AfroerotiK
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.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Dear Michael
This is not a letter to Michael, it is an ode; my ode to the boy who helped shape my identity.
I will be the first to admit that I was not a fan of Michael Jackson in his later years. I believed him to be a pedophile, largely influenced by the fact that he had never emotionally matured past an adolescent himself. I believe his love of children, while sincere in his mind, heart, and interpretation, was unhealthy. I was repulsed by the physical transformation he underwent and saddened that he hated his blackness so much that he felt the need to mutilate his face to look monstrous and grotesque.
But this is not about the Michael Jackson of later years. This is about the brown, immensely talented little boy with whom I fell in love before I knew what love was. The Jackson Five’s first hit was released when I was three years old. I literally grew up with Michael Jackson. I had posters on my wall and every birthday and Christmas of memory is one marked by a Michael Jackson gift. On my 6th birthday, I received an orange record player and the album Got To Be There. I played the song Ben over and over again, believing in my heart that I felt a connection with young Michael that only he and I could share. His emotion poured through my young body and loved him.
Michael Jackson was the boy to whom I compared all others. In the third grade, I had a crush on Kim Williams because he had a big afro like Michael Jackson. In junior high I had a crush on a boy from my church who had a jheri curl just like Mike. I vividly remember getting a cassette tape of a Jackson 5 album and playing it on my grandmother’s tape recorder one summer until I broke the tape and cried incessantly. I would watch the Jackson 5 cartoon because I felt like it was “my” cartoon, created for me and little brown girls like me. Yeah, there were the Osmond’s for white girls but the Jackson 5 belonged to me. They danced like I danced, they grooved like I liked, and they looked like me with brown skin and African features. I have vivid memories of staring out the window and wondering how far it would be to Indiana. Many a night, when I suffered the abuse of my dysfunctional mother, I would dream of packing my clothes in a red bandana handkerchief, tying it to the end of a stick, and walking to where Michael Jackson lived. I felt sure in my heart that he would love me as much as I loved him.
As I got older, my walls filled with posters of the various heartthrobs of the day. Foster Sylvers, Lawrence Hilton Jacobs, and Ralph Carter all had their respective spots. I even had Scott Baio, Sean Cassidy, and Leif Garret to reflect my diversity. The only person who remained consistent, the only space that remained reserved was the place for Michael Jackson. He represented all that was beautiful to me. I would dream of the day I would be old enough to marry Michael Jackson and I just KNEW that I was his biggest fan.
If I were a gambling woman, I'd put good money on the bet that the very first person I had a masturbatory fantasy to was Michael Jackson. I don’t have a specific memory, but I remember being under the covers, a flashlight, a Right On Magazine, and a funny feeling "down there". When I got Off the Wall, I would play She’s Outta My Life over and over and over. I wasn’t allowed to curse so when he said, “Damned indecision and cursed pride,” I had to skip that word. When he cried at the end, I cried. And even though I knew he wrote the song for Tatum O’Neil, I convinced myself that if he had ever had the chance to meet me, that he would have written it and sung it for me.
When MTV started playing Michael Jackson videos, I would stand in front of the TV and duplicate the choreography and go to school and perform for all my classmates. The debut of a new MJ video was all that we lived for. I remember when Thriller came out. There hadn’t been anything like it before and my best friend and I were MESMORIZED by it. I’ll never forget the woman’s name, Ola Ray, who played his girlfriend. I hated her. Not “hate” the way the word is used today, but hate in the sense that if I had ever seen her I would have beat her ass senseless. I was so jealous that she got to kiss Michael Jackson that I was green with envy. By the time I had gotten to high school, the delusions of me meeting Michael Jackson and falling in love with him were over. I was content to think that I could however marry Randy Jackson and just be NEAR Michael during the holidays and family gatherings. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me.
When I was in college, he made the Bad video in a subway station in Brooklyn. My friends and I went down there and thought we were going to be able to get a part in the video. She was light skinned and half Puerto Rican and I was the best dancer of anyone we knew. We just knew that if anyone two people could talk our way on the set, it would be us. Needless to say, they didn’t let us anywhere near the set and we went home, dejected and arrogant. “Michael Jackson ain’t shit . . . he don’t know talent when he sees it.” Forget the fact that we didn’t even get close to him. It was after that that my love affair with MJ started to fade. When his nose kept getting smaller and smaller, and his face started getting whiter and whiter, and when his dance moves stayed the same, I fell out of love with my first true love.
Without Michael Jackson, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today, of this I am convinced. Without having him as my tween idol, I’m convinced I wouldn’t love black men the way I do. Michael Joseph Jackson set the standard to which I compared all other potential lovers for a very long time. He was my first crush, my first boyfriend, he was my first true love. I mourn this day at the loss of my first love. I mourn this day for a soul who shaped lived in ways that he may have never comprehended. Beyond his music, beyond his transformation, his core, the beautiful brown boy with the immeasurable talent was a driving force in the creation of who I am today and I honor and praise all that he was.
Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Who’s Your Daddy?
I’m 40 years old and I’ve never known what it’s like to have a daddy. I’ve never had a daddy, I have a father I met when I was 16. The only interaction I have with him is him giving me a check on my birthday and Christmas and sending a few emails a couple times a year. I’m no expert but I know that parenting has to go much further than that. I’m not real sure I know all the intricacies of what having a daddy involves but I’m sure that it’s more than giving $400 a year and an email that says, “Hey kiddo.”
I have to wonder how my life would be different if I’d known the safety and security of a father’s love in my life. I have to imagine that my choices in men would have been vastly different if I’d had a daddy to help shape my perceptions. They say you can’t miss what you never had but that’s bullshit, complete and utter bullshit. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man that loves me unconditionally. I’ve missed out on what it is to know that there is a man in the world whose primary responsibility is to protect me and provide for me. If I’d had a man to love me, I sure as hell wouldn’t have begged undeserving men to love me and spent so many years of my life trying to convince them that I was worthy of love.
My father isn’t some ex-con deadbeat. He’s a genius whose worked at the same high paying job for over 40 years and who is a daddy to two other daughters other than me. When I was growing up, the concept of “daddy” was something that set my mother off on a rampage so I dared not even bring up the subject. Now I realize how detrimental that was to me.
All too many fathers only want to be a daddy to their sons. Daughters are expendable, disposable and only sons have value in far too many men’s eyes. I know my mother resented me for not being a tiny replica of her and I grew up trying to compensate for being a constant disappointment to her. It’s only now that I’m realizing that I have been compensating for feeling unlovable to the men in my life because I never knew a father’s love. We as women have to start coming to terms with the fact that we’ve been handicapped emotionally by never knowing a father’s love. Moreover, we need to start ensuring that our daughters know a father’s love. This whole, “I can raise my child by myself, I can be the mommy and the daddy,” is noble, but it’s fucked up. Men need to be daddies to their girl children. Maybe then, when we let go of the dysfunctional beliefs that are so prevalent, that so many people want to justify, then we can have a community of women who, when some undeserving man who wants to use and manipulate us for sex asks, “Who’s your daddy,” we can know with assuredness to whom we belong.
