B(r)ush

"I love Black men," Nina declared. The words singed Rick's ears, filling him with a sense of loss, which felt weird. She, on the other hand, took his silence as a sign of complicity.

"Just standing near them gets me hot." She liked telling him her fantasies, especially the ones with this cache, which she blamed him for, since, she’d never even looked at a Black man. Uh huh. But, you know what, he liked her stories, in fact, as much as it would make him jealous to hear them, he would make her describe them in detail. She, in turn, met his demands as much as her psyche would allow:

First, I rub my cheek against the bulge in his sweats. He is hard and smooth. No underwear inside the soft fleece. I love the sensation against my cheekbone and jaw. I bend my head forward so the bulge weighs down on the back of my neck. Such weight it has. Thicker than you but just as long. Frightening really. It could rip me open. Tear me apart. I am teasing him. I call him MrSweats. I softly circle the rim of his cock with my fingers. He tries to take it out. I put it back. Rubbing his balls through the fabric. I am slowly humping the other guy’s mouth, MrLap. I move my hips in a circle. My nipples are hard. MrSweats' hands reach over to circle my breasts; fingers squeeze my nipples, softly twisting a little. MrLap's head tilts back so he can see my reaction. MrSweats’ crotch and my head are even with MrLap’s eyelevel. MrLap stops for a minute, moves my panties aside. My clit's swollen and dark. My lips flare out. I push my pelvis against MrLap's face; his tongue goes all the way up my pussy. I pull MrSweats' dick free of his pants. I open my mouth and suck it. Pump it.

Between the hot pulses of breath he’d whisper variations of this in her ear. He liked pushing her, to see where she could go; his urging ripened her surrender.

Being with him meant she could skirt the rim of her fantasies without getting caught in its wake. It was a paradox. She didn’t want to be the damsel in distress but, at times, would indulge the character of its fall, just like the way they made those white women scream and tumble in those grade B horror flicks, poodle skirts and high heels hobbling their escape.

Her desire for control ran her life. She married a man quite the opposite of her, a New Englander, "to keep me reined in," was how she put it. She, being a southern belle, got what she wanted but it proved withering. She would never forsake her family but more and more she wanted to be with Rick. At first she thought she could control this part of her life, so, cancelling their dates were easy. But soon, it felt like death not seeing him and indeed she imagined herself a zombie going through the paces of her marriage and career except with eyes transfixed on every clock, watch and calendar. Could she love both her husband and him? This was the question that pingponged through her days of late. It hurt her head. Of course there was an answer to this quandary but not the one she wanted, so, seeking relief or escape she found herself again driving to Rick’s house. She had very little time between her job and being at home but time enough to do what needed to be done if only the traffic lights would work in her favor. It was if they were mocking her, turning red at every intersection. Were they waiting for her before deciding to change? Add to this, these damn drivers who all seem to have no where to go, but she did, can’t they oblige her and get the hell outta the way?

And he? Well, after two attempts to marry he chose instead to pursue married women, which soon proved habit-forming: Jesus, the fever they put out. He also had southern belle fantasies, so the two of them were made for each other. He felt she most of all fit his imagined template, musing on the ease in which after fucking her he could scoot her out the door. Of course, what actually happened never really lived up to that one, but he could still dream, couldn’t he?

The quiet ticking of his watch calibrates the anxiety. It prods at him as his end-of-the-day-old-beard used to annoy her. Now, he’s taken to shaving twice a day, just in case. He likes his willingness to be prepared.

The evening light begins to draw its stripes across him. He gets up to turn on the floorlamp and sits back down. There’s nothing to do but wait. He rubs his chin wondering, and this was not the first time either, if she’s as desperate for him as he is for her.

This type of paranoia wouldn’t have entered his head were it not for the fact that it’d been some 3 weeks since they’d been together, which was quite uncommon. Of course, there was that time when, after she waged an argument meant to end it, she made up for it by being around so much he found himself consumed with either fucking or getting a dry-vac. At that point their momentum seemed relentless. They not only wanted to consume each other but to live with every sense jacked up to the ceiling.

But sandwiched between their last and next tryst he always felt numb. And how does one get through the waiting?

