ED

She smiled up at me, slowly spreading her legs, and idly starting to finger her expanding clit (idle, my ass ... she knew exactly what she was doing ... Chickie, being Chickie).

She said, "Get yer needle handy, stud luv. I need some hard lovin', and you're elected." Matching actions to her words, she reached into my bedside table, pulled out the loaded and cocked auto-injector I'd learned to have ready, made a quick swipe with an alcohol pad at my flaccid cock, and SNAP, I was about a quarter-hour away from a massive erection.

Thinking I'd use the time between that moment and rigidity, I asked, curiously, "You're saving for what, lover?"

Momentarily at a loss for words, she gulped, as she positioned her rounded body sort of alongside and on top of mine, saying, "Don't laugh. Don't you dare laugh, or I'll bite you on your ... your ... well, somewhere that hurts, that I'm not gonna use in a few minutes."

"Tell me," I demanded, grasping and releasing her bare butt.

Chickee started leaking tears, very unexpectedly, as she said, "I wanna go to film school."

"Film school," I echoed.

"Yeah, there's one in Philadelphia, and I can get there on the bus and the commuter train and the subway. I'd almost saved enough, this time, for the first semester, but now ..."

"Go on," I gently prodded, squeezing the other butt cheek. My cock was starting it's slow rise, as Chickie, almost absently (yeah, sure) turned her head a bit and lightly kissed the slowly rising head.

"I wanna learn to use a camera and direct and learn to shoot Indie films and make up my own stuff. I don't wanna waitress forever. I wanna make real quality videos, about stuff, you know, stuff I do and see."

She went on, for quite a while, about how she'd saved to go to school, and how she didn't know what she do about getting the equipment together, but she'd been scanning the lists of used and obsolete stuff.

She was wiggling over on top of me, my growing penis popping out from between her legs, her breasts doing a slow, tantalizing dance across my chest. For Chickie, being Chickie, this was just another way she had to communicate. She was making it very plain that she was 'all girl,' and that her aching pussy was 'sooo empty' and needed filling by my huge hard pulsing manhood.

Thoughts of my three million dollars floated to the surface of my mind, a lot of which I really didn't need for income right now. And I thought about the plastic jars in the basement. And I thought of how much I loved her.

I was completely erect, at my fully-extended 8½" length, and thick, as she got up on her haunches, positioned my quivering, supersensitive penis at her pussy opening, and slid down on to me.

Trying not to groan in pleasure, I managed to get out, "OK, Chickie. You need an 'angel.' Someone to support your dream. That's me. Lets go tomorrow, sign you up for courses, and get the stuff you need. First class stuff. And, I'd better get you a motor scooter, so you can get around on your own" Then I did groan, and looked up.

For the first and only time, ever, I saw Chickie, fully impaled on a large, thick, erect male cock, motionless and open-mouthed in shock. I'll cherish that ten-second pause the rest of my life.

At the 11th second, she suddenly came to life, and began a jarring, slow rise and a fast, hard muscular drop, driving my cockhead deep into her body with each stroke, breasts jerking and dancing on her torso. I groaned with intense pleasure each time.

"You really mean that?" THRUST. Groan, "Yeah."

"You'll pay for my semester?" THRUST. Groan, "All your semesters.'

"All the way through school?" THRUST. Gasp, "Yeah."

"Even if it costs a lot." THRUST. Groan, "Whatever it takes."

"Cameras and lights and all the stuff. THRUST. Little shriek. "All of it."

"Even a motor scooter?" THRUST. THRUST. HIP WIGGLE. Gasp. A little male scream and the intensity of the sex. "Yeah, a motor scooter goes with the deal."

"Why?" THRUST. THRUST. HIP WIGGLE. Groan. "Because!"

"Tell me, you hard-cocked stud!" THRUST. HIP ROTATION. BREAST AND NIPPLE SHOVED INTO MOUTH. THRUST. Ah, Ah, Ah. "Because I love you, too, and want you to be happy, and succeed, and because I can."

"I'm CUMMING," she screamed, as her body went rigid in orgasm. Then my maddened penis and I were subjected to a madwoman's sex dance, with a hysterically-happy near-nymphomaniac thrusting and surging on my lubricated body. Lubricated by all the female squirting and multi-orgasms. Grunting and noises make in the back of her throat, as she sang to herself, "I don't have to waitress. No, I don't have to waitress. I don't have to waitress any more. No more dollar tippers, no more dumb butt pinches. I DON'T HAVE TO WAITRESS ANY MORE! And the sex is always free, free, free."