Copyright 2007 Scottie Lowe
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Friday, June 05, 2009
Buckle your seat belt . . .
He did everything he could to work his mouth and make his lady cum. He nibbled on her fat lips, licked her slit, tongued her hole and sucked her clit. He was not going to stop until she filled his mouth with nectar from the heavens. Her moaning became louder and louder, her hips were grinding away. He was barely able to catch his breath, all he could do was moan and lick and suck that much more. His jaw ached but he had no concern for his own pleasure at that moment. With one last valiant effort, he pointed his tongue and tried to fuck her mercilessly with it. Rhythmically, she bounced up and down. He’s face was wet with her desire. She coated his lips and face with her sweet sauce. She collapsed on the bed, drained of her life force, whimpering and gasping for air. He however could not be denied and he rolled her on her back and prepared her for more oral love making.
Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK
He Holds the Key to my Arousal in his Hands
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
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Sometimes
Sometimes, the best seduction is slow and intentional, with lots of foreplay culminating in tender lovemaking. Other times, hard, fast, furious fucking is the only thing that will satisfy that intense craving. Her desire for him was complete, body, mind, and soul, so all that was left for her was to satisfy her hunger for him sexually.
She lay back, spreading her legs, and inviting him to enter her. He paused momentarily to taste her juices, to wrap his lips around her clit and suck it between his full, soft lips. She was already soaking wet and his face was soon coated in her juices. She wrapped her legs around his head and grabbed the back of his head, making sure she was going to shoot her first nut right in his mouth. She fucked his face with her wet folds, thrashing, grinding, and humping her pussy on his mouth until she exploded in screams of passion and sensual release, delivering her creamy treat.
He drank it all down and didn’t give her a minute to recuperate. Her grabbed her legs and pulled them up on his shoulders, aiming his hard dick at her spasming hole. He pinned her to the bed and rammed his dick in in one thrust, his balls resting on her phat ass. She screamed out pain and pleasure as she gripped the sheets and chanted, “Fuck me, fuck me,” over and over again.
Following her instructions to the letter, he went deeper, harder, slamming her pussy with the full weight of his body. She grabbed his ass and tried to pull him deeper, the sweat on their bodies creating a sheen. He could feel her walls tightening up and he knew she was close to orgasm again. He pulled out and sat back for a moment and she cried out like a wounded animal, desperate to feel his thickness inside her again.
Not a woman to be denied, she used her secret weapon. Turning over, she got on her knees and looked back at her lover. She lowered her head to the pillow and reached back and pulled her ass cheeks apart. She winked her sexy hole at him and taunted him, teased him, dared him to give her that pounding like she craved.
Copyright 2007 AfroerotiK
Sucking your Dick
I slide the head between my lips and suck you gently. I concentrate on licking and sucking the head for several minutes. I grab the base of your dick again and start drawing you in my mouth. I slide my lips all the way down. Back and forth, up and down, you are moaning now. I have made your dick so wet, that it glistens in the candlelight. My mouth envelops you. I use my lips to pleasure you, my tongue to torture. I slide your dick deep in my mouth and stop for a brief second.
You are completely consumed, until I slide my mouth even further down your dick and the head of your dick penetrates the back of my throat. “Oh shit,” you scream and I feel your knees buckle. I start fingering your balls and sucking you, blowing you, licking you. Harder and faster, I take you deeper, higher. I want more. You need it. I’m so hungry for your passion. I stop for just a second to ask you if you like it and all you can say is, “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Copyright 2004 AfroerotiK
Monday, June 01, 2009
Bad, Bad, Boy
As the night wore on, Michael was becoming increasingly more intoxicated. He began to slur his words and he was insulting to the waitresses for no other reason than he thought he could be. He even slapped one young lady on the ass hard enough for it to be heard from across the room. Michael thought it was part of his charm; his male bravado entitled him to treat anyone he wanted like shit. In a word, he was an asshole. He wasn’t the most obnoxious asshole in the world; he was just a regular ole, intolerable asshole, exacerbated by the alcohol.
Everyone started thinning out, and the place was becoming empty. Michael was still in the mood for festivities and he was one of the last people to leave. He stumbled outside in the cool night air and couldn’t really remember where he had parked his car. The fact that he was totally unable to operate a motor vehicle had no meaning to him because if he got pulled over by the cops, surely they would let him slide. It was his right as a white man; his skin color gave him a get out of jail free card. By the time he found his car, he realized that he didn’t have his keys. Either they had fallen out or someone had been wise enough to take them in deference for the other drivers on the road.
Michael cursed and kicked the tire of his vehicle, hurting his foot in the process. He made plans to go back to the bar and try to find his keys but the call of nature was stronger. He had to piss like a racehorse and piss immediately. Rather than try to find a bathroom, or even a discrete place to urinate, Michael pulled out his stuff right there on the street and started whizzing away, on the front steps of a brownstone row house. As luck would have it, Michael ’s particularly bad luck in this case, the owners of said brownstone were returning from a night out on the town just as he was hosing down their front steps.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Michael turned to see a young man, Black, about his age, of the same size and stature, angered but not irate, scolding him. Unable to control himself or his bladder, Michael continued to piss right on the young man’s shoes as he mumbled something vaguely reminiscent of an apology. The young lady who stood next to him didn’t say much; she seemed to be quite confident that her companion could take care of the situation. Michael noticed that they looked rather different, like they were punk rockers or something. Most Black people in he knew blended in, but the young woman, a pretty brown skinned woman with a bright pink Mohawk and piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip, was vastly different. She was dressed in a ripped t-shirt that had strategic safety pins to cover her small, braless breasts under a black, leather motorcycle jacket. Her jeans, equally as ripped, showed her smooth chocolate colored skin off even in the moonlit night. She wore black Doc Martens that had been spray-painted with red, black and green artwork.
There was something sexy and dangerous about this chick that didn’t escape Michael ’s notice and he openly and brazenly started pulling on his still pissing cock, his judgment clouded by the alcohol. The guy, now past his limit for tolerance, went to grab Michael ’s arm and he pulled away and defiantly said, “Fuck you.”
The punch that landed on Michael ’s jaw knocked him out cold, aided by the alcohol, because the next thing he remembered was waking up with his hands handcuffed behind him and he was secured to a chair in a strange room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the couple sitting, casually watching him. His clothes reeked of urine and vomit, the air smelled of cloves and he felt considerably more sober. He began to protest rather loudly, demanding an explanation.
“I see you’re awake,” the young woman said with a clearly British accent. She put a filter-less cigarette to her lips between her thumb and forefinger and inhaled like a rebel with a cause; the light of the burning ash illuminated the contours of her ebony face. “I don’t know what sorta manners you have, and I don’t know what sorta bloke thinks it’s okay to use other people’s homes like a public loo, but you need to be taught a lesson. Don’t you agree Percy?” She turned to her male counterpart and he laughed casually as the young woman circled Michael like a panther.