He took up drinking. Now, lately he’d been drinking alot. That and calling anyone who’d listen to him, almost always late at night. Lord, there aint nothing like the combination of a telephone and liquor, 'lickra,' the way he’d heard it growing up.

She’s past due, which didn’t surprise him; after all, she blew him off at the last moment the 2 previous times. And besides, she was never on time anyway, a matter that made the vein in the center of his forehead swell; damn if she wasn’t arrogant. You would think a little punctuality would be a given in such a situation instead of being offered as a gratuity. Like, he had his issues too: abandonment, co-dependence, shit like that, which, thanks to his therapist he was at least able to admit to, just not to Nina. Isn’t that what therapists are for?

But, to be honest, all their conversations swirled with dates and times anyway--oh, and those fucking sounds. He can still hear the way she said, ". . .ummh, that dick. . ." That made him feel very special and to prove it he took to displaying his readiness as soon as she walked in. He’d really work at it too.

Like, take the last time they were together. She was splayed out on the livingroom floor, hands reaching beyond the table leg her wrists were tied to, breasts saddled with his thighs, head pommeled by the reining of her hair, mouth packed with all it could take, ears stuffed with his, "take it, white girl. . .,"the windows sweat. He couldn’t see shit and she gagged several times but they kept at it.

After he could sit up again he untied her. She hurriedly got dressed--didn’t even clean up--muttering something about how late she was and left all defiant only to call en route to say that it was so intense she just had to get away, but, after getting some distance she had to admit that she loved what they did, she just wasn’t used to being violated like that nor allowed to wallow in it. But, she liked it awright, adding, "All I can think about is your big dick in my mouth, I’ve been pressing my thighs together ever since."

No doubt trying to contain herself he mused as he hung up the phone, although, the thought didn’t produce the satisfaction he thought it would and it didn’t stop the questions that came at him in ever increasing volume: How would she explain the flush in her face, the muss of her appearance? Would her husband notice their scent, freshly laid atop the one already permeating her body from now a year of fucking? He knew he would.

Nah, she’ll get away with it. The getting away with it was a bellows keeping their crotches enflamed.

As he felt his forehead he wondered how something so potent could be so callously treated.

And adding to this the blackwhite thing was now out in the open, a whole new space to explore but they still couldn’t look at head on. He reasoned that they barely had just enough time to fuck, the abstract coloring their bodies conjured wasn’t even in the cards but in reality, come to find out, they both thought about it all the time.

Knocking steers his attention. He sighs, becomes aware of how pent up he is. He takes a deep breath.

Nina's about to knock once more when the door opens. The porch light shows off her shirtdress that’s open enough to appear downright labial. It hinted about her bra. Scalloped edges. It was a new ensemble she’d only recently purchased, wearing it for the first time. Throughout the day she returned to the sensations it emitted. Its clinginess triggered the memory of his hands on her. The new smell of the fabric mellowed as it pooled with the musk of her exertion; she was as anxious for him to smell her even as just the thought of him down there made her self-conscious.

This time things were different though. She wasn’t swatting him to get in the door. He wasn’t down there wanting to press his nose against her crotch. No remarks about how she looks. In fact, a face, silent, dark, just this side of being unrecognizable is her only greeting. Uh-oh. She starts for a moment, doesn’t know how to respond to the situation or to what she already knows his face is saying. His glare warms her insides. Her mouth opens, moves before she can find the words to form an apology for being late--a perturbed eyebrow cuts her off and beckons her inside.

She came directly from work, he can tell from the moist scent her body exudes, a spice that shifts the rhythm of his heart.

The hallway rug muffles the klik-klak of her boots. He follows closely, watching her juicy morsel of an ass work the dress, work him.

The floor lamp has reduced the size of the living room to a lighted spot, and, without any prompting, she heads for it. He stands behind her, lifts her bag off her shoulder, throws it behind him, not caring where. She turns to look at him but he stands just outside the light, his face obscured with the willfulness of a brat.

After a slight pause when she doesn’t move, he doesn’t move, the world standing still, a nod from him prompts the consequence of her decision. Her hands fumble for the buttons.

