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I paused again, my head reeling from the delirious chemistry of the scenario I was creating about Ellen and the sensations of having Tammy’s hand on my cock, and my hand on Tammy’s bottom. Furthermore, while Tammy’s left hand had been busy fondling me, her right hand had evidently found its treasured place within her panties. Her hips were shimmying, and her jeans brushed my thigh with each gyration, nudging me further into arousal. I started kneading fistfuls of her ass, my hand hungry for more of her.
“Go on,” she breathed. “Go the fuck on, already.”
My speech came more haltingly—though my enthusiasm was waxing, my control was waning. “She’ll . . . yank her pretty underwear . . . down to her knees. It’s . . . it’s . . . her favorite moment of the day.”
“Oh, fuck,” said Tammy. The arc of her grinding pattern increased.
I seemed to have run out of recherché vocabulary. “She’ll . . . cup . . . one of her breasts . . . under her top, and . . . tw-twist her own nipple.”
Oblivious to my words—and yet it was as if she’d somehow been affected by them—Ellen shifted sensuously in her chair while turning the page in her novel. A tremor ran through all the nerves of my cock, reverberating against Tammy’s fingers.
In a series of swift, sudden motions, Tammy ejected her other hand from her jeans, snatched my hand off her rear, and relocated my itchy fingers to the front of her body, practically shoving them inside the damp panties her own hand had just vacated. “Touch me, professor. Touch me like she’s going to touch herself.”
Reciprocating, I moved Tammy’s left hand from the outside to the inside of my briefs so that she was clasping my nakedness as I fingered hers. The parallel feasts were overwhelming: Here was her deft touch all over my tensing hardness, while there was her slick, dribbling softness engulfing my digits.
We began to sway in sync, left to right to left, doing a grotesquely beautiful dance of mutual masturbation.
And when Ellen got up and walked away, it didn’t matter. The fantasy had already done its job . . . but much more important, I realized in that moment, was the fact that Tammy had become far sexier to me than the estimable Ellen Sanderson.
She was writhing on my palm, and the raw smell of her excitement was filling the small space we shared. I pivoted away from the window now to glue myself to Tammy, turning her toward me so we could meld, front to front. I rocketed my free arm up her syrup-stained T-shirt to tickle her warm breasts, fucking her in earnest now with the hand stationed below—grazing her clit with the heel while the fingers burrowed and wiggled. My cock, drunk and bloated with pleasure, twitched in time with her strokes, and I knew that both of us were going to come soon.
Ellen might have been a peach that morning, but Tammy in climax was a fruit far more succulent. As her cunt pulsed around my fingers, her fresh-squeezed juice soaked me. She pumped and trickled longer than I’d ever known a woman to do, washing me in shuddering spoonfuls of her sauce. The wet heat in her pants made me manic with lust, and I clamped her breast hard as my morning’s worth of male desire spurted impassioned streams all over her clutching fingertips.
Our lurching, spastic dance gradually slowed. Finally we were still, and we each reclaimed our hands, leaving the other’s dampened underpants in privacy. We stood there for a minute, laughing, breathing hard, then laughing some more.
“So, professor, it’s a shame you didn’t click with Ellen Sanderson,” said Tammy.
I shrugged.
“Are you gonna click with me?”
“I think I already did,” I replied.
“Good man,” said Tammy.
So Much for Rules
W. Biddle Street
I still don’t know why I went to Jerome’s house that day. I had a decent boyfriend who was just a few months away from asking me to marry him. Yet there I was, driving over to Jerome’s place knowing that he wanted to fuck me. And I’d kind of given him signals that I might finally let him. Which doesn’t make sense because I had always been a one-man-at-a-time woman.
I’d known Jerome since Michael Jackson was black. He was with me through kindergarten and grade school. He was with me from my homely girl stage right up through becoming homecoming queen back when it was still cool to be an HC queen. I was with him through his geek stage. He was always a good friend, just not my type.
I had a brand-new black teddy in my bag just in case I couldn’t come up with a way to get out of letting him do me. He had invited me over on the pretense of a home-cooked meal and a little wine before he left for Tennessee. He had a job in Memphis and was leaving Baltimore for good.
True to his word, just like the gentleman that he was, he had a fine meal waiting for me when I arrived. We ate and made small talk. He talked about getting to live in the city where Stax Records was born. The city that was home to Carla Thomas, Otis Redding, Booker T. & the MG’s, Sam & Dave, Isaac Hayes, and many lesser-known stars. He said he was excited about the chance to see the newly renovated Stax recording studio museum. He was excited all right, but I don’t think it was about going to Memphis. His dick was hard. I could see it doubling up in his crouch.
I wanted to give him some but didn’t know if I should, so I started talking off-the-wall shit about being a campaign manager for a state house candidate and how much fun it was being involved in elective politics. We were not really talking to each other. We were just sending words into the air, trying to buy time and avoid the obvious. Neither one of us wanted to make first contact.
I was trying to wait him out in the hope that, even though I was leaning toward kinda wanting to give him some, I would not have to have his dick in me. That is, until I stood up from the table to go to the couch. I felt wetness I had never experienced in his presence before. And it had nothing to do with whether Stax or Motown was the best music company of the sixties. It had everything to do with how his bulge was hanging to the left as he poured me a glass of German Liebfraumilch wine. That bulge just kept on bulging.
I made sure that he got a good look down my blouse when I leaned forward to pick up my glass. He took a good look. Did not even attempt to be sly, no pretense at all. Then, just as casually, he started talking about Al Green, Hi Records, and Willie Mitchell’s influence on Memphis soul music of the seventies.
I listened to him ramble on through two glasses of the German table wine. It was an inexpensive wine he drank as a private in the army stationed in Geissen, in what was then West Germany. It was the only decent wine he could afford. A retired army buddy of his would periodically supply him with a few bottles from the army/air force exchange store at Fort Meade
.
I interrupted his rendition of Al Green’s “For the Good Times” by telling him I had to pee. Without waiting for his acknowledgment I grabbed my bag and headed for his bathroom. Sitting on the toilet with a nice buzz and a wet tingling between my legs, I had to make a decision. It was now or never. I didn’t want to fuck him, but I didn’t not want to fuck him, either. A wet pussy on a single girl, involved or not, is a terrible thing to waste. I often had sex with my fiancé without being wet when we started, but we would make up for it by the time we finished. But here I was in Jerome’s apartment, getting turned on, enjoying and hating it at the same time. I’d often heard my brother say that a hard dick has no conscience. Well, a throbbing wet pussy is a lonely hunter, but of course I would never say that to my brother. (If he knew what went through the mind of his little sister when she had a wet pussy, he would be shocked beyond belief. The thought of me having a wet pussy probably never crossed his mind.)