After a longish time, while I lay there and received Chickie's sexing, I came, squirting my loving semen into the deepest depths of her flowing womanhood.

I fell asleep, while she was still quietly and carefully playing with my still-hardened penis, using her vaginal muscles to massage and swirl my invading, penetrated cock.

No dreams, this time.

The next day, Chickie and her armed escort went to the restaurant, and got her purse, coat, back pay and tips. The manager threatened lawyers, and tried to pull out a baseball bat, so he was left with a broken arm, after being slammed up against his own hot griddle, and briefly had his buttocks cooked in the fire. I doubted if he would lawyer up—bullies threaten, but seldom carry through if they can't terrorize—but I'd made sure that the uniform shirt and name-tag my armed acquaintance wore bore the name of a security company and employee that didn't exist. That was the last we heard from him.

That afternoon, I took Chickie down to Center City in Philadelphia, and enrolled her in the first semester of film school. I outfitted her with still and video cameras, batteries, lenses, tripods, audio gear, on and on. Then we went back home, and got the small mountain of gear into the basement, where we' decided would be her studio. Finally, we went to the scooter store, and got her a 150 cc Vespa and the needed accessories, insurance, etc. It turned out that my lovely filmmaker-to-be was already an expert scooter rider, having learned in England.

And last, I went up stairs, knocked on Shayla's door and—with Chickie's permission—told her what I'd done, and what I said. My lover listened to me, looked over at Chickie, behind me, and slowly smiled. She said, "Golly, I'm sorry I missed the fun. Chickie, show me how you did that thing with your thrusts, that he likes so much. Am I gonna get to be in some of your pictures? Do I have to keep my clothes on? Can you get his big penis inside me so that it shows in a video? Can I do that leg-up thing, when David first came over? Can I talk to you, and say everything that's happening?"

She added, shyly smiling, "I love the both of you so much. Make love again for me, just the way you did, while I watch. Please?"

I will never understand women.

- - - - -

A few months later, Chickie was at her classes and gone a lot, I was trying to read, down in the living room of the house. It was early evening, and Shayla had come home a couple of hours early. I was trying to read several publications about the coming financial and mortgage bubble, and when it was supposed to burst.

I said I was 'trying' to read, because Shayla was 'modeling' her latest piece of swimwear. Perhaps you've heard of the Wicked Weasel line of exotic-erotic bikinis. Well, these were considered tame by Brazilian standards, where the new rage in beachwear was a two-piece outfit, which loosely translates from the Brazilian Portugese as 'dental floss.' What there was of it.

With Shayla's very dark black skin, the screaming, day-glo red of the three scraps of sheer cloth, connected by tiny strands of thread, left nothing to the imagination. Nothing except major, overwhelming lust, of course. She was in that 'just lounging around the house with the boyfriend' mode of slithering movement, designed with malice aforethought, to create a situation of rape and penetration.

Suddenly, her mood changed, and she snuggled in, laying across my lap, with her head on my limp penis. I looked down in surprise, but not in terror. Mood swings were her stock in trade, since she was female.

"Oh pretty provider of Brazilian-accented jungle-juice, beside your pretty nipples, what's up?"

"Humph. Jungle-juice again. My poor nipples, made all hard and sensitive by your voice. Are you STILL on that race thing, wanting Mandingo sex from this poor, down-trodden, helpless, victimized black slut sex kitten?"

"Well, since you put it that way ... yes, I am," I replied grinning, knowing that, since our first night in the motel, my dark-skinned negress lover totally loved watching my hard white cock plunging in and out of her body, talking race-sex, until she started squealing and cumming.

"Oh. OK, I'm glad that's settled, 'cause it looks like you're gonna have to wallow in a lot more jungle-juice for a while. I quit my job today."

I knew she was trying to make light of it, but, despite my Shayla being thoroughly sexual and deeply mine, she was careful with her money, investments and her work. If she quit, it was because of major, deep, cluster-fucked doo-doo.