"No," speaking for the first time, "start at the bottom."

She bends slightly, casting her cleavage in shadow as she threads the bottom button through its slit, repeats the ritual with the next one above it, revealing her calves to be sheathed in blue that end mid-thigh. Glints of light accent the garters that continue up under her matching lace skirt. Only one button remains, the one just under her breasts.

"Leave it," he says. Nina halts, her eyes narrow as resignation and resistance fight for dominance.

"Sweep the dress away from your hips, I want to look at you." She does so; her consent delights him. The lingerie fragments her body and he studies each part. He walks around her, noticing long fingers resting on boyish hips. She’s holding her stomach in; he loves her little pout, she doesn’t. He faces her, then crouches. Her skin is the color of winter. The light dappling through the lace picks up the fine hairs on the inside of her thighs, how translucent they are before turning a bright orange. He sees she’s trimmed the hairs there along her thongline.

"I did that this morning, thinking of you," she says. His response is to leave the room, needing to distance himself, needing to maintain control, even though he’d like to bend her over, take her until the only sounds to be heard are the peal of her scream, the blare of his grunt.

He returns with the bureau mirror, thankful she hasn’t budged, although you’d never know it to look at him.

"You're only interested in yourself, canceling our rendezvous at the last moment, showing up late," he admonishes while setting the mirror against the wall in front of her. "You don't give a damn about my feelings." The mirror sheathes her body in light but also reflects her eagerness.

"I know it’s just your way to resist this," he continues, "but, we know you can't stay away, can you?"

"I. . .," she begins, but can't find the words for her defense. She could walk away this very moment, put an end to the tumult that underscores her life lately, go back to her husband, children, the way things used to be and leave this to something she’ll share with a trusted friend sometime in the future. Maybe after he dies. She looks to the mirror as if it held the answer, leans toward it, but only sees how needy she is, sees what he knows is true.She sees him in the mirror now as he stares at her looking back at him. She turns to look in his eyes to catch some glimpse of what he has in mind, but can’t quite see what it is, since he’s looking beyond her. She looks back to what he’s looking at: Both see her reflection. She never really noticed all those freckles before, probably from working outdoors a lot of late. His hands come around to undo the last button. He pulls the dress from her shoulders. Only then does she notice the windows are slightly louvered; how must this scene look like from the outside?

He crouches in front of her again and unclasps the stockings from its garters, pulls the lace skirt carefully over them, lifting first one leg out of it, then the other but leaving them gapped, leaving the stockings to puddle around her thighs like old socks. Her crotch is a hairy sun that beckons him. He comes closer, so near she can feel him without touching. He smells her, then smells her again. He smells she’s been wet for some time. She gasps knowing what he’s discovered. You know that feeling you feel when someone’s looking at you like there is nothing else in the world? That’s what she’s feeling but it doesn’t stop her from imagining her hairs reaching out to his face. She wags it at him.

"Did I say you could move?" he asks, standing up to her.

"No one's ever looked at me like this before."

He walks behind her again, she sees the reflection of his hands undoing the clasp of her bra and removing it. It never ceases to amaze her how dark and rich his hands are as they possess her breasts. They lazily stroke her nipples, as if there were no point to it. But her nipples need only a little coaxing, a reaction she sees makes him smile.

He backs away again, she turns to see where but he orders her to look at herself. She admires her reflection although she’s a little distracted by that rummaging sound he’s making at her feet. Whatever it is she’ll find out soon enough and gets lost in her self critique: pivots her leg inward, questions if her thighs are too fat, weighs the heft of her cheek.

"You know I'm not going to accommodate you," he says.

"What are you going to do about that?"

"It's really up to you," he says pulling up a chair in front of her and sits adding, "I want to see your ass," saying it just like that.

Nina turns to show it. Hers was an ass that made him reckless. Sure, these weren’t young cheeks, but they were mature enough to beg a second look. He didn’t know whether to stare at them or bury his face in them--just seeing them created uncertainty.

"I'm getting hot you watching me," she says, her hand heading for her crotch.

"Open your cheeks," he urges.