“Unquestionably, Patra. Me thinks he needs to be taught a serious lesson about respect. G’won, teach him bout respect.” It was only then that Michael noticed that the male half of the couple was dressed in a similar fashion to the female but his accent seemed to be more Jamaican than British. Percy was about 6 feet tall; around 190 pounds if one were to guess, and he appeared to be the Black version of Sid Vicious only with outrageously long dreadlocks piled atop his head. He too wore black Doc Martens with the picture of a lion airbrushed on his left boot and a picture of Haile Selassie airbrushed on the other.
Patra whispered in Michael ’s ear, “You have been a very, very, bad boy and you are going to be punished, ya hear?” She grabbed his face, pushing his cheeks together and blowing smoke in his eyes. Michael tried to turn away but she held his face firmly in her grip.
WHAP! She slapped his face hard and the sting brought Michael to a new level of sobriety. He looked around the sparse room and noticed it was a basement, bathed only by the soft, fluorescent glow from the street lamps streaming in the small, street level windows. Even though he was scared, and rightfully so, there was also something erotic for Michael about being held against his will, punished for his wrongdoings, tormented by this odd, Black couple like a naughty schoolboy.
Percy seemed to enjoy sitting back and watching the show as Patra went about her business. She spit in Michael ’s face, pulled his hair, used his mouth as an ashtray, and for entertainment, burnt the backs of his hands with her cigarettes. Trying to remain defiant and strong, Michael felt his will slowly bending to hers. He became her puppet. She was ruthless, relentless in her punishment. Placing her boot against his crotch, she stomped his nuts without care for his well-being or health. Kicking the chair over, Michael struggled against his restraints. For a brief moment, he was released only to be secured again with his hands behind his back to a metal pole in the center of the room.
Being made to kneel on the cold, cement floor, the ordeal continued for Michael, who felt himself desperate for his release and willing to perform any duty, no matter how degrading, no matter how painful, so that he could please his captors and be let go. Patra placed her boot squarely on Michael ’s mouth and made him lick. The grime and the dirt were foul. He licked the heavily soiled treads while the pair laughed at him. She kicked him in the side of the head so hard he saw stars but he kept on licking. His cock was fully awake and aware of the fact that he was suffering and in pain. His arms were sore and aching, his knees were raw and nearly bloody as the night turned to day yet he was turned on by the humiliation, aroused by the pain. The couple didn’t seem to care that the hours passed. With each new hour they dreamt of a new torture that pushed Michael ’s body to new limits. Painful enemas, burning hot candle wax, dangerous breath play, and extreme cock and ball torture seemed to go on in an endless cycle. At one point, improvising with what was laying around, Patra found an extension cord and used it to beat Michael ’s face, chest, and body in a cruel show of pure sadism.
Percy couldn’t sit idly by and watch, he joined in the fun as Patra directed. Her arms were tired from beating him without mercy so she called on her lover to take over. What Michael thought was excruciating pain before was magnified 10 times when Percy began his lessons in respect. “You treat my home like a toilet, I’ll show you what a fucking toilet is . . . “ and he unzipped his jeans and pulled out a hefty cock, blacker than midnight and as thick as a beer can, and hosed Michael down. The piss was strong and forceful and Michael tried to turn his head but he was slapped and his head held in place, forced to drink the urine. The salt in the pee stung as it seeped into the open sores on the backs of his hands and in his eyes.
“Enough of this playing around,” Patra said, “make him your bitch, baby, show him who the real man is.” The pair seemed to silently acknowledge that the entire night’s antics, and the better part of the morning’s, were all leading to the grand finale when Michael would be forced to endure the ultimate humiliation.
Percy grabbed Michael ’s head and forced his semi-erect penis into his mouth. He tried to turn his head, he contemplated biting it but he was far too scared. There was no way he could fight, his arms were still tightly handcuffed behind him, and he was weak from exhaustion. He could hear Patra’s cruel laughter in the room, around him, unaware of exactly where she was. As Percy fucked his mouth, choking him, making him gag, forcing that black cock deep in his esophagus, Michael felt the rumblings of what was surely stale ale coming back up. He tried to hold it back but Percy showed no mercy and kept pounding away, using his mouth like a pussy. Vile smelling chunks of puke came up and big black cock forced it back down. Michael was trying to gasp for air but his airways were blocked with dick and vomit and cum.
“You fucking son of a bitch, look what you did!” Patra kicked him in the side and made him cry out. Quickly, she undid the restraints and repositioned him on his hands and knees. She took the belt from his khakis and pulled it free. She lowered his pants and bared his naked ass for her punishment.
Blow after painful blow reigned down on Michael ’s pale, flabby, white ass. He began sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry, please forgive me, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again. Each time the leather made contact with his skin, the pain reverberated up his spine. Welts formed, blood dripped. Just when he thought he could take no more, he heard Patra say, “Spit on it to get it wet first or else you won’t be able to get it in on the first thrust.”
Michael ’s heart dropped. He was completely virgin and terrified of what he knew was coming. He cried, begged, and pleaded. He tried to bargain and negotiate. He sobbed uncontrollably like a little bitch. “Please, please don’t do this. I’m sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”
Patra and Percy would have no such talk. “Now look who’s the big man now. What happened to all that arrogance? You’re not so full of yourself now, are you? Well, you are going to get fucked and you are going to beg for it. In fact, you are going to plead to get fucked like the sissy faggot you are, do you hear me?”
Michael was broken. He didn’t even feel like a man anymore. He was a bad, bad boy who was suffering the ultimate abuse. There was something in him, something dark and perverted that wanted, no craved being taught this lesson. His manhood had been taken, his dignity and self-respect destroyed, and he was a mere shell of a man. With his eyes on the ground, he whispered a demure, “Please.”
“That’s not good enough,” she yelled, “beg for it like you need it. Prove that you want it.”
His arrogant taunt of “Fuck you,” that caused him to end up in this predicament turned into a chant of “Fuck me.” “Fuck me,” he cried out as he felt the enormous head of Percy’s cock against his asshole. “Fuck me,” he yelled as he felt the pain of his sphincter being ripped and inch after inch of black meat invading his anus. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” he begged over and over again as he was pounded and used like a little rag doll. “Fuck me like I’m a dirty whore. Fuck me like I’m a little bitch. Fuck me harder. FUCK ME DAMN YOU! FUUUUCKK MEEEEE!”
