Erotic provocateur, racially-influenced humanist, relentless champion for the oppressed, and facilitator for social change, Scottie Lowe is the brain child, creative genius and the blood, sweat, and tears behind AfroerotiK. Intended to be part academic, part educational, and part sensual, she, yes SHE gave birth to the website to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality. No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away. No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens. And as hard as it may be to believe, no, not all gay Black men are feminine, down low, or HIV positive. Scottie is putting everything on the table to discuss, debate, and dismantle stereotypes in a healthy exchange of ideas. She hopes to provide a more holistic, informed, and enlightened discussion of Black sexuality and dreams of helping couples be more open, honest, and adventurous in their relationships.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Ladies and Gentleman, let’s get ready to rumble. In the first corner, coming in at 225 years old and representing the blue collar high school dropout trying to prove that senior citizen white men can beat up youthful, athletic Black men is Rocky Balboa. In the opposite corner, representing the quintessential white man, blonde hair, blue eyes, savior to all darkies and messiah like hero, is Leonardo DeCaprio, proving that white men are in fact icons of perfection.
Hey Hollywood, could you be any more obvious? They are constantly trying to reinvent this notion of the Great White Hope. I have to wonder how many people would go to see Sylvester Stallone in a movie if he was fighting another white guy? How many white men from Idaho or Missouri or middle America are going to go see Rocky 6 (Don’t front, that’s what it really is) and cheer for him to beat that nigger? They sit at home and listen to Rush Limbaugh and all those neocon talk shows telling them how the white man is losing jobs to Blacks, how the white man is suffering reverse discrimination, they watch porno movies where white women are slobbering all over black dick like cheap tramps . . . and of course they want to see a barely literate thug beat up a Black guy.
Blood Diamonds is a movie with a very important message and it’s worth seeing if it wasn’t about how the white man saved the day. Why can’t a sista save the day? What would have been so tragic about casting a black person in the lead? It’s tiring to see so little creativity in the movies, so little diversity.
And the winner, by a knockout, and still champion, is Hillary Swank, in yet another god damn white teacher in the hood movie. According to Hollywood, the only people that are trying to do right by Black students are people who aren’t Black. Enough already! It’s tired, it’s lame, let it go. We don’t need white people to recognize our humanity and save us from ourselves. I gonna make a movie about a Black teacher who goes into a white school and saves the children from meth addiction, and plotting a Columbine massacre. That’s a box office smash I’m sure. Right.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Last year, during the Katrina horror, when Kanye West said that George Bush didn’t like Black people, the number of Black people who put him on a pedestal was off the charts. I stood as the lone person who refused to give him any accolades. First, it doesn’t take any genius to figure out that Bush doesn’t like Black people. He stated the obvious, big shit. Second, his popular Golddigger was out at the same time, reinforcing to all of America that poor black men are in fact niggers. In his Katrina benefit song, he called the people of New Orleans niggers. What the fuck sort of message is that sending to white people who you want to have compassion for those victims of racism? You get no props if you are promoting Black women as gold diggers and you get points taken away if you are using the N word in a song and urging white people to sing along at your concerts. Kanye West is far from a scholar or an activist, he’s not even remotely articulate and yet Black people lifted him up as some sort of new school voice of the oppressed hero. I got all sorts of grief when I challenged people to think seriously about whom they gave praises to and of course I was attacked and people defended him by saying, “He’s not calling ALL Black women golddiggers . . . The N word has changed, it means something positive now.” When you start making excuses for your make shift idols right off the bat, that’s a clear indication that they don’t have what it takes to be idols in the first damn place.
Now, we have Mr. West, saying in Essence magazine, that the only attractive women are mixed and he refers to biracial and light skinned women as mutts. Nice. While I’m sure he speaks for a great many Black men, and his sentiments reflect a reality that we don’t want to discuss, Mr. West, and his color struck fans are nothing more than little nigger slaves on the plantation, repeating what the massa told them to believe. Biracial people are not more attractive than dark skinned people. We have been SOCIALIZED to believe that biracial and light skinned people are more attractive because the slave master gave them the stamp of approval, declared them to have more value.
“Well, I can’t help what I’m attracted to and I’m attracted to light skinned women, it’s not my fault.” “You’re just jealous, you’re just hating because you aren’t light.” Those are the number one uninformed, ridiculous statements I hear from men in response to any discussion that stems from the glorification of light skinned women. You can’t help what features you are attracted to in a person but your preferences are shaped by the messages that you were given. Your grandmother told you how pretty that little light skin girl was, you saw how people ranted and raved over the little girl with “good hair,” you sat around with all the little boys in the neighbor hood and looked at pictures of porno mags with white women in them, it stands to reason that you would grow up and be attracted to women with white or damn near white features. Acknowledgment of that fact is the first step towards correcting your misperceptions. But do Black men really find dark skinned women attractive? No.
Black women are ugly. Wide noses are ugly, big lips are ugly, dark skin is ugly. Isn’t that what massa told us? Did African men see African women as ugly prior to our enslavement? No, of course not. It’s only after we were told by the slave master that mulattos and octoroons were the prettiest that we started to believe that. It’s then that we hated the features that made us beautiful. Kanye West and all those who think like him, and there are many, are convinced that light skinned women are the most attractive women and there’s nothing anyone can say to convince them otherwise because they believe that Black is ugly. They run off to Brazil to find the perfect mixed mutt, they use women like toys who are dark because they wouldn’t be seen in public with them.
And Black women are falling right in line with these dysfunctional men. Light skinned women believe that they have more value because they are light. They voluntarily identify themselves as redboned and yellow, as if that’s a benefit. Dark skinned women try to compensate for not being light by proving how sexual they are, how big their asses are, how willing they are to accept any ole trifiling behavior Black men dish out in an effort to show how supportive Black women can be. We raise our daughters to believe the diseased mindsets of the slave. Ninety seven percent of all media shows Black men with lighter skinned women. And then we act shocked when Mr. West calls light skinned women mutts and wonder how he could have said something so crass.
What Mr. West has done is articulate his self hatred. He hates women with features like his own. Until we can rid ourselves of this diseased perspective as a people, until we can recognize how detrimental it is to continue with the beliefs of the slave master, we will be forever enslaved. Kanye West is not worthy to be praised, he’s not even worthy of celebrity. He’s a minstrel bucking and dancing for Mr. Charlie who happens to have a very public platform. Unfortunately what comes out of his mouth is ignorant. It’s a sad commentary on a society that lifts up the dysfunctional as some sort of spokesperson and everything that comes out of his mouth is diseased. Maybe one day, Black America will celebrate someone who actually has something intelligent to say out of his mouth.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
You have to work really hard to maintain the delicate equilibrium of a long distance relationship in order to make it work. The time apart, the distance, the lack of stability can wear on anyone’s nerves. Even under the best of conditions, fragile long distance relationships can disintegrate, even if both parties want it to work. Chris Henderson and Michelle Givens seemed to be the exception to the rule.