She does so. He has to swallow. He tells her to hold still, extends what he was holding, a very bushy makeup brush--its hairs the softest thing next to hers--and ever so lightly runs it up and around the inside of her bare thighs but has to stop as quickly as he began.

"You must keep still otherwise. . .," giving her time to imagine the end of his sentence. After a moment he begins again, this time he’s able to work his way to the swell of her ass, gets lost in the way the bristles bend to the curve of her cheek, works it down between them, brushes around but not in her hole saving that delicacy for some future use. Instead, keeps making those circles and just when she’s about to move against it--now he can tell--breaks it off.

"C'mon, give me s'more," Nina says pumping her ass at him.

"Don't be so impatient or you're not going to make it."

After she composes herself he moves his face in closer to her still spread cheeks, so close she can feel the heat of his face and--god, is he blowing in there?

Her hole restlessly opens and closes. It’s agony. She’d be grateful for anything now, the other end of that brush for instance, his lips, hell, even an eyelash. And, sure enough, as if by telepathy, he starts with the brush again, brings it up to the edge of her crotch, brushes the cleave of her ass, confounding her with its evasiveness.

"I am so hot," she says, her body trembling.

He stands and faces her, looks into her eyes, sees that whatever feral desire he has, she has also. Its shamelessness makes them smile.

"You poor girl," he says. "You think you can just show up any ole time you please, get fucked then go back to your so-called normal life?"

He leans in to whisper, "You like being naughty don't you? You like the thought that while you’re over here with your legs up in the air, hubby's just going to have to wait for his dinner."

"Oh shit I can't take it," Nina responds and starts fingering herself.

"Oh, I can see you now, rushing in, heading straight for the kitchen all the while craving and scared of the come sticking to your thighs," he says, taking her hand out of her crotch, pulling her over to the chair. "Wondering if he can smell what you been up to." His words make her shudder. He sits and pats his lap.

She tries to fit on his lap as best she can, has to awkwardly balance herself on her hands. Rick, at first, caresses her cheek, feels how smooth, firm and yielding it is, breaks character for a moment to grab some of it, but then. . .

She looks up in time to see him raise his hand. She flexes her cheeks, he brings it down on her, its rim shot bouncing off the walls. Liking the sound, he slaps her again, trying to copy its pitch.

In time to the beats, he says, "you-like-being-a slut-for-me-don't-you?"

"--Yes. . .," she says not knowing if she can say more.

"Say-it. . ."

"I-love-being-a-slut."

"Say-it-likeyou-mean-it."

"I'm a slut! I’m your slut."

"When-you-lay-downnext-tohim-you can still-feel-mydick-fillingyou-can't-you?"

"YES. I-want-your-dick," she answers, pumping in time to the rhythm he's set, she fans her scent, her thighs getting slick.

Mercifully for both of them he finally stops, then snakes his fingers between her cheeks to test her juice.

"I can feel you through your pants," Nina says, "you're so hard."

"I'm the one calling the shots," Rick answers as he trails a syrupy finger up and around the rim of her hole. He wonders if she can also feel him throbbing?

He makes her stand and walk around the room, loves her exaggerated gait, each cheek now blotched pink, moves independently of each other, a movement that mesmerizes. Thank goodness there’s something else to distract him. He walks over to the bookcase. He turns, tells her to sit. She does so, gingerly at first, shifting her weight from one stinging cheek to the other, her flesh extrudes through the slats, he imagines bacon on a griddle.

He kneels in front of her--her eyes are full as they look into his, curious as to what’s next. He kisses her lightly, then hands her a book, points to the top of page he’s earmarked, tells her to read it aloud and not to stop until he says so.

"I know this story so if you skip any passages, you’ll be sorry," he adds.

She begins, her words swirl about them; it’s a particularly good section of the book, one that’s filled with "pussy. . .cunt. . .cock," words that'll make her shake even more, it's making him shake. He slips on a latex glove ceremoniously, making sure she notices. A smile crosses her lips as her eyes dart back and forth between him and her task. He squirts some lube, rolls it between his fingers, then, lightly strokes her lips. She reacts by opening her legs, but, continues to read, although it’s getting harder to focus. Her eyebrows dig in as she tries to put one word after the other.