Sometime that afternoon, hungry, thirsty, and smelling like the men’s room at a bus station, Michael stumbled out onto the street. His car had been ticketed and he still had no idea where his keys were. He was ashamed to call his wife and explain where he’d been all night but he knew she would be worried to death. He didn’t emerge a new man; he wasn’t somehow magically cured of being an asshole. He was, however, sore and tired, his nuts ached for relief, and he had been relieved of some of his white guilt that had brought about immense sexual satisfaction.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved
Sunday, May 31, 2009
The Priory of Zion
If the historical figure known as Jesus actually existed and was married and fathered a child, his bloodline would be Black African, not French. If the Holy Grail is Black and female, the overwhelming need for white men to sexually submit to Black women seems to have mind-numbing theological implications.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I Need You Inside Me
With you I’m whole
Before I met you, I thought I knew what joy and happiness were. Before I met you, what I thought were vibrant colors were merely just shades of gray. Love was a concept I understood with my head but it was foreign to my heart until you came into my life.
With you I’m complete
The beauty of our love is in our Blackness. The call and response of our cries of passion are like the complex melodies of jazz and the soulful ballads of Motown. The pounding, rhythmic beating of our hearts is like drums echoing out under the starry night sky. The feel of your smooth brown skin under my tender caress is like sweet melted chocolate intoxicating my taste buds.
I need to feel you inside me
Yours is the only key that fits my lock. My love for you is slippery wet . . . and . . . hot . . . and did I forget to mention oh so sweet. You feel that tingle don’t you, that sensation in your body that signals the onset of your insatiable lust for me, that makes you want to make love to me until our bodies are dripping with sweat? I need the final piece that fits my puzzle. I need the weight of your body crushing mine. I need to ride you, use you, I need to cum all over you while you try to hold back from erupting inside me like molten lava from a volcano. I need your dick in my pussy, fucking me with my legs wrapped around you, pulling you closer, taking me higher, massaging my clit with your shaft as you thrust deeper, and harder, our tongues dancing together as we cum and cum and cum.
I need you inside me; in my body, my mind and in my soul. I can’t get you out of me. You are embedded deeply within my spirit. I need you inside me emotionally, spiritually, and sexually because without you, I’m incomplete.
Copyright 2009 AfroerotiK All Rights Reserved
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
I'm on a MISSION!
A Special Connection
Special Connection
Noah had struggled all of his life with issues of abandonment. That was a pretty standard condition for people who had been adopted but he had made sincere efforts to address his concerns and unpack his baggage. He hadn't managed to establish a healthy, long-term relationship in his 30 years of life but he was ever hopeful.
The first and most important step in that journey toward wholeness was finding his birth mother. It was a relatively easy process; she’d only lived less than two hours away for his entire life. She had been looking for him just as he had been looking for her so it was a matter of signing the appropriate papers and waiting for the red tape to be cut by adoption agency personnel. Their reunion had been awkward and rather uneventful. They decided it would be best if they chose to meet their first time at her home to avoid any emotional outbursts at The Olive Garden or some such place. Noah's heart was in his chest as he made his way to her front door. There were still lots of unanswered questions and unresolved issues when the initial meeting was all said and done but Noah and Andrea were well on their way to establishing a healthy relationship and a good friendship. Certainly, the rapport was there without much effort. The age difference was minimal and Noah was awed at how at ease he felt with his birth mother and at their similarities. Finding her had been one of the best things he'd ever done in his adult life, a step that would lead to closure for a lot of emotional triggers in his life that left him distancing himself from women.
As is the case with most busy singles, Noah resorted to the Internet to aid in finding love. It was as a viable an option as any other in this day and age and he opted to use paid sites to weed out the insincere and the fake. There were very few sites like that that catered specifically to African Americans so he'd search to the top three dating sites to cast a wide net. The $100 or so investment was well worth it if he could find his dream lady. He was pretty aggressive in his search He had a list of criteria that was pretty extensive and there wasn't much room for deviation. She had to be a woman of color, intelligent, articulate, spiritual, affectionate, and exude sex appeal. The other things were intangibles that would amount to chemistry and connection upon meeting.
Within 100 miles of San Francisco was a decent distance to travel to find his one true love. As with many search options on dating sites, he had to expand some of his criteria in order to get a fair sampling of profiles returned. Always having an attraction for older women and having exhausted profiles that were in his distance range, he expanded his age range to get a better selection of profiles. Satisfied that 80 profiles would be enough to explore for the evening, he settled in to go over them with a fine tooth comb. He had limited his search to profiles with pictures to prevent any time spent getting to know someone that he wasn't physically attracted to and to save time for all involved.
He hadn't clicked on more than three or four profiles when fate would alter his reality forever. "Degreed Blk Fem sks intimacy, communication, and passion," read the headline. Noah shook his head in disbelief and stared at the screen for a few minutes in a daze. There was no mistake about it, no way to misconstrue that the profile belonged to Andrea, his birth mother. He felt like he was invading her privacy and he closed the profile and moved on. Distracted and shaken, he returned to her profile again, this time to explore every detail.
First, he looked at all the photos. The album held five photos, all tasteful, all showing facets of a very beautiful woman. Noah told himself that the man that got his mother as a partner would be a damn lucky man because there was no way to deny, even at 46, she was a breathtaking beauty that looked more than 10 years younger than her age. Her delicious honey colored complexion was flawless and Noah marveled at the pictures, seeing his own complexion reflected in the womanly curves lady that gave birth to him. He made note of the fact that none of the photos were vulgar but yet they all oozed sensuality. She showed subtle flashes of leg, a rounded bare shoulder, even a sweet, casual shot that wasn't glamorous at all but still showed off her natural beauty. He wondered to himself what his reaction would have been had she had a nude photo of herself among her collection. Noah rated her photos an A plus and went on to explore her profile more.
There was something a little uneasy for Noah to deal with and it was the activity in his pants. He shook his head and made a conscious effort to focus on the computer screen and deny the fact that he had an erection had to do with a taboo that was almost too unthinkable to comprehend. He adjusted himself and kept on, obsessed with finding out anything and everything he could about this mysterious woman to whom he was more connected than any other person on the planet but he knew so little about. Even as he scrolled down the profile, he rationalized that there was probably some genetic DNA predisposition that was responsible for the fact that all the traits he sought in a woman, his mother possessed.
When he got to the essay portion of the profile he swallowed hard and began reading. She articulately described herself and exactly what she was looking for in a man in detail. She wrote, "I'm an accomplished, successful woman who is at a crossroads. I need companionship and friendship with a partner that can allow me to explore my new-found sexual liberation. Understand that I'm not looking for someone to romance me and sweep me off my feet with little or no substance. I need a man that can be open, a good listener, honest, available and accountable. Once you've shown me that you are worthy of my heart, I'm looking to share my body with you in ways you probably can't imagine. There aren't many men that meet my standards and this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to share a side of me that needs more exploration and expression. Younger men are more than welcome to apply because I need a man that can keep up with my rather insatiable appetites."
By the time he finished reading, his dick was in his hand and he was stroking it furiously. Her unapologetic yet sophisticated call for a lover to rock her world yet be more than a fuck toy, to actually be a man committed to the person not just the just package it came in, was arousing on so many levels he could barely control himself. He jerked his hardness, reading the words over and over again. He tried to imagine the unimaginable promises of pleasure Andrea had alluded to. He called her name as he envisioned her satisfying herself in the absence of a man on the very couch they had shared tea when they met. He imagined her sexy breasts glistening with sweat as he pounded her while she dug her nails into his back and screamed for more. His cum erupted as he thought about it being deposited in the very womb that nurtured him for nine months.