They met quite by happenstance. Chris was in Atlanta on a business trip. While he was checking into the Hyatt, minding his own business, he noticed a woman carrying a rather large painting, trying to navigate the heavy glass revolving door of the lobby with the large canvas. He ran to her assistance, holding the side handicap door for her like a gentleman would do, his midwestern manners integrating well into his temporary southern residence.
As she passed, sparks of electricity singed his very soul, igniting a chemical reaction that could have caused an explosion. She maneuvered her heavenly body through the door, positioning the painting as a barrier between them. For a brief moment, they both froze, maintaining intense eye contact. Chris took in every detail. Her butterscotch colored skin was flawless and her naturally curly hair was pulled tightly on top of her head and exploded in a poof of curly q’s. Her full, sensual lips looked so inviting, her smoky eyes were captivating, and her fragrance smelled like a delicious blend of fruit and flowers. The stood eye to eye, taking in details of one another, held captive by an immovable force of attraction. As she eased her way past Chris, she whispered the words, “Thank you,” softly. Chris watched her lips part and he was captivated by the way her pink tongue seemed to sensually caress her ruby colored lips and sort of make love to her words.
“Whoooo was that? Do you know who that woman is? She’s breathtaking,” Chris asked the desk manager, staring back at the doors, watching the captivating woman delicately arranging paintings in the back of a plain white van.
“Oh, that’s Michelle Givens. She’s the director of the Apex Museum here in Atlanta. They lend us paintings for the lobby every February for Black History Month. I have her business card and a brochure here if you want to check it out.” Chris fingered the card, distracted as he watched her drive off. The manager added, “Yeah, she is pretty hot,” as the two men shared a moment of appreciation for her beauty.
Barely able to concentrate, Chris couldn’t wait to pay a visit to the Apex later that afternoon. He was trying not to look conspicuous as he browsed around, trying to run into her again.
“Did you see something you were interested in today,” Michelle queried as she approached him?
Chris turned to face her and was again overwhelmed with her professionalism, sophistication, and sheer beauty. He took the flirtation ball and ran with it. “Very much so. In fact, I was so overwhelmed by the beauty of what I saw today, I had to make it my business to come and let you know personally.” He reached for her hand, held it to his lips, and kissed it softly. Michelle was overwhelmed by his charm in that moment and the rest, as they say, is history.
The two became rather inseparable from that moment on, at least every time Chris was in town for business. They would dine together, go to various museums on the weekends; Chris would even attend all the events Michelle coordinated for the Apex. He was extremely proud of her and it became increasingly more difficult to return to Chicago after they would spend time together. Illinois became bland in comparison his time in Georgia and was losing its appeal the more Chris realized that Michelle was his soul mate.
It was their perfect, symbiotic relationship the fueled them. Neither of them had to compromise themselves or their identities to be with the other. Chris loved that Michelle was so unconditionally supportive of him and his endeavors. He felt like he could accomplish anything with Michelle by his side. She loved that she didn’t have to sacrifice her independence to conform to an identity outside of her comfort zone. They just fit well together.
It was sexually, however, where their compatibility went off the charts. Never before in his life had Chris met a woman who understood his desires and matched them so perfectly. Every fantasy, every fetish, every kink, Michelle mirrored in delicious desire. It was as if they were created from the same erotic mold.
The time spent apart was becoming more unbearable. After nine months of long distance love and what was sure to be a tumor forming from endless hours of talking on the cell phone every night, Chris was contemplating ways in which he could make the relationship more permanent. He fingered the ring box in his pocket nervously as he deboarded the plane. Michelle was there to meet him, looking as stunning as ever, and her eyes lit up when she saw her man struggling with his two carryon bags. He took her in his arms and held her close. It never failed that every time he saw her, he felt the same jolt of electricity in his body as the first time he laid eyes on her. She kissed him rather sensually and every man in business class that was behind him felt a stab of lustful envy.
Michelle seemed to be particularly excited to see Chris and she was anxious to get home. She let him take the wheel and she sat in the passenger seat and wasted no time lowering her mouth to Chris’ lap and removing his hard dick from his pants, sucking him while he was doing 70 miles per hour on I-75. He was trying to concentrate on driving safely but it was damn hard to do that with his incredibly sexy girlfriend giving him the best head of his life.
He pulled the car into her garage and he was practically undressing before the ignition was off. Michelle had other plans and left Chris in the carport to get his belongings as she rushed inside with a mischievous smile on her face. Chris unloaded his bags, brought them inside, hung up his coat, and made his way to the kitchen, being led by the aromas of a fabulous seafood meal that was simmering on the stove. He was opening pots and inhaling delectable smells when Michelle approached him from behind. “Welcome home,” she said. Chris felt so at home, so at peace, she was reminded of the important question he wanted to ask Michelle.
He turned around and was caught off guard as he took in the full image of his ladylove. She was wearing black latex thigh-high boots and a matching latex bra. Completing her outfit was a black strapon dildo sticking out from her body. He felt a lump in his throat and instinctively dropped to his knees. He wrapped his lips around the hard black dick and looked up at his lover. She placed her hands on the back of his head and guided him to suck it. Turned on, she started pumping her full hips, fucking his mouth as Chris struggled to free his raging hard dick from his pants, stroking it in time to the pumping his mouth was getting.
They were both too turned on to make it to the bedroom so Michelle signaled for Chris to stand up. She bent him over the kitchen counter and reached for a bottle of olive oil to pour on her strapon. There was something primal about fucking in the kitchen, with his pants around his ankles and his face pressed against the cold granite. Chris looked back at Michelle, pulled his asscheeks apart with both hands, and said, “What are you waiting for, girl, FUCK ME!”
Never one to disappoint, Michelle lined up the head of the Ebony strapon with his tight hole and pushed forward. She was slow but she was relentless, not stopping until every inch was buried deeply in Chris’ ass. He started grinding, squirming, and begging her to fuck him harder, deeper. They were grunting, groaning, moaning and fucking like animals. “Yeah, you like this hard dick in your hole, don’t you baby? You love me fucking you like you’re my little bitch. Michelle clearly knew all the right buttons to push for her man to turn him on.
“Fuck me harder!”
“Take it deeper!”
There was no stopping the endless string of profanity and the intense heat that the sexy pair was giving off. Michelle was like a machine, pounding him with a steady rhythm, using his asshole for her pleasure. Chris was about to explode, in love with the sexy woman with whom he was so connected, literally and figuratively. He could smell her pussy, wet with excitement. He could feel her strapon deep inside him. They were both rushing to orgasm. Michelle was like a woman possessed and Chris was out of his mind. He was fucking her back and begging her to give it to him deeper. He stroked his dick; it was aching it was so badly. He shut his eyes tightly and reveled in the pleasure he was experiencing in every pore of his body as he felt the sensations overtake him.
Michelle kissed him softly and pulled him towards the bedroom for rounds two and three. They were sure to enjoy all sorts of sexy and loving encounters in the upcoming week. He scrambled to pull up his pants and check for the ring he would present to her later that evening, assured that he had found his perfect match and the end to his long distance love.
Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
As the day gets closer to when we see each other, I’m filled with so many expectations of what it will be like. I need to be in your arms, to feel you next to me. All I can think about is you being inside me and knowing that you love me. The thought of making love to you is what’s keeping me going. I only hope that it can be all that I hope it will be.
