pettin’ it real soft.  Seem like e’ry time he do dat, I start makin’ sounds I cain’t control.  It be like a strange tongue be comin’ out ‘o me dat I don’t have no have power ovah.  I was like a ripe peach with all ma juices flowin’.  ‘N you’se can best b’lieve dat his rod was stiffer dan all get out.   I took him in my hands and stroked him.  He liked it, I could tell.  His sap started to leakin’ and he was thrusting his hips. 

I didn’t want him to climb on top ‘o me cuz I didn’t want him to get too weak so I had to do all de work.  I got on top ‘o him ‘n he filled his hands with my backside and I joined with him.  My, my, my.  We was together, nuffin between us but love.  I put my hands on his chest ‘n started ridin’ him like he was one ‘o Massa’s prime stallions.  Our bodies was movin’ together, poundin’ out a rhythm in time sorta like a drum beatin’ out our song of love.  I see’d Adam’s eyes roll back ‘n his head and I knowed he was ready to spill his seed.  Dere I was, filled up with joy and his manhood, his eyes were locked wit mine, ‘n he was whispering to me in his real tongue.  I don’t be knowin’ wut he be sayin’ when he talk dat African talk but it sound real nice and I feel de meanin’ somehow.  He be sayin’, “Margaret, I’s gonna love you til de end of time.”  I say it right back too, with my heart. 

Copyright 2013 Scottie Lowe

12 Million Mental Slaves

In this nation, with its land stained with the blood of millions upon millions of innocents, we are completely backwards in our thinking.  Descendents of slave are ashamed of our past, embarrassed and humiliated because our forefathers and mothers labored like beasts under heavy chains.  Slaves were the strongest, most resilient, most persevering, most amazing people to be able to survive the physical, emotional, psychological, sexual, and spiritual abuse of slavery.  Consistently, Black people have the unmitigated audacity to say, “I’m sick and tired of seeing movies about slavery and butlers and maids,” as if they want to distance themselves from the reality of our past.  The noblest people to hold their heads high and live to see another day were our ancestors, who endured more pain than the contemporary mind can even comprehend. We come from a people who fought to survive, to love, to define themselves just so that today we can make celebrities of idiots and clowns, crave mediocrity, and defend dysfunction.  We idolize and emulate a race of people whose false sense of superiority and arrogance are contemptible, shameful, and appalling.  I, even if I stand alone, am PROUD to be the descendent of cotton picking, nappy-headed, illiterate slaves for I honor and respect all that they had to endure, no matter how mundane, menial, and un-glamorous it was. 

Conversely, the descendents of slave masters walk around as arrogant as fuck, saying, “Slavery was in the past, let it go.  My ancestors never owned slaves.  Jews got over the Holocaust, etc., ect., ect.”  Slave masters, and overseers, and wives of slave masters, and white people in general were, for generations, the most reprehensible, evil, soulless, sadistic, cruel human beings to walk the face of the earth YET they are proud of their heritage, proud to be descended from people who administered beatings, lynchings, rape, torture, and abuse like it was their birthright.  They long for the good old days.  They covet the sort of power they had at the safe end of a whip again.  They arrogantly assert that the reason that they are economically, and educationally more successful as a race of people is because of their hard work ethics and superior intellect.  They fail to recognize just how loathsome, vile, and repulsive their beginnings in this nation truly are, that it was Blacks who built this nation, created its wealth with their spirits all but broken, their bodies bruised and beaten. 

Take my Breath Away

I was old enough to be her ghetto mama.  There were at least 13, maybe 15 years separating our births, but the attraction between us was strong.  Her skin was the color of the deepest ebony; she was BLACK and her skin was hot and soft to the touch.  To say she was sexy was an understatement.  She wasn’t sexy because she happened to be beautiful.  Her beauty was part of the package but it certainly wasn’t the only ingredient in her intoxicating blend of charms.  She oooooooozed sticky, sweet sensuality and feminine mystique.  That, combined with an odd elixir of pheromones, created a persona so confident, intelligent, and so goddamn unapologetic in the space she took up on earth that she was like a Goddess.  Every step she took was confident; her stride swayed with rhythmic cadence.  Her eyes were captivating and she used them like weapons, drawing you in and beguiling you with her charms. 

She hunted me like prey.  I wanted to resist her charms but I am, after all, only human and subject to weakness of the flesh and will.  I had not built up an immunity to her seduction.  I tried for weeks to dodge her advances but eventually, we were alone, in my apartment and I was a victim of her erotic wiles.  On my sofa, with nothing to distract us but the barely imperceptible crackle of the candles that bathed us in a soft, warm glow, we talked and touched.  She was in no rush and she was completely in control; I was just along for the ride and where we were going I couldn’t even begin to comprehend. 

“Here, put your head in my lap,” she instructed me and I quickly followed her command.  I felt warm and safe there, staring up at the ceiling as we conversed about life and love and the work of James Vanderzee.  The sexual tension in the air was so thick, so high and tight, that it put Kid’s flattop in House Party 2 to shame.  In silence, she caressed my body.  My nipples responded to the gentle touch of her fingertips on the exposed skin on the nape of my neck; my sighs were a response to her erotic manipulations. 

She placed her hand tenderly on my throat . . . and left it there.  With skillful ease, she began the most erotic massage of my neck.  Her stroke was sensual, soft, but it grew more firm and intentioned gradually.  The sensations I felt were new, exciting and her eyes never left mine and she began to apply the slightest pressure to my throat.  I was moaning, or I should say, I couldn’t help myself from moaning.  I was in an erotic trance.  I kept getting more and more aroused.  I didn’t understand what was happening; all I knew was that I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted and needed more.  Every time she would squeeze my neck just a bit harder I felt the blood rush to my head, it pulsed and throbbed but it wasn’t just in my head.  My pussy felt the sensations just as much.  I was in a trance, a daze from lack of oxygen and an excess of arousal. 

“More, I whispered,” and she responded in kind.  She grabbed my throat and started to squeeze harder.  The sensations in the back of my eyes, in my clit, were like nothing I’d ever felt before.  My body was thrashing around on the sofa and I was grabbing her hand with my own, trying to get her to squeeze harder, longer; I wanted her grip tighter.  She tormented with me her sexy talk, telling me how sexy I looked, how wet her pussy was getting seeing me so turned on.  This was the epitome of erotic asphyxiation; she was choking me, controlling me sensually.  I wasn’t for a moment afraid.  My life was in her hands, literally, and I felt so close, so exposed, so aroused. 

She knew how to control my breath and my body.  I was communicating to her with my eyes; telling her when to stop, how much pressure to apply; that I loved every second of it.  Eventually, I couldn’t control myself.  I unzipped my jeans and slipped my fingers to my engorged, sensitive clit and rubbed it in a circular motion.  I was so turned on, so completely soaking wet; I knew I wouldn’t last very long.  She knew I was about to cum as well and she held my throat and firmly in her hand and applied even more pressure.  I thought I was going to pass out.  I wanted to gasp for air but I couldn’t.  My body tensed up and . . .  orgasmic explosion and the breath of life collided in erotic bliss.

I never saw her again.  She drifted off into obscurity, out of my life but not out of my mind.  The impression she left on my throat was not nearly as lasting as the one she made in my memory.  To this day, that night remains one of the most erotic experiences of my life. 

Copyright 2013 AfroerotiK