He awoke in the morning, hoping it had all been a nightmare. Before his eyes were completely open, he sat in front of his computer screen and pulled the bookmarked profile up again. He noticed that her last visit to the site was within the last 24 hours and he panicked. What if she were to find his profile in the same way? He immediately made his profile invisible to other viewers and went back to her profile again. He pulled his semi erect dick out and picked up the phone. He placed the call without even having a game plan in mind. All he knew was he had to see her and soon.
They chatted and caught up in the uncomfortable way that only adoptive mother and son are prone to do. "Listen, I don't know if you are into this sort of thing but I was hoping you might want to join me next Saturday and go to the Crocker Art Museum. I've exhausted all the museums in the Bay area and I couldn't think of coming to Sacramento without seeing if you would like to join me . . . If you are into that sort of thing," he said, knowing full well that she was. He played on her emotions by adding, "It would make me so happy to be able to share what I love the most with the most special woman in the world to me," his comment had many more layers and implications than Andrea could comprehend.
Andrea, wanting to be open to any hand of civility her son extended to her, accepted before he could finish his little speech but Noah hadn't heard her. She let him finish and repeated her answer, adding that she was flattered that he would ask her and how grateful she was that he didn't hate her. There was a long moment of silence on the phone as the two dealt with their own adoptive demons.
They made plans for him to come there and pick her up next weekend and she even invited him to spend the night in her spare bedroom if it got too late to drive back. Noah hung up the phone and shot off another load within seconds of doing so. What had he just done? More importantly, what was he going to do? He hadn't even planned it out thoroughly; he was going on pure adrenaline and lust.
Over the course of the next few days, Noah tried desperately to purge himself of sexual thoughts of Andrea. He rationalized that most teenage boys had at least a masturbatory fantasy or two about their mothers. It had to be some sort on rite of passage or some natural occurrence in nature, he was just going through his later in life, and it would certainly pass. All week long he would read her profile over and over again, at work, at home; he had even printed it out and memorized every detail, justifying it as a way to get to know this very intimate stranger.
The drive to Sacramento seemed to take forever. He turned up his music loudly and he and Tupac lamented over the trials and tribulations of being a black man in a society that wanted to keep them oppressed. He tried to ignore the constant dull ache in his nuts and half hard dick he would get occasionally but the closer he got to her house, the more he let himself fantasize about being the man Andrea called her man. Hell, except for that pesky little fact that she had given birth to him; he was exactly what she was looking for and vice versa. They shared the same likes and dislikes, predilections and preferences, and they were both in need of the same type of relationship.
He knocked on the door but he hadn't prepared for what he saw when it opened. Andrea was dressed in a sexy black dress with thin spaghetti straps and a low cut v-neck that showed off just the right amount of cleavage. The dress hugged her toned, athletic body perfectly. She wore a pair of sexy, stiletto heels that showed off the blood red nail polish that accentuated her perfectly pedicured toes.
Noah stood speechless for a moment unable to speak. Andrea, sensing some tension, panicked and said, "Oh, I'm overdressed aren't I? I have been trying to figure out what to wear for an hour. I'll go change." With that, she turned towards her bedroom. Noah grabbed her hand and stopped her.
"No, what you are wearing is fine, you look beautiful." The heat of her hand in his burned his flesh as he felt himself becoming completely erect.
"I really do appreciate you offering to take an old woman like me to the museum today. I'm appreciative of any time I can get to spend with my favorite boy," as she patted his cheek gently. Noah's heart did a back flip, hearing words that gave him more comfort than he'd ever known before. "Well, let me go get my wrap and we'll be off. Does that sound okay?" Noah nodded in silence and tried to adjust himself so that his throbbing erection couldn't be seen as she walked away.
The two made a striking couple. There was no way in hell anyone could tell that they were mother and son, Andrea only looking four or five years older than Noah at the most. Granted she was just barely 16 years older but Noah had dated women that had looked and been older than she in his lifetime. He held the door for her as she got in and out of his truck; he held her by the small of her back as they strolled among the artwork. They started to let their guards down and they seemed more at ease with each other than one would imagine. Their tastes in artwork were similar and they shared more information about each other in an effort to catch up on lost time. They both liked the same movies, they both had a love of travel and had been to some of the same places and had even stayed in the same hotel in Paris, twenty years apart. Noah could not stop looking at Andrea and he was more and more curious about the sexual beast that lurked inside her that she alluded to in her profile.
They stopped strolling around and sat on the bench and were deep in conversation. Noah had placed his arm around her shoulder and Andrea had responded by turning her body completely towards him and resting her hand on his thigh. Another black couple, obviously deeply in love, strolled by hand in hand. The woman made eye contact with Andrea and gave the universal sista look of, "Go ahead, Stella, do your thing." The couple stopped and the woman turned back and said, "Isn't love wonderful? You two look beautiful together.
Both Andrea and Noah panicked and pulled away from each other. They both mumbled thank you and awkwardly stood to leave. The couple apologized for interrupting, aware that they had caused some sort of disruption in the flow of things and went on about their business.
"I think it's time to go, we've seen all we can see here." Andrea held her eyes to the floor and had lost some of the joy in her voice.
Noah, not ready to end the evening, tried his best to salvage the chemistry that had been interrupted. "Andrea, you are a vibrant and beautiful lady. I'm sure that's not the last time someone will mistake you for my date. Listen, it's still early, what do you say that I take my favorite lady out for dinner?" They both smiled and got a little teary and took a deep breath at the same time.
Andrea smiled and sunk back into the level of comfort and ease that they had shared before the interruption. The place she chose for dinner was a small, intimate restaurant that was perfect for lovers. For a brief second, Noah allowed himself to contemplate that the sexual attraction he felt for Andrea might be reciprocal. He held her chair out and took her wrap. He "accidentally" caressed her smooth shoulders, or at least he hoped that it had seemed accidental. Once seated he quickly placed the napkin in his lap to hide the protruding appendage that threatened to betray his deepest desires.
Noah ordered a bottle of wine rather than a glass, hoping that the beverage would loosen both their inhibitions and lead to a more intimate connection. The waiter, also assuming they were lovers, or soon to be lovers, poured on the charm and suggested the most romantic dining suggestions, finger foods for appetizers that could be fed to one another, entrées that could be shared, and decadent desserts. After the first glass of wine, Andrea had relaxed sufficiently to let her guard down and she was becoming openly flirtatious with Noah. Noah didn't miss a beat and started going into full mack mode. He was versed in how to make a woman feel like the center of the universe and he was pulling out all the stops. They conversed freely about music and art and politics and eventually the conversation got around to dating. Andrea listened intently as Noah confessed with bitter honesty his adulterous, playboy past and his longing and desire to connect to "the one" and how she had remained so elusive in his life. Andrea was tortured with guilt at being the reason Noah felt so alone in his life and she reached out to embrace him in her arms.