I need it to be special when we make love, to let you know how special you are to me. I’m going to undress you slowly, kissing every inch of your beautiful brown skin as I do. I’m going to lay you down and undress for you. I want to show you how aroused I am thinking about tasting your sweet juices and making you cum with my mouth. I need you to lay back and enjoy while I lick you until you cum in my mouth. First, I’m going to be slow and gentle, teasing you with my lips and tongue, softly sucking your dick until you are moaning in my mouth and you are dripping with desire. I’m going to take it nice and slow until you explode in my mouth and cover me with your cum. Then, I’m going to take no prisoners. I’m going to lick you from the head of your dick to your asshole and back again, not missing a spot in between. I’m going to suck and lick your hard dick in my mouth until you are begging to fuck me.
Believe me, I’m going to take my time working your hard dick up in me. I want you to feel my hard nipples crushed against your chest as you fill your hands with my ass. I want to ride you hard and deep, making you feel every inch of my hot, wet walls. I want to hear you moan and scream out my name. I want to ride you hard and cum on your dick while you lay back and watch me pleasure myself. When you’re ready, I want you to flip me over and hit it from behind and stroke long and hard and deep and so I can feel every inch of your love for me.
It’s going to be one continuous orgasm for days on end. I want to feel your mouth on my pussy, licking me the way that drives me crazy. I want to explore our fantasies and make them reality. When I have to leave your side, I’ll have the memories of or glorious time together to sustain me, to keep me going until we can be together again. Know that I love you more than my words can say.
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK
Every time I taste your lips, I’m reminded of how intense every second is that I spend with you. My senses are aroused and I’m lost in your eyes. I can feel my nature rise and my juices begin to flow simply melting into your tender kiss. Every second is a gift in your presence and I want to unwrap them slowly, methodically and with tender loving care.
Fifteen minutes. All I need from you today is one quarter hour. Steal away on your lunch break and love me down intensely but for a few brief minutes. I need to be rejuvenated by your touch, your taste, and your sweet, sexy scent. Save the foreplay and romance for another day and give me that hot, sticky passion only you know how to give me.
Time is really an illusion, it doesn’t exist. Time is really man’s way of measuring the passage of events that occur; it is really just a figment of our imagination. What is real are my feelings for you. Reality is that feeling I have when I hold your body close and I don’t know where you end and I begin.
Timeless love, that is what we share. Weeks, months, or even years could go by and you’d still be connected to me. No amount of time will alter or diminish this chemistry, this magic. You touch will forever send shivers down my spine. I will forever long for kisses from you. Your caress will always ignite my flame. We will spend eternity as lovers.
Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK
The entire concept of men being entitled to rule over, objectify, to control women is flawed from the get go. This whole concept of men being granted some special god like power by virtue of their penis is the lie that started the fall of man, not some mythological woman eating an apple. A penis grants no one any greater importance, no superiority, no special powers, a penis is not a leadership wand to be waved over women to control them. Testosterone gives men more physical strength but that, in and of itself, is only one tiny thing on a list of gender traits that doesn't equate to superiority UNLESS you've been conditioned to think that force and aggression have more value than nurturing and intuition. Sadly, that's been the pervasive thought form for 1000s of years and it's created this imbalance that prevents us from healing. We can NEVER heal as a people if Black men think the world revolves around them and Black women feel as if their identity is enhanced if they have a man.
Let's take a look at a Creation story from traditional Africa BEFORE enslavement and Christianity. God, The All There Is, was not a man, God was a powerful force, no gender attributed to it, just spirit and energy. In this story, God created man and woman as brother and sister, equals. Now, think about it for a minute. Man and woman are equal, there is no curse on women, there is no sin, and women aren't inferior. Who would benefit from creating a situation in which men had dominion over women? God? I can't imagine the Creator of All, The Most High God being that insecure with his own manhood that he needed to create woman to own like a pet, to control. That's a really insecure God, don't you think? That sounds more like a characteristic of a person who is lacking confidence, who wants to assert themselves and control everything. Who does that sound like? God did not create us in his image. White man created God in his.
Left is not better than right. Hot is not better than cold. Up is not better than down, and man is not better than woman. Until we can get that basic concept in our heads and in our hearts, we can't even come to the table to discuss black relationships. Think about it. If we sit down at the table and one person assumes that they have more power, that their word is final, that they hold no obligation to compromise with the other person, that's not going to be a very healthy conversation, is it? I don't need to tell you why Black men's sense of masculinity is so fragile and so easily threatened. During slavery, Black manhood was stripped away from our men. Not just their ability to objectify women as they pleased but the ability to walk with dignity, to make choices and decisions on their own. Manhood was redefined for them and it came to mean how big your dick is and how many things you could possess, women being one of them. That's the mindset of most Black men today. If the TRUE definition of manhood was left on the shores of Africa, where men and women were compliments and not master and slave, then we can't even speak in a healthy language when we get to the table of reconciliation until we shed ourselves of our false beliefs.
If you take a look at the men who are the most outspoken and the most argumentative about Black relationships, they are the men that INSIST that women are at fault for everything. If only Black women would stop tolerating such bad behavior from men, if only Black women would carry themselves in a more feminine manner. It's Black women who try to emasculate them by not letting them be the head of the house and damn those Black women for asking for money. That's nothing more than articulation of a belief that women are supposed to serve the needs of the Black man without considering that they have needs of their own. The head of anything needs to demonstrate leadership. A penis alone isn't a evidence of leadership so if the head of the household is only appointed as such because he has a Y chromosome, that is a doomed relationship. If that household can't take the strengths of both partners and compliment the weaknesses of both partners, regardless of gender, then you are fucked.
I don’t want to overwhelm you with concepts that you can’t digest so I’ll hold off until later to discuss how Black women suffer from a belief in man as superior and how it disables the conversation at the table of reconciliation.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Is it possible to be in love with a man for his hands? Well, I’m not in love with him FOR his hands, he’s an amazing man without question but I’m definitely in love with his hands. I can’t explain it. His hands actually turn me on. The shape of his hands, the length of his fingers, even the way he holds his fork drives me to distraction. I think I love his hands more than I love his dick. Okay, let me not go off the deep end, it ain’t that extreme, but his hands give me a special thrill that I just can’t explain.
I love watching him masturbate. It’s like sensory overload. Seeing him stroke the length of his dick, his fingers gripping it tightly, seeing the cum flowing over his fingers thrills me in a way that words can’t describe. I can suck his fingers or his dick and both arouse me beyond belief. One Sunday morning he brought me breakfast in bed. He thought he was being cute by dipping his finger in the honey and putting it in my tea. I grabbed his finger and started licking and sucking every bit of that honey. We had to go to IKEA and buy a new headboard that afternoon because things got so heated after that.
Who knew that hands could be a sex organ? The first time we kissed, he held my face gently in his hands and I felt my heart skip a beat. When I’m riding him, and his hands grip my hips, for a brief second, all my attention is focused on the feel of his hands on my flesh. We walk in the park and he’ll reach out to hold my hand . . . and I feel safe, protected, and secure in the connection.
