by
Donald “C-Note” Hooker
22 Thursday Sep 2016
This story was originally published in Everyday Erotica.
Superhead was dead, so I thought. A mere figment of imagination, or a book put out by a video vixen. But if you thought this was a memoir about the best head ever, you can forget it, cause I don’t swing that route. Always the puss, wit dem lips you never got to worry about, “Excite it, just don’t bite it.”
Now I’m not too finicky about which race I date or bed down. It’s just something about the brown, coco skin of a sista’s love, that does something to me. I know Black women come in all shades of color, Hell, every race of women can be broken down into a light, medium, or darker range.
But this woman here was something freaky. Notice I didn’t say special, that too, because she was a rare kind.
Special just doesn’t hit the mark on her prowess. It started with the way she moved her hips, like a scale. One scale up, the other one down, one scale up, the other one down. Like a shifting weight being placed on one empty scale then going to the other. Pure mechanics Baby, pure mechanics.
I smiled, and to my surprise she said, “Hi, anyone sitting here?”
“Not at all, have a seat,” I motioned. Now this was not my normal hang out, a motorcycle club on the outskirts of town, but these belly hanging bikers seemed more tamed than the lawless kind you see in the movies. But still, these middle aged guys’ engines were packing some real heat.
I guess she, (excuse me, I’m not good about names), gravitated towards me because of my age. I was all thugged out in my diamond studded earring and blue khakis.
“Well Donte, you wanna dance?” She quivered.
“Do I look like a dancer?” I quivered back. I’m thinking, Gangsters don’t dance, we boogie. She saw right through my facade. She got right up, turned around, and did some wiggle moves with her ass and hips. I was all in, being led by the wrist right onto the middle of an empty dance floor. That saying, “Gangsters don’t dance, we boogie,” is true, cause I didn’t know a MC Hammer, or Chris Brown move for shit. Here I was ragging on the beer bellies, now I’m looking like some thugged out fool with two left feet.
I was packing some bills, so I just grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Let’s get out of here, and grab something to eat.”
At first she was appalled at my Six-Seven, Chevy Impala Super Sport, all blue with white stripes, like it’s beneath her status to be seen in such an old model car. This was until once inside, she heard that Baby roar (engine), and damn near cummed in her pussy when I unexpectedly hit dem hydraulic switches, and hopped our asses up out of there. Now she was all on me like a bear to honey, licking all inside my ear, and squeezing my penitentiary biceps (did six years in the pen). She said she had never been with a real thug before, let alone inside a lowrider, and that the smell of the interior (420 friendly), had her panties embarrassingly puddled. I’m no fool you see. When a woman tells you she’s suddenly whett, it’s time to park somewhere and take advantage. They are too finicky (women), go to that restaurant, mood kilt, night kilt. No, we’re gonna see some action right now. Now I found a dark street in front of some nice homes, and this is where it all kinda gets blurry to me. The next thing I know, pants at the knees, and she’s straddling this dick. Now mama had a big ass, and damn did she feel good. The fresh taste of her engorged breasts, and the feminine smell of her smooth skin, had a brotha fading in and out of consciousness. I told you I’m not good with names, but all I heard was Destiny’s Child’s “Say My Name, Say My Name,” going off in the background. This wasn’t the radio, this was in my head.
Never before did I feel so relaxed. Never before did pussy feel so good. I felt a swelling inside my shaft hulking up. It pressed and stretched the boundaries of her warm, juicy, cavernous, girl meat. This set off a volcanic gush of steamy male spunk that skyrocketed towards the inner sanctuary of her love nest. I didn’t “Say Her Name,” I screamed, like Prince.