Noah felt her touch and sunk gently into it from an emotional level. He had craved that sensation, that feeling of safety and comfort that only a mother's loving embrace could provide. If only the woman providing that sensation wasn't biologically linked to him he would be in heaven. Andrea, feeling the need to open up, shared the secrets of her emotional past as well. She spoke about looking for love and how she had come up short time and time again. She revealed that she was looking for a person to stimulate her mind and spirit first and that would be the impetus to transcendental love-making. The wine had loosened her inhibitions and she was having a conversation that she normally would have thought was a tad inappropriate. She placed her hand on Noah's lap, dangerously close to his dick and kept on with her revelations, perhaps oblivious because of the slight buzz she was feeling. Andrea could no longer deny the attraction and she downed another glass of wine and relegated herself to the fact that she was involved in a dance of seduction that had horrific implications. Her body was betraying her mind. Her nipples protruded brazenly from her dress and her clit was throbbing to the point of distraction. She excused herself to go to the ladies room and wipe away some of the moisture that had collected between her legs lest he smell her arousal at the table.
When she returned, Noah had paid the bill and was holding her wrap for her. They made the trip back to her home in virtual silence, not daring to speak, both afraid of what was happening. He pulled into the driveway of her home and came around to open the door for her. She gently placed her hand in his as she stepped down and they both stood inches apart from one another, the electricity between them could light up a stadium it was so strong. She tried to say something about, "thank you for a wonderful day," and her words were cut off with a passionate kiss that took her breath away. Noah had lost his resolve to keep his fantasy to himself and he kissed the woman that was the focus of all of his desire. He pulled her body to his tightly and ran his hands over her ass. He thrust his dick against her body and started grinding on her. She responded in kind, holding his face in her soft hands and sucking his tongue sensuously, wrapping her arms around his neck. He picked her up and placed her back on the seat of his truck and she wrapped her legs around him as he began to slide his hands up the smooth skin of her thigh. They kissed more passionately this time.
"No, stop, we can't do this!" Andrea grabbed his hand and stopped him.
Feeling profound shame, Noah backed off and started to hyperventilate. Had he destroyed the relationship he had only just started with his birth mother? He started to mumble an apology when Andrea stopped him. "We can't do this here. Let's go inside."
She grabbed him by the hand and tilted his face to hers. She looked him in the eyes as they kissed again. She held his hand as they made their way to the front door. Once inside, she kept the lights off and felt Noah's presence behind her. He pulled her wrap from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He caressed her bare shoulder and kissed it softly. She leaned back into him and rubbed her ass sensuously against his dick. Gentle moans escaped her lips as his hands roamed freely over her sides, gripping her hips tightly.
"God, I want this, I want you." Noah was in a fog of lust. Everything about the woman before him was what he had been searching for. He felt driven to experience all that she had to offer, not just sexually but emotionally as well. He wanted his Mommy to love him, in every way possible.
Andrea turned to face Noah and she kissed him with more passion than she had thought possible just a few hours earlier. She was driven by this insane lust of the taboo and the fact that she had an attraction to a man that she had carried inside her for nine months. She reached for his crotch and felt the evidence of his lust for her. She kissed and nibbled on his neck and whispered in his ear that they should make it to the bedroom to get more comfortable.
For a brief second, things were awkward again. Andrea made her way around the bedroom and lit candles while Noah stood and watched. He wondered if he shouldn't just stop things where they were and go home; perhaps they could pretend that none of this ever happened. Ignorance is bliss so they say. The precum dripping from the head of his dick was motivation enough for him to erase all those sorts of thoughts from his mind.
Andrea stood before him and lowered the straps to her dress. She stood in her high heels and a pair of black satin panties and Noah had to swallow hard to keep from slamming her hard on the bed and taking her without any foreplay at all. He wanted her to exploit his fantasies; to highlight his fantasies of being a little boy that Mommy was teaching how to be naughty. He had engaged in role-play like that many times before with other women in similar ways but this was about to take on whole new dimensions. He wondered if pushing the issue would cause her to panic and back out of the situation so he kept his silence.
There was little reason to do so. Andrea was like a woman possessed, loving every aspect of the mother/son incest and she was tipsy enough to let go of whatever inhibitions she might have had. She lay back on the bed and spread her legs. She rubbed her pussy through the thin material and slid her hands inside to put on a show for Noah. She told him to get undressed and she fingered herself while he revealed the perfect sculpted body of a man half her age. He stepped out of his boxer briefs and she started fucking herself that much harder, sliding her panties down to get better access and to show off her aroused and shaved cunt to her sweet baby boy.
Without saying a word, Noah climbed on top of Andrea and started kissing her passionately. She wrapped her arms and legs around him and explored his mouth with passion. She could feel his erection sliding between her legs as his mouth explored her neck and she was moaning very loudly. Noah could feel the softness of her breasts crushed against him and the hardness of her nipples pressed against his chest. There was no mistaking the fact that his dick was rubbing the wet slit of her pussy and he could feel her aroused clit rubbing on the length of his hardness. The heat emanating from her core was like a furnace and she was becoming more and more vocal as things got more and more heated.
"Oh, your dick is so big," she moaned and she reached for it to put her delicate hands around it and stroke it.
Noah almost came right then and right there. It felt so good that he needed to think about Stock Market futures in order to keep from losing his nut. He began kissing his way down her body to the place that was the single focus of his desire, her breasts. He looked Andrea deeply in her eyes as he lowered his mouth to her hardened nipple. There was a soundtrack of ooohh's, and ahhhh's and mmmm's as he began sucking her titties. The softness of her boobs was pleasure untold for Noah and when she grabbed his head and said, "Oh you make Mommy feel so good," he almost lost it.
In a voice that didn't sound like his own and was decidedly adolescent, Noah said, "Does Mommy like when I suck on her titties like that?"
Andrea, fully into the forbidden lovemaking, responded knowing full well where this was going to go. "Yes, sweetie, Mommy loves when you suck on my hard nipples like that. Drink Mommy's milk baby, my titties are so swollen and full. Do you like when Mommy feeds you like that?"
Noah was outside of himself. He was in a realm of arousal he'd never experienced before. "Yes, Mommy, I love sucking your titties. I love doing anything that makes you feel good Mommy. I just want to make you happy."
Andrea cradled Noah's head and reinforced that Noah was a very good boy for making his Mommy feel good. His mouth went from nipple to nipple and Andrea's moans got louder and louder. She was chanting, "Oh yeah, suck my titties baby, drink mama's milk, oh, fuck that feels so good."
"Mama, you said a bad word!" Noah could barely believe how easily his role as pubescent boy came in the arms of the woman that gave birth to him.
"Yes, sweetie, it's okay. Grownups are allowed to say bad words when they have their clothes off like this. It makes it feel better."