His hands represent strength to me; the centuries of labor our ancestors endured building this nation that hates us so. His hands represent tenderness to me; his gentle nature is reflected in the movement of his artistic hands. I’m mesmerized when he wears his ring; it reminds me of a sunset over a beautiful horizon.
His hands pleasure me in ways that defy definition. When my body is warm and relaxed after a bath, he’ll anoint my body with oils and massage me to sleep. Well, his intention is to massage me to sleep but feeling his hands slide sensually up and down my body, caressing my sore spots and stimulating my hot ones . . . who can sleep?
We went out for drinks the other night, enjoying a few Afrotini’s and a little jazz. He pulled my chair close and whispered in my ear that he wanted me to spread my legs. My heart started pounding out of my chest. I felt the heat of his hands on my thigh as he moved up my leg, sliding my panties to the side. There, in the middle of a very public place, he took his finger and started rubbing my clit, causing me to signal for the waiter to bring the check and get the hell outta there. He had other plans. I grabbed the edge of the table and held on tightly as his fingers penetrated me, making me bite my lower lip to keep silent. Tease that he was, he stopped, leaving me desperate to cum. He ordered dessert and would wipe his sexy mouth with his cloth napkin, which was really nothing more than his discrete way of smelling my pussy juices on his fingers, inhaling my fragrance. Of all the things that I love about this man, it’s his hands that hold the key to my arousal. I know he was made for me, I for him, because even his hands fit me.
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK
Friday, November 24, 2006
Things had been strained lately between Derrick and Tynesha; they’d been arguing about small little things but it was wearing on both of their nerves. Derrick was going to go all out to make this Christmas special. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made mistakes in the past, been untruthful, let her down. This year, Derrick had planned a special present that would show his devotion and love and cement his relationship to Tynesha. Derrick had purchased a customized erotic story from AfroerotiK for Tynesha that was intended to make her feel special and to let her know exactly how much he appreciated her for all that she had put up with, to be a symbol of how far they had come as a couple.
The story arrived in a priority envelope and Derrick hesitated as to what to do with it. He held it in his hands, studying it, reading it in private, waiting for the perfect time to present it to his beloved. He was bursting with anticipation, wanting to give the present to her but he knew that this would be a present that she would never forget, so he planned, he waited, he prepared for a night like none other. It was going to be a night so erotic, so sensuous, and so charged with electricity that he was convinced it would take their relationship to a higher plane, move them to a new level of communication.
Armed with the security of having the gift safely in his hands, having read it and seen the potential for the story to open doors of exploration, Derrick approached Tynesha with the special red envelope that held the story. He taunted her with it, telling her that her present was within her grasp but she had to wait. Tynesha wanted to open it immediately but she could see the look on Derrick’s face that let her know that she should trust him completely. All week long at work, Derrick was distracted with thoughts of the weekend to come. How would she react? He wondered if Tynesha would be willing to take a leap and explore her sensuality in new ways. He was nervous and aroused at the same time. There were several times he would find himself thinking about the hot and steamy sex that he was going to have with his beautiful lady and he would have to hide his erection from his coworkers. All he wanted was for
Tynesha to let down her guard and express herself the way she wanted; to give herself up to complete erotic abandon. He thought about how Tynesha would tell all her friends and coworkers about the personalized story she had gotten and the hours upon hours of erotic bliss that she’d experienced and how he would be forgiven, lifted even, to status of a hero for his special and unique gift.
Christmas eve arrived; it was do or die for Derrick. He made arrangements to get home early from work and set the stage for what he hoped was a very special evening. He ordered Tynesha’s very favorite take-out rather than try to make an attempt to cook and have an opportunity for things to go wrong. He had gone to Victoria Secrets to find something sexy for Tynesha to wear that would compliment her fine hips, thighs, and ass that he loved so much.
The anticipation was killing him. By the time Tynesha walked through the door on Saturday night, she knew she was in for a special treat. All the frustration she had with their petty arguments immediately disappeared as she realized that her man had done for her what other women only dream of having their men do for them. There were candles lit and the table was set. She could see the red package sitting neatly on the plate where she was to be seated but Derrick had other plans in mind. He poured her a glass of wine and they sat quietly on the sofa while he took her shoes off and massaged her feet. Tynesha let the wine warm her up a little bit and she made a silent vow to herself to let go of all her inhibitions and just enjoy whatever was to come.
Desperate with anticipation, Tynesha wanted to open her present. He gave her the first of the two presents, the lingerie, and told her to make herself comfortable. She emerged from the bathroom, looking like an erotic goddess, and Derrick almost forgot his entire game plan. He made her wait until after the food was served to open her very special gift. They ate and laughed without a care like when they had first met. It was almost as if they had been transported back to a time when they were carefree and passion was the only thing on their minds.
After dinner, a tiny bit tipsy from the wine, Derrick presented Tynesha with her very special gift. She opened the small book carefully and studied it, wanting to understand exactly what was happening, exactly what was going on. She read the words on the page slowly and looked around, sort of confused at what she was reading but more and more curious with every word. Derrick had apparently ordered a customized erotic story for her, but it was so lifelike it was eerie. The story before her described her relationship with Derrick and a really sexy and steaming description of how she seduced him, something she normally wouldn’t do. She read on, the words on the page going into greater detail about how Derrick wanted her to take the initiative with sex and get really wild in bed. It was more than apparent that Derrick was sexually aroused by his girlfriend and she was seeing his most intense sexual fantasies about her in black and white.
The more she read, the wetter she became. She started to squirm in the chair reading about this couple that was having an intensely erotic experience . . . but she was reading about herself. She glanced up at Derrick and his expression spoke volumes. He couldn’t wait for her to finish reading so he could make love right the on the table if need be. The more explicit the story got, the more her breathing became a task. She slid her fingers between her legs and massaged her clit a little. Derrick wanted to watch as she touched herself so he moved around to kneel in front of her and spread her legs.
“Read it out loud to me,” he instructed.
Tynesha’s voice cracked as she began reading the words on the pages in front of her. It was difficult to stay focused because Derrick had spread her thighs and started licking her wet pussy. She couldn’t concentrate on the story with that hot, wet tongue licking her and getting her more aroused. She pushed his face away and he moaned in desperation to taste her more. Tynesha took her finger, pushed it deep inside herself, and brought her lips to her mouth. She looked Derrick in the eye as she began to seductively lick the juices from her finger like she was sucking a dick.
Derrick had no more control and he unzipped his pants and started stroking his hard dick right there in front of her. Intoxicated with lust, Tynesha handed the individualized book to Derrick and said, “Here, now it’s time you read to me.”
Derrick took Tynesha by the hand and said, “Let’s finish reading this in the bedroom.”
As they made their way to the bedroom, the tension was building. He slowly undressed in front of her, revealing the body that had given her so much intense pleasure in the past, which was surely going to satisfy her every desire tonight. Naked and aroused, he lay back on the bed with the red book in his hand. He began reading the words on the page that described Tynesha giving him the most incredible head in the world. Tynesha, taking her cue, climbed on the bed and began mimicking the words she heard Derrick read.