Looking up at me, bright red cloth and thread contrasting with warm, living black flesh, she said, "You're reading about the financial bubble, particularly in sub-prime mortgages. Well, the little company I worked for was bought out a few weeks ago by one of the big lenders in the U. S., and the lending policies changed. We're all ordered to make as much money as possible, doing those NINJA mortgage deals.

"NINJA?" I asked.

"No Income, No Job or Assets. The 'liar loans.' I had two folks call and come in, looking for a mortgage to buy a house. One guy barely spoke English and did yard work and landscaping, and his wife didn't speak any English at all. I tried to find out how much money they had to put down, and what size of house they needed. My God, when I found out that they were applying for a $500,000 house, and had been advised to get an Option-ARM loan, with those really low 'teaser rates, I tried to steer them away. Suddenly, my new boss literally snatched the application papers away from me, and gave them to one of the new hires, a brash, young, 'master-of-the-universe' type, white, straight out of school and arrogant as shit."

"The woman next in line just wanted a little one bedroom cottage, with a small, 15-year conventional loan. I thought this was OK, but my new boss very pointedly insisted that I finance her in an ARM, into a 12-room McMansion. When he wouldn't, I got that snatched away from me, too, with the comments about a 'smart-assed black bitch.' You know I don't take 'bitch' from anyone."

I looked down at my Shayla, kind of knowing where this discussion was heading, and said, "I don't call you that, even when I'm screaming and filling you with a million of my potential relatives."

"I know you don't, stud. You never will," she said.

I continued, "Of course, I do remember you saying ... let me think ... oh yeah, something about 'make me your slut,' and 'bang my brains out,' and 'rape me,' and 'hurt me with your big hard penis,' and ..."

"Oh, well," she said, giggling and making her thread-held boobs bounce and sway, "that's different!"

She went, saying, "I got called on the carpet, and told exactly what the new rules were. I was ordered to make the biggest loans possible, for the largest houses possible, to anyone who said they had money. When I tried to argue, I was told that I was being demoted, and my commission was being cut, and that my new supervisor was that arrogant young white prick that got my last two contacts."

"Seething, when I got back to my sesk, there was mister white prick, sitting on my desk, legs spread open, with his feet on my chair seat. He held out an application paper for a loan, and simply ordered me to sign it, sight unseen. I took it from his hand and, sight unseen, ran it into the shredder beside my desk. Then he got all mad and red-faced, and, in the hearing of about thirty people in the office, called me his 'black nigger slave,' and ordered me to get down on my knees and suck his cock."

"I threatened him and the company with a sex-harassment suit. I heard a chuckle, and, turning around, I saw my new boss standing behind me. He said, "Nothing happened. I'll swear to that, and so will everybody here, if they want to keep their jobs. So start sucking my nephew, or get out."

"So I snatched up my coat and purse, yelled 'I quit, your muthafuckers' and walked out. I heard them screaming at me as I left, that they'd make sure I never worked in finance again, anywhere around here."

"When I cooled down, the next day (that was when you had to go back to Mansfield, to sign off on the two depositions for the civil suits from your job), I started to call my network contacts, to land another job, only to find that they'd kept their word, and that I was, quite illegally but very effectively, blacklisted in the Delaware Valley area financial services companies.

"So, my peerless penetrator and deep-drinker of my special frothy cocktail of vodka, pina colada mix and jungle-juice, you'd better plan on seeing a lot more of me, starting with sucking on my tits now and sleeping with me tonight, 'cause I don't have a job to occupy my time."

I clutched my groin, pecker and balls, in mock-agony, crying piteously, "Oh, no, another demand that I drive a steel spike into my tender penis, just to provide liquid love to a demanding female."

Shayla grinned up at me, holding both her dark, pointed breasts at the base, stiffened aurolae and nipples pointed straight up, and said, "Damn straight, luv, as Chickie would say."

Her lovely black-skinned breast nipples fitted exactly into my mouth, and I was terribly busy for the next several minutes, as I strove to push her over into orgasm. I succeeded. She shook, squealed and spasmed strongly, legs kicking and hips thrusting. She'd been taking breast sensitivity lessons from Melanie.

The front door slammed open, and then closed, as Chickie burst through the vestibule and into the foyer. Spotting Shayla and me on the couch, as she shed her coat, and grabbed up her two camers and the digital video camcorder, saying, "call out when you two start to fuck, I wanna watch, gotta go and process this shit," and burst into the dining room, into the kitchen and down the basement stairs to her editing and filming studio.