"Mommy, can I say those words too? Am I a big boy Mama?"
"What words do you know, sweetie? Who taught you those naughty words?"
"At school, some of the boys say, you know, stuff. And one time I. . ." His voice trailed off.
"What is it dear? You can tell Mommy, I promise I won't be mad." Andrea stroked his hair and soothed his pretend fears.
"One time I watched you and Daddy playing when you were naked and lying down. He said a lot of naughty words." His eyes got big like he was telling a secret, fully aware that they hadn't even discussed who his biological father had been up until that point, just getting off on the nasty fantasy.
By this time, Andrea was holding her breasts up for Noah and making him suck them harder and harder, thrashing around on the bed and consumed with the fantasy of sexing up her adolescent son when it was in fact her thirty something son. It was the fulfillment of her dirtiest desires, desires she hadn't really contemplated as real because she never thought of finding her son, she had assumed she would go her entire life with no knowledge of what happened to him, how he turned out. Until that day in her life, she felt relatively safe that her mother/son fantasies were harmless fun between her and her very adult lovers.
"Mommy, I feel funny . . . down there." Noah pointed to the erection that was leaking and he grabbed its full length like only he knew how to do and forced out more precum. There was no way his enormous prick could be mistaken for a child's.
"It's okay, sweetie, you can use the grown up word for it. Mommy likes when you use the dirty words." Andrea was so turned on, more than she had ever been before in her life and it scared her a little to think of how far she would go in her lust.
Noah said, "Oh Mama, my dick is sooo hard. Do you like my big dick?"
Andrea reached between his legs and felt the hefty organ that was engorged with blood. "By all means, Mommy loves your big, hard dick. It makes Mommy's pussy really wet. Mommy wants to suck that big, fat dick. Come here and let me put it in my mouth."
"Oh Mommy! Are you sure?"
Noah rolled over and lay back on the bed. Andrea wasted no time in getting between his legs and giving him head like he'd literally never had before in his life. She grabbed his erection and started stroking it, making it leak more precum. She licked the salty treat and told him how good he tasted. She took the head in her mouth and swirled her tongue around it and Noah could barely control himself. She went down on it slowly, licking and sucking with painstaking precision. She was getting every inch wet with her mouth and tongue and sucking it expertly with her lips. She swallowed the entire shaft and Noah made a sound that he'd never heard before. Andrea was moaning and slobbering all over his dick like a dick-craved whore and fingering her pussy at the same time. Noah, with the awareness of a grown man, grabbed her and made her stop because he knew all too well that a few more minutes of exceptional head like that would make him shoot his load and he definitely wanted to wait.
Andrea wanted more. She wanted to taste her son's cum and she wasn't ready to stop. She was looking him in his eyes and asking him if he liked it. Noah was out of his mind; it was sensory overload. She focused on sucking the engorged vein on the underside of his dick and it allowed him to calm down enough to regain normal control of his breathing. The room was spinning and it felt like it was 100 degrees in there. She started humming on his dick, sending vibrations up his spine and talking dirty. It was the wanton slut of his dreams, intelligent, sophisticated, beautiful, sexy and desperate for cum.
"You like Mommy's mouth on your hard dick? Use those nasty words you know, treat Mommy like a filthy whore, it makes mommy feel good when you say nasty things to her like a big boy."
Noah was ready to explode and they went past the stage of pretending, it was a real mother who got off on giving her son nasty pleasure and a son who desperately wanted to fuck his mother. He grabbed her head and started moving it up and down on his dick, fucking her throat. Andrea didn't miss a beat and she gagged a little but it only seemed to inspire her to be that much nastier. It seemed she couldn't get it wicked enough, she was in a zone where she wanted to be nasty, with her flesh and blood baby boy. She was deep throating him and stroking him and licking his balls. The raunchier she got, the more she needed verbal stimulation.
"Lick my dick real good and get it nice and wet so I can ram it in your wet pussy. Yeah, your little boy is going to fuck you senseless. Is that what you want? You want your son to ram his big hard dick in you so hard you scream like it's going to rip you apart? "
Andrea wasn't satisfied, she wanted more and she wasn't afraid to go for it. She was inspired by the fact that she had crossed a line that was so forbidden, so taboo, that she had never been so turned on in her life. She was in a sexual fog, a lust inspired by this incredibly sexy man that she was with and knowing that she had birthed him through the pussy that was now soaking wet and screaming for him to fuck her. "No, I want more."
This was going too far for both of them. It was unexplored territory and they were both on a sex high that was like no place they had ever gone; only dreamt about. It was pure, unbridled, uninhibited sex with someone that you trust completely. Granted, there's was a trust that defied rational thought. They were linked genetically but they hadn't known each other more than 12 hours total. Noah sat up and forcefully flipped Andrea on her back. He climbed on top of her and kissed her deeply. "Now, it's my turn. I'm going to make you cum so hard you pass out."
"Don't threaten me. Eat my pussy."
He got between her legs and stared at the place he came from. He knew he had to squeeze off a load before he fucked her or else he would nut too damn quickly when he finally rammed himself in her. He started eating her pussy and stroking his dick. Andrea was giving direction, inspiring him, telling him how much she loved his mouth on her wet pussy. He licked and sucked her asshole with equal enthusiasm and they sunk to new depths of depravity. He shot his load on her feet and licked it off before going back to sucking her clit to orgasm. Andrea was grabbing the sheets and screaming bloody murder, her inhibitions had disappeared like David Blaine on a HBO special. Noah hadn't even gotten soft, he was so aroused and so out of control.
Andrea reached her first orgasm of the night and she planned on having a few more before it was all over. She turned over and got up on her hands and knees and looked back over her shoulder. "Fuck me!"
There was no need for the mother/son reference because she was a woman that needed to get fucked by a man. She was desperate to feel every inch of that hard meet rammed in her cunt walls and she needed him to do it hard and fast and rough. He grabbed her hair and pulled it like reigns on a philly. She responded by chanting, "Fuck me, fuck me, NOW!"
Noah took careful aim. He lined up the fat head of his dick with her hole. He grabbed her hips and with one fluid, fast motion, he rammed the entire length of his dick deep in her uterus. She screamed out in pain but begged for more. For a brief moment, they slipped into a zone of familiarity and peace. Neither of them had ever experienced such profound love before. Noah was experiencing maternal love and Andrea had found the peace she'd given up 30 years ago. Their union was symbolic of the truly forbidden and the transcendent.
Noah began fucking Andrea with the force and the stamina that he would fuck a man and she took it all and begged for more. He worked his thumb up her ass and she started using her muscles to coax out another load of cum. If he hadn't busted off one earlier, that would have been the end of him but he held on tight. He started smacking that ass and reached around to her breasts. He pulled her tits and twisted them in his fingers and she encouraged him to do it harder. "Ohhh, it feels so good."