Derrick couldn’t take the pleasure he was getting from Tynesha’s soft, wet lips so he tossed the book to the side to be finished at a later date and time. Right now, he wanted to get into the sensual sensations he was getting for the sexy woman that was licking, sucking, and swallowing his hard dick.
Tynesha was like a woman possessed. She was giving him head better than she had ever done before; turned on by how special her man had made her feel. He knew she loved Zane’s stories but her own personal story was 1000 times better than reading a story about someone else. She wanted Derrick to feel as special as he had made her feel and she was proving it with her oral skills.
“No, wait baby, slow down. That feels too good,” he said, not wanting the celebration to be over before it started. Derrick wanted to get back to tasting that sticky sweetness he loved so much.
He laid his beloved Tynesha back on the bed and spread her sexy thighs. She was actually moaning in anticipation of feeling his soft wet mouth suck her aroused pussy. Derrick took two fingers and pushed them inside Tynesha and she moaned out as his lips encircled her clit. He was using his tongue to drive her crazy: licking, sucking, and tonguing her to tremendous pleasure.
Feeling bold, Tynesha pushed his head away, got up on her knees, and presented Derrick with the most perfect ass he had ever seen. She teased him, wiggling it in his face and taunting him to eat her out from behind. She spread the lips to her pussy with her fingers and told him in no uncertain terms, “Make me cum in your mouth.”
Tynesha was overcome with lust. She put her face down on the bed and let herself go to the pleasure. Derrick wrapped his lips around her clit, began smacking her ass and fingering her pussy at the same time. She was moaning and talking dirty, telling Derrick to not stop, of how good he was making her pussy feel.
Just as she was about to reach her special moment, Derrick stopped. He wanted to tease her just a bit. Take her to that place right before orgasm and then make her wait. However, Tynesha couldn’t be denied any more. She took matters into her own hands and made Derrick lay back on the bed. She climbed on top of him and held his dick at the entrance to her pussy. He could feel the heat from her body and her lips were soaked with her juices.
She looked him dead in his eye and said, “I’m going to use your dick to pleasure myself. I’m going to use it like a dildo to make myself cum tonight and all you can do is lie there and enjoy the ride.” Derrick’s eyes rolled back in his head. He’d waited for a long time to see his woman take control of her pleasure, to know that he aroused her so much that she just wanted to use him for her enjoyment.
He felt the head of his dick penetrate her and it was more intense than he had ever felt before. For some odd reason, this time, it felt like she was wetter, tighter, and hotter than she had ever been. Tynesha rocked back and forth; making his dick hit places in her that drove her to insane heights of pleasure. She began whispering in his ear as she was riding to orgasm.
“From here on out, things are going to be a little different. I want to show you exactly how much you turn me on so we are going to step things up a notch.” Derrick grabbed her breast and put it in his mouth, as she described all the naught fantasies that she wanted to fulfill with him. They were both moaning loudly, grunting and groaning from the intense pleasure. Tynesha could feel her orgasm about to hit her. It was coming fast as she began bouncing up and down on Derrick’s dick and using it to get herself off.
Dre had to concentrate on not losing it as he felt Tynesha’s juices cover him. She was cumming all over him, convulsing with pleasure. As much as he wanted her to feel enjoy her orgasm, he wanted to fuck the shit out of her, to make her feel him pounding her, thrusting himself inside her.
Still not finished with her first orgasm, Derrick flipped Tynesha over and put her on her back. He stared deep in her eyes and held her legs up in the air as he was about to penetrate her. “Do you forgive me,” he asked?
She mouthed the words, “fuck me,” to let him know that he had done a good thing and she wasn’t mad any more. Derrick shoved his dick deep inside Tynesha and began pumping with a steady rhythm. Tynesha wrapped her legs around Derrick, pulling him closer and closer, deeper and deeper. He could feel his nut about to explode and Derrick closed his eyes and surrendered to the feeling of pleasure
They drifted off to sleep together but the weekend was far from over. For the next two days, Tynesha and Derrick made use of every minute of the weekend until they were drained and exhausted. It was a memorable gift that set the stage for some intense lovemaking. Derrick could hardly wait for the Valentine’s story to arrive.
Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK
My erotic stories are healing, transformative, and arousing. If you appreciate what I’ve done, if you enjoy my stories, if you are interested in reading my very best erotic work that hasn’t been seen by the public before, if you want to help me move to the next level, won’t you please consider writing an e-mail that shows your support.
Feel my lips gently nibbling on your earlobe, My breath as I whisper in your ear, I want you. Smell the scent of my perfume as it lingers on my skin. Taste my mouth as we kiss. Feel the softness of my lips, my yielding tongue.
Experience my soft, gentle kisses on your neck, your shoulders, and your chest. Relax and enjoy as I kiss your arms, inside your elbows, the palms of your hands. Maintain eye contact with me as I suck each and every one of your fingers.
Relinquish control as I massage your back. Feel the cool sensation as I leave wet kisses on your spine. Feel my breasts crushed against your back as I try to press every inch of our bodies together. Breathe deeply; inhale the aroma of the candles, the oil I use to massage you, my arousal as my passion builds for you. Turn over and face me. Tingle with anticipation as my hands move slowly back up the fronts of your legs, your thighs.
Ache with need as my mouth kisses and licks your torso, carefully avoiding your erection with the exception of my hot breath. Describe the sensation to me as I lick and gently suck your balls. Tell me how it feels as I lick the head of your dick and make it glisten. Watch me as I swallow you, licking you, sucking you, stroking you, blowing your mind. Scream out my name as I bring you to the verge of orgasm and stop. Feel the head of your dick, deep in the back of my throat while my wet, hot lips, tongue, and mouth envelop you entirely.
Experience the need to have me, be inside of me, to fuck me. Look at me. Notice every detail of my body: my bedroom eyes, my full lips, my tiny ears, my small shoulders, my long arms and fingers, the swell of my breasts slowly rising and falling, the contrast of my nipples, my small waist and full hips, my smooth, long, brown legs and tiny ankles, the high arch of my foot and my perfectly pedicured toes.
Make me need you. Press your body onto mine, laying your weight upon me. Whisper all the naughty things you want to do. Kiss me passionately; long, hard and wet. Let me know that you want me, all of me, and only me. Feel my passion for you build as you fondle and caress my breasts, pinching my nipples, cupping them in your hands.
Watch my excitement build as you lower you mouth to my breasts nursing them like a baby, sucking them like a man hungry with desire. Lick them all over, use your tongue like a sensual paintbrush.
Feel the heat from between my legs, spread them. Examine that part of me that makes me a woman. Notice how aroused I become at even the most gentle stimulation. Touch me softly and watch me writhe in pleasure. Spread my lips apart, feeling my wetness flow. Smell my sex, natural and sweet. Invade me with your fingers. Manipulate that vacant and slippery space with skill. Make me give you my surrender. Invade me with your tongue. Taste me, eat me, lick me, suck me.
And then calmly reassure me of your love. Look deeply into my eyes and let me know that everything will be fine, that you will take care of me, that I dont need to be afraid. And with the hunger of a starving man, the thrill of the first time…………penetrate me. Close your eyes and feel our bodies become one. Experience my gift to you.
Make love to me. Slow, steady. hard, deep. Drive your dick up inside me over and over again. Make me scream with pleasure and ecstasy divine. Fuck me until our bodies are glistening with sweat. Feel my pussy grab you and pull you deep inside of me. Tell me how tight and wet and hot I am and how good my pussy makes you feel. Faster …Deeper. Experience the addiction of pleasure over take your body. And then my dear, sweet lover, fill me with your seed, that which makes me whole. Dont move, dont move, DONT MOVE. Just enjoy the experience of making love to me.
Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Sunday, November 19, 2006
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
Friday, November 17, 2006
The Creator has seen fit to allow me to wear the queenly robes of a Black woman in this lifetime. It is an honor for which I’m humbled. I have the ability to nourish and feed life inside me with my blood. Every month, my temple cleanses itself with my menses by shedding the cells and nutrients intended to cradle life. It’s miraculous in and of itself how the female body is so divinely crafted and the potential for life which it holds. Men, and their patriarchal domination, have somehow brainwashed women into thinking that their blood is a curse. Without that blood, they wouldn’t have survived, lived, or thrived in the womb. That blood fed their cells and enabled them to have life, know life. I’m aware that my blood is a divine gift.
I struggle with loving my blood, try as I may, because it comes with such debilitating pain. The pain is so intense, so distracting, that it seems that is consumes me. I would love to celebrate my blood in ritual, to treat it as sacred fluid deserving of the highest exaltation but I’m paralyzed by the pain that is associated with it. I suspect that my pain is the manifestation of centuries of rape, abuse, and disrespect that has been forced upon the wombs of my ancestors. I’m quite sure that moving away from a holistic diet based on plants and organic foods for generations has contributed to collective cramping of our uteruses. Were I to have a child, I suspect that I would be able to love my blood more, knowing that my blood fed my offspring in my womb. If I were to have a partner, I suspect that I would be able to love my blood more, knowing that I would have someone’s hand to hold, to fix me tea and tell me everything was going to be okay.
When I was young, before I got my period, it’s all I wanted. All my friends got it before me and I wanted to experience that rite of passage. I was anxious for it to come, as all girls are. I wasn’t told it was a curse by my mother or grandmother, although I was told that getting my feet during my period would cause me to get a deep voice; a rule I lived by for the better part of a year before I chanced it. The day I got my period was my cousin’s 8th birthday. We were having a party and I felt the first signs discomfort before the first drop of blood appeared. By the time I had my Kotex maxi pad and the belt in place, I was doubled over in pain, asking my grandmother repeatedly, “Why didn’t you tell me it was going to hurt this much? Why didn’t you tell me?” My mother suffered from dysmenorrhea just as I did until she had a hysterectomy.
I don’t suffer from mood swings, I don’t get cravings. My periods are short but they come with a knockout punch. For 24 hours, I’m loathe to do anything other than take pain pills and suffer in agony. I would so love to teach my daughter, if I’m ever blessed to have one, to love her blood but I fear I will pass on my feelings of fear and apprehension about the pain. I want to celebrate my blood, praise my blood as the gift that it is. I want to rejoice in my blood but I am handicapped by the pain.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Today my love will overpower any hurt
The days of empowered women are long gone. There was a time when women fought to have their voices heard, demanded to be treated as equals and not as objects, a time when feminist wasn’t a dirty word and meant more than “angry lesbian.” Those days are long gone. Today, women live to be the voiceless, un-opinionated, glamorous playthings of rich, high-profile men. There’s been a shift from women wanting to define themselves as human beings capable and autonomous, to women willing to accept that they are nothing more than sex objects defined by the length of their hair, the price of their outfit, the roundness of their behinds, and the attractiveness of their feet. Whereas, the 60s were the days of women asserting themselves and fighting for equality, the new millennium is the day of women showing off their midriffs and having men pay for their company.
Black women have been the targets of a very concerted effort to silence their voice, to stifle their growth. Thirty years ago, Black women were standing up for the right to be more than teachers, maids, and nurses. Today, sistas are striving to be the well-kept trophies of successful thugs and be rated on the sexist scale of attractiveness. Black women have been convinced that being a woman means having a man, and not having a man is a stigmata of shame, a lack or void that surely signifies that you aren’t good enough in bed, you aren’t beautiful enough, you don’t live up to your primary role in life of pleasing a man. Forget holding men accountable for their actions, forget having standards that fall outside of material possessions, to hell with asserting that being a woman is more than living up to a patriarchal model that feeds the distorted egos and libidos of men. Yeah, that crap is over. Today, women want to be objectified, complacent, and conform to the role of being seen (as beautiful) and not heard.
For a lot of women, they defend the notion that being a woman means how many men want you. It’s easy to do for the women that have light skin, that have long hair, that have a size six body with a size ten booty that look like a model and can pull the men that want to buy their souls in exchange for a roll in the hay. For the women that fit the profile, it’s all about maintaining that image and not rocking the boat. For the women who don’t fit that image, for the women with dark skin and hair that doesn’t flow in the wind, for women that don’t look like they stepped off the pages of a magazine or fresh from the set of a music video, they are left to deal with their self-esteem in a society that tells them that they are less than a woman. It’s a burden Black women don’t talk about because it’s shameful to admit that you don’t compare to the standard of beauty that Black men want and you feel like you’re fighting an uphill battle within yourself that you can never win, that’s beyond your control. What about the women that will never be able to wear the skimpy little halter tops and the five inch heels, and fling their shoulder-length hair and have men stumbling all over themselves to pay their car note? What if you look in the mirror every day and feel like you’ll never measure up? Those are the women that perpetuate the myth of the Strong Black Woman. They feel the need to suffer in silence and to endure a lifetime of abuse and pretend nothing hurts, to put up an impenetrable shell of distance and melodrama that leaves them perpetually emotionally drained. Convinced it’s an honor to be a strong Black woman, they hold onto the pain and feelings of inadequacy like a gold medal in the Depression Olympics.
For years, Wanda harbored feelings of dejection and low self-esteem. She didn’t know where the feelings came from; she couldn’t identify the source of her own pain. All she knew was she was suffering from having her ex husband leave her for a white woman, a wound that she would never let heal because it served to remind her that she wasn’t woman enough. She concentrated on her career; she raised her children alone, wearing the badge of strong black woman proudly and moving through life in silence, never giving voice to her pain.
One day, things changed. Wanda picked up the book, The Real Lives of Strong Black Women by Toby Thompkins, and it transformed her life. She’d seen it in Essence magazine and she thought it was going to be a book to validate her belief in her role as a strong, Black woman. Little did she know that it would be the turning point she needed to grow. The book was the source of healing for a tremendous amount of her pain and allowed her to begin moving past her hurts and disappointments and toward to a life of empowerment and redefining herself. She started looking in the mirror and seeing true beauty. She started getting up in the morning with a renewed vigor, seeing colors more vividly, able to let go of past hurts and see herself in an entirely different light. She began defining herself and her life from the inside out and letting go of the beliefs that kept her feeling like she was never good enough. Within the pages of the book, she found freedom, strength, and a deep and abiding love for herself.