Andrea gasped for air and gripped the sheets tightly, sweat was forming on her body and she was in agony and ecstasy. The sensation of Andrea's tight pussy on the shaft of his member was so intense, he was sweating trying to work all 9 inches in and he didn't understand how she could even take it all. She reached for lube on the nightstand and tossed it to him. He flipped the top open and poured half the bottle on her and it dripped on his balls, her pussy, the bed, everywhere. Andrea took control and started fucking him back. "Oh Daddy, fuck me, make me a bad girl Daddy." Obviously, their real roles as mother and son were irrelevant at that point. All that really mattered was pleasure.
Noah grabbed her hips and started pounding. Andrea lowered her head and stuck her ass up in the air so the last few inches could get the right angle and sink deep in her. Andrea was moaning loader, begging for it harder. Fucking was supposed to be dirty and primal and filthy in every way and Andrea and Noah were two untamed wild animals that were lost in debauchery and pleasure. Andrea had craved the sensation of losing herself to a man completely and it was in that moment, when the head of his dick was pounding into her that she started to cum. It was a mental orgasm, a freedom from society and rules and inhibitions.
Noah grabbed her hip and started ramming himself deeper and harder, practically ramming Andrea's head in the wall. "OHHHH FUCK! Take it, take my load." He collapsed on top of her and drifted in and out of consciousness for a few moments. Andrea cradled and comforted him as they fell asleep from exhaustion.
Noah awoke in the early morning hours, shaking his head for clarity and trying to recollect what had happened, again hoping it had all been a dream. Andrea was there, awake as well, this time to comfort him and reassure him that everything would be okay. They'd gone places mother and son shouldn't go. They had explored depths from which there was no turning back. "Mom . . . "
Andrea held her fingers to his lips. "Son, we have the entire rest of our lives to figure out how to make sense of all this. I promise, I'm not going to leave you again, even if things are difficult." Neither would know for a long time to come that the people at the adoption agency had screwed up and that they weren't actually related but it fueled their fantasies for quite some time.
Copyright 2005 AfroerotiK
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Slave Hair
I had all the arguments against relaxed hair PERFECTED. I would argue with any woman who suggested that my straight hair was anything other than a mere styling option. I convinced myself that I was right and that any woman that even suggested that relaxed hair was some sort of Eurocentric standard of beauty was insane.
I was the same as all the women who rationalize their self-hatred, who condemn me, and who defend their slave hair.
Then, I evolved. I grew. I got strong. I put aside the memories of my grandmother telling me that nappy hair was ugly. I rejected the comments, jokes, and taunts of little boys telling me that my natural hair wasn't pretty like white girls. At the time, I was becoming more spiritually aware, I stopped eating meat, I was becoming healthier all around. I was still holding on to my slave hair. I was terrified that if I let go of my slave hair, that I'd be ugly. I was horrified that if I let go of my slave hair, that I'd never get a job, I'd never get a man, that the world would look at me as something less than human and certainly not beautiful. Then one day, I woke up and I realized that history is prologue. I accepted that my natural, nappy hair was my birthright, that I could be beautiful with the hair that God intended me to have, without chemicals, without the messages that every little Black girl gets beaten into them that tells her to be ashamed of her natural hair. It was only then that I became liberated from my slave hair. It was only then that I became free.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
It’s Mating Season
Everybody gets in my ass that my standards are too high, that I’m too negative, that there are LOTS of great men out there and that I’m somehow at fault for not attracting them. It is my contention, and has been for some time now, that the standards that the Black community sets for good Black men is soooooooooo incredibly low, that any brotha with a job, a car, and who lives on his own is considered a good man. Hell, I know more than a few Black men who don’t have two of the three and they are still considered good Black men because they are reasonably attractive and have a college education.
If there are so many good Black men out there, where the hell are they? Where are the men who are introspective? Where are the men who aren’t passive aggressive? Where are the men with integrity and honor and who can tell the truth even when they know that they are going to suffer negative consequences? Where are the men who are able to commit to monogamous relationships? Where are the men who aren’t intimidated by a strong, independent woman? Where are the men who are willing to show their fears and insecurities and don’t see their manhood in inches? Where are the brothas who won’t run at the first sign of trouble in a relationship and who know how to communicate their feelings in a way that doesn’t project their insecurities? Show me the Black men who don’t put their feelings first and who don’t see sex as recreation and view their penis as something that gives them some sort of undeserved right to control and dominate women? Every Black man that I’ve met who even comes close is either married or gay. I contend it is exponentially easier for a brotha to find a good black woman, meaning one who brings the exact same things to the table that he does, than it is for a sista to find her equal if she worked on her issues.
I KNOW, I KNOW, every Black man reading this is going to scream that he’s a good Black man. Unfortunately, the problem with that is this . . . Black mothers don’t teach their sons to have integrity, to be introspective, to form relationships with women that aren’t based on getting their needs met first. Black society doesn’t teach Black men to work out there problems, to deal with their issues and hurts, it doesn’t reinforce to brothas that truth is better than lying. So, while every brotha THINKS they are God’s gift to women because they meet the Black communities low standards, they’ve never once thought about what it means to really be introspective. I bet five bucks most Black men can’t even define the word introspective correctly, let alone have they done the emotional healing needed to be introspective. You can’t put something into practice if you’ve never been shown how.
I KNOW, I KNOW, every Black woman reading this is going to scream that I’m being too harsh, that there are plenty good Black men, that all I have to do is wait, and pray, and work on myself, and put positive vibes out into the universe and stand on my head in the full moon in a month with R in it. It’s always my fault why I haven’t found a partner. Black men are never to blame, making sure the standards for Black men remain soooooo low that anyone who doesn’t have a criminal record is considered a good man. Don’t worry, we can always make concessions for those who do have criminal records so they don’t feel ostracized and they can be included in the good Black man category as well.
Where are the Black women who are frustrated, sick, and tired of being alone that can say that Black men aren’t being pushed to be better human beings and partners? Where are the Black men who can concede that they have no fucking clue how to heal their emotional scars? Yeah, I’m sure there are a few select men who meet my standards of good Black men somewhere on the planet but they are few and fucking far between.
Copyright 2009 Scottie Lowe
Thursday, May 07, 2009
The Admiration of Lovers
You moved slowly and deliberately, arousing me with your mere presence. Your hugs would cause my knees to weaken and the gentle touch of your fingertips to the nape of my neck would elicit intense sensations of pleasure. Your seduction of me was complete, stimulating my mind with your knowledge, my soul with your insight and my body with your slow and calculated caresses. Your kisses, oh your sweet kisses, such ecstasy and intoxication I’ve never known.
I close my eyes to receive your kiss and I float freely in a realm of bliss. Your soft tongue licks and your tender lips envelope mine and I respond in kind, letting my mouth express my passion and desire. Your hands explore my body with such tender and intentional strokes. I feel my temperature rise and my body begin to ache for you to complete me. Lover, come unto me, join with me so that we might fulfill our destinies and become one.
Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe All rights reserved.
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