The benefits of Wanda’s emotional rebirth spilled over into every area of her life. Freeing herself from mental chains from her childhood, from past lovers that had hurt her, from the demons in her head, allowed her to truly take charge of her life. It was her sex life that reaped the greatest rewards. No longer inhibited, no longer afraid to ask for what she wanted, Wanda became liberated sexually. Rather than feeling like she needed men to validate her, she was inspired to explore her sensual side with men that honored her new vision for herself. George had been a supporter and lover of her even before her transformation. He’s always been there, in the background, quietly prodding and pushing her to see herself the way he saw her, as nothing less than a beautiful Nubian queen. He reaped the rewards of Wanda’s sexual awakening and loved every second of it. The woman who had been hesitant to ask for what she wanted was now confident to demand pleasure and feel no regrets. She hadn’t become a dominating bitch, she was a self-assured woman who owned her sensual feelings and had no problems expressing her desires. Wanda called George on Friday night and asked him if he was interested in getting together. Anxious to see her, he asked her to dinner and suggested that he would get a nice hotel room for them for the evening if she wanted.
“The kids are going to be spending the night at friend’s houses and I’m in no mood to come home to an empty house.” Wanda was sounding particularly seductive and George was more than turned on. “I’ve got a little something special for you that I think you’ll like too,” she said, creating an air of mystery and leaving George throbbing, wondering what was in store. Having experienced Wanda’s erotic liberation, he knew that whatever was going to happen, it was going to be smoking hot.
Wanda had arranged to meet him at Houston’s for a bite to eat before they headed off to the Park Plaza Hotel for the evening. George got there early and put their names on the list. Wanda arrived a few minutes late but it was well worth the wait. She was radiant as she walked in and she oozed sexuality from every pore in her body. Her red dress fit every curve and she was swaying her hips with confidence. George stuck his chest out a little bit more, proud that he was the object of envy for all the guys that were lingering on from the after-work happy hour, scoping out all the single ladies who walked in.
Wanda greeted him with a gleam in her eye and a seductive smile on her lips. They were seated almost immediately and placed their order. George was trying not to be too forward but he was curious to know what the surprise was going to be. His nervousness as well as his anxiousness to experience the intense sexing he knew he was gong to get showed on his face. Wanda was in her element. She was casually flirtatious and playing him like a violin. Her hands roamed freely under the table, caressing his thighs and she snuggled close up close and whispered polite dinner conversation in his ear. He could feel her warm breath on his neck and her breasts pressed against his arm. Wanda did everything but take his dick out and stroke him underneath the table.
Ready to leave and get things underway, George was rushing through the meal, trying to get as quickly as possible to his hot chocolate dessert. If only he was in control, if only he had any say in the events of the evening. Wanda was clearly steering the erotic ship and George was second in command. She handed him an envelope, slid back in her seat, and licked her lips sensually.
“What’s this?” George was as puzzled as he was intrigued.“Just open it,” Wanda was smiling like a Cheshire cat. She slid off her shoe and ran her foot up and down his leg as George ripped open the seal to read the contents of the envelope.
“This coupon is good for one Naughty Phone Call? Gee . . . that’s nice, thanks.” Disappointment showed all over his face. It was an AfroerotiK Intimacy Coupon and needless to say George was hoping for something more, well, something a little more dangerous.
Wanda slid out from her seat, whispered in his ear that he should get the check and announced that she was going to go to the ladies room and would be right back. George’ disappointment was short lived; he began looking forward to an evening of sensual exploration with his lovely dinner companion. The waitress was waiting patiently for him to sign his credit card receipt when George’ cell phone rang. He looked quizzically at the caller ID; it was Wanda calling.
“Hey, what’s going . . . ,” he was interrupted before he could finish his words.
“Hey sweetie, mmmmm, I’m so looking forward to feeling your tongue in my pussy tonight. You know, it’s so wet right now. I bet it will feel so good when you are sucking my clit. Mmmmm, my juices taste so sweet,” she said, licking her fingers. “Are you going to lick my pussy till I cum in your mouth?” She was purring sensually and George was looking around like he was on a hidden camera television show. He swallowed hard and subconsciously grabbed his rapidly swelling dick. The waitress cleared her throat and quickly brought him back to reality. He signed the bill and gave her a huge tip while Wanda whispered naughty things in his ear and he fidgeted in his seat.
“Are you going to fuck me good tonight, George? I’m really looking forward to feeling your stiff dick inside me, thrusting deep inside me. You want that don’t you? You want to feel my tight, wet walls gripping you, squeezing you. I know you do. I know you want me to ride you, work that hard dick, up and down, using you to get me off. You want to suck my hard nipples while I’m fucking you? Oh yeah, grip my hips while I work my hot pussy on you and get myself off”
George was aroused beyond his imagination. He did his best to reason with her like a man negotiating the deal of a lifetime without letting the people at the next table know what he was talking about. “Listen, let’s get out of here and we can see about taking care of your needs. I’ll be more than happy to lend my services to you, hopefully to your satisfaction.”
Wanda toyed with him. “I’m going to suck your dick so good you’re going to be screaming like a little bitch. I’m going to lick that head, I'm going to swallow it and use my lips to drive you crazy. I’m going to give you the hottest, wettest, sloppiest blowjob you’ve ever had. How’s that sound?”
George swallowed hard and could barely catch his breath. The woman of his dreams, a sexy, self-assured, black woman was seducing him with confidence and skill. She knew exactly how to demand what she wanted and that turned him on more than he had ever experienced before. He was in a daze, listening to her soft whispers and naughty promises when she casually strolled up to the table, still on the phone, still taunting him with erotic images that had his blood boiling. “Can you hear me now,” she teased.
He hung up and made no effort to hide his desire to leave. He was going to take her up on every one of her offers and then some. He put his hand on the small of her back and escorted her to the door. Outside, in the cool night air, Wanda stopped George and planted a sexy kiss on him. She pressed her body to his and put her tongue seductively in his mouth. He feasted on her soft, full lips and ran his hands up and down her back. He opened the door to his car and watched her slide in. By the time he made it around to the driver’s side, Wanda had her dress up and was fingering her pussy, shoving her fingers inside, fucking herself with abandon. Where her panties were was anybody’s guess. George was frozen. All he could do was stare. He glanced around nervously in the parking lot to see if anyone could see his lovely date about to have an orgasm. Wanda played him well, teasing him all the way to the hotel. By the time they made it to the room, George felt like he was going to explode. They were ripping their clothes off like horny teenagers. Wanda pushed him back on the bed and mounted his face. She worked her pussy over his mouth, feeling his tongue probe deep inside her hole. He grabbed her thighs held on tight as she came in his mouth.
She wasn’t finished with one orgasm. Steadying herself, she stood up and walked over to the dresser, bent over and looked back through lust-filled eyes and said, “George, fuck me!”
George stood behind her and took aim. His dick was rock hard and he rubbed the head along her wet slit. Shutting his eyes, he grabbed her hips and thrust himself into her. He was releasing his sexual frustration; he was trying to make her scream. He was intent on ramming every inch of his hard dick inside her. Wanda was fucking him back, rubbing her clit, moaning so loud that the people in the next room could hear. They were like sweaty, hot animals in the throws of primal passion. Wanda’s legs started shaking and she was going to cum. “Fuck me harder, fuck me deeper, fuck me. That feels so good. Oh shit, I’m going to cum.” George wasn’t far behind her. He pulled out and stroked his dick, shooting hot, white cum all over her smooth, brown ass. Exhausted, they fell on the bed in a tangle of quivering flesh and limbs. Wanda had a look of profound satisfaction on her face. Empowered and satisfied, she was a woman of true strength and beauty and all the tools to define herself, the real definition of a strong, black woman and George was the lucky beneficiary of her newfound esteem.
Copyright 2006 AfroerotiK
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Go into an adult video store. Asian women are "dolls" Latina women are "exotic" Black women are "ghetto whores" "ghetto bitches" ghetto freaks". There's an entire crop of "nigger" porn sites popping up. Sites like My Daughter Fucks Niggers dot com and the like have white girls throwing the N word around like it's a softball. White men sit at home and jerk off thinking the word nigger is an aphrodisiac. The not so transparent premise of sites lite those are based on the concept of Black men being sexual savages and it being "taboo" to fuck them. I've asked 6 million white people, what's so "taboo" about a white woman fucking a Black man and they always say, "You know, it just is . . . it's noting racist or anything." Then I always ask them, is it "taboo" for a white woman to fuck an Asian man? No. Is it "taboo" for a white woman to fuck a Latino man? Same answer, no. Is it taboo for a white woman to fuck a Native American man? No. Is it taboo for a woman to fuck a dog? Then, the answer is a resounding YES. So fucking a black man and fucking a dog fall in the same taboo category. Black men not only don't have a problem with being seen as a sexual savage and animals, but they embrace it like it’s an honor. They think it's hot to fuck white women on camera and call themselves niggers, to show white men what beasts they are for fucking those white wives senseless. They think it proves that they are more of a man to be able to fuck white women in front of their husbands. They revel in the role of nigger buck. It's so accepted, so ingrained in our psyche, we don't even think twice at the way we are depicted.
When white men tell me that they want to see what it's like to have sex with a Black woman, I used go off on them, telling them that I'm a human being, not a scratch and sniff experiment. I used to give this long lecture on how my sexuality is not a manifestation of my skin color. Today, I just put them on ignore. I’d spend my entire life, every waking minute of the day telling white men that I am not some taboo fantasy for them to explore and they still wouldn’t get it because I’m the only woman who doesn’t think its flattering for white men to say, “Black women are so sexy, their asses are so big.” My attractiveness as a woman lies between my ears, not between my legs, not in my ass, not in the color of my skin. Black women are so desperate to be seen as attractive, to be thought of as sexy, they find it flattering when white men objectify us.
Now we have a wave of sistas who are engaging white men in their domination of the nigger bitch fantasies, being whipped and beaten while being called a slave and absolutely the most vile and degrading names. They subconsciously hate their blackness so much, they are so tormented with being black in this racist society, and they want to be owned by white men and degraded for their sexuality. It's a pathology so deep, so profound it boggles my mind. I've seen the same behavior in some gay and submissive Black men; they want to be the nigger coon whipping post for any Nazi, skinhead, slave master, racist white person that will use them. Consciously, they insist that it has nothing to do with race; it's just a personal preference. Having fantasies about being called a nigger coon whore has nothing to do with race? That’s deep.
Let me tell you, I listen to the fantasies of white people every day. There are far more extreme, far more perverse, far more disgusting than anything I've ever heard from a Black person. We as black people can't even feel comfortable expressing our sexuality in a safe, healthy manner. We are so repressed, so ashamed of anything that isn't missionary, doggie style or oral that we torment ourselves with guilt over innocent fantasies. Meanwhile white people are engaging in acts that are truly perverse and saying that we are the sexual savages.
The myth of the sexual Black beast, the ghetto freak, the barely literate Black buck are all still very prevalent and no one is even disturbed by them, let alone trying to dismantle them.
Friday, November 10, 2006
The following is an instructional guide created with the sole purpose of training Black women how to control pathetic white bois. Submissive white bois only serve one function in life and that is to fulfill whatever twisted, perverted, kinky, disgusting desire that Black women possess. The Black woman is the center of the universe and all should bow to her beauty and majesty. There is none more exquisite or deserving of adoration. Submissive white bois are the most reprehensible creatures to walk the face of the planet and deserve to be treated with little or no regard. They are a useless waste of air that are best used to clean up the well used pussies of Black women after they have been fucked by real men, to suck the enormous pricks of Black men to show their inferior status and even to consume the waste of Black women. It should be noted that white men love being treated like that because they are so sick and twisted that they get pleasure from the most heinous acts. Please, don’t be afraid to think of innovative and degrading ways to treat your white boy. Creativity is the sign of a good mistress.
Normally, eating a black woman’s pussy is an honor and privilege that most white men should not be able to earn unless they are cleaning out the cum of a real man. In rare instances, when a black domme is in need of satisfaction and a real man isn’t available, she can use the services of a white boi to pleasure her. It is entirely up to her discretion. It is a good idea to use a tens unit to administer pain to the tiny genitals of the white sub. Don’t be afraid of damaging their little cocks. The white cock is the most disgusting thing in the universe and extra caution should be used to make sure that it is abused as much as possible and rarely allowed the pleasure of orgasm.
White cunts like to be on display as well, shown off so that people can see the depths of perversion that they will enjoy. Invite your friends to use his boypussy with their strapons and you will have a submissive white boy that will seek to please you that much more. Make sure that he doesn’t embarrass you in front of your friends and he should offer his potty mouth to them to drink their golden nectar. Provide enormous strapons for your friends to wear to punish him and be sure and tell them that it doesn’t matter if they rip his asshole and make it hurt. In fact, they should be instructed to try to ruin his hole when they can although it will be extremely difficult to do given the slutty nature of the white male.
Don’t let them fool you that they don’t want to suck black cocks either. That pretense usually flies out the window any time they have a thick hard black cock in their face. They are cum sluts of the highest order and it’s only the cum of a black man that can fill their desires. They will suck that dick like a two dollar whore, jerking off their inferior cocks the entire time. The only thing they will want more is to have that slab of monster meat in their slack holes to be rammed and fucked like sissy faggot bitches. It’s a good idea to get him in the habit of cleaning up any black cock that’s been up his ass as well so that he can know his role as white man is to fully serve the superior black race in whatever way they see fit. Eventually, the slut will be so horny for black cocks, he will become a gangbang whore and you’ll have difficulty getting enough cocks to fill his insatiable hole. White boys should be discarded when they get to that point, left to find their own ways to satisfy their sick desires. They should only be kept around if they can provide financial tributes that elevate the black woman to her true place of royalty.
In conclusion, I want all black women to remember that it is ultimately their pleasure that is the most important thing and that white boys should be used in any way they can. The world will be a better place once Black women realize the true power that exists between their legs and they learn to harness that power to reduce white men to their true place of submission.