"Hurricane Chickie, I do believe," I said.

Gasping from her nipple orgasm, Shayla just smiled lazily.

More seriously, I asked, "so you're out of loan work, and you've been blacklisted pretty effectively. Have you ever thought of doing something else, related to financial stuff?"

"You know I did, you lying bastard," she giggled, "I remembered I talked to you that 2nd night in the motel, when I was up on the table in front of the window."

"well, yeah, but you gotta remember, I was a little distracted right then, since I'd become a widower, and found a black panther love-godess girlfriend, all at the same time."

"Let's see," I said, "I remember you said you studied investment banking in school, but you didn't get to complete your MBA, and had to go to work, and never went back to it. I remember you said that you had yourself for a client, and that you'd managed your portfolio well, with a 'buy-and-hold' investment strategy, and that you didn't try to 'time the market,' 'cause only fools did that. I remember that, without telling me anything specific about money, you'd lived off about half your commission income, and banked the other half."

"How did I do?" I asked.

Shayla held her eyes wide open, in semi shock, as she said, "you remember ALL that, while still porking me within an inch of my life, shooting God know how much spunk into me, there, potentially in public, something you've never done before. Damn, man, you're GOOD!"

Surging up from my lap, she kissed me very thoroughly and wetly.

Taking all my courage in hand, I looked down at my sexy lover and said, "So, can I offer you a paid position as my financial advisor? One of several to come, I'm sure. You charge by the hour, to manage my money for me. That includes my sponsorship of Chickie, her film school, her scooter and her share of the house expenses. What do you say?"

Very quietly and carefully, my coal-black lover looked up at me, wide-eyed, and said, "I'd have to know exactly what all monies and investments you had. That's everything. No financial privacy. I'd know just about everything about you."

Just as quietly and carefully, I said, "I think you do right now, lover. You know all about my penis and how to harden it. You know how long I can last inside you. You know that I'm an old softie inside. You know that I love you, and through you, I love Chickie and Melanie. You've watched and orgasmed as my hips drove my cock into your two best friends. You know I want to make love to you, and care for you and watch you succeed."

"So," I concluded, "what's your answer?"

There was a short space of time, about three long breaths long, and I heard a tiny, very feminine, "yes."

"Good," I added, starting to get up, pulling my barely-clad lover with me. "Let's go upstairs, and get started. Turn your 'professional clock' on, this instant. You can bill me at the end of the month. We'll work out what you charge, later. I'll take care of, say, half of the household expenses, until you get on your small-business feet."

I hauled her upstairs, chattering and objecting. To save time, I just slung her over my shoulder to climb the stairs to the 3rd floor, and plopped her down at my computer. I made a quick list of what folders my financial stuff was in, gave her the passwords, and then ... walked out of my own room. Leaving behind an utterly lovely, barely-dressed, sexy, African-American financial advisor, already absorbed in the details of my money's present and future.

And I spent the night in her bed, too. Mostly, in her.

-- - - -

It was sort of the same dream, but with differences. I'm dressed in dress shoes, slacks, a white shirt and a leather jacket, open at the front. I come inside. There are a lot of candles around, but half are out and some of the rest are blue and guttering. The air is foul with the smells of sweat and spilled semen, and it might have poisoned me, if I'd been breathing it. I stepped over human forms littering the day room and glanced over the pile of humanity on the pool table. I knew Sylvia was underneath the pile, but I also knew there wasn't anything I could do, then, 'cause they were all dead. The stove was giving out blasts of heat, and I saw the vent was closed, with her robe hanging on the handle, just like I'd told her not to do, so many times. I carefully inspected the the handle, to see if the small 'detent' was there, to hold the handle open, but I couldn't find it. Then, stooping and groping under the pool table, careful not to get the drools of jism on my gloved hands, I lifted out several sturdy plastic jars, full of a dense, dark material. One-by-one, I carried these out to my waiting car. Hefting the last one, I noticed that my fly was open and that I had an erection. I said to no-body, "fuck you and the night-mare you rode on, here."

Then I snapped awake.

- - - - -

By 2007, it was clear that the mortgage bubble (to be followed by the secured-debt and unsecured credit-card debt bubbles) had burst, and that it was also clear to anyone with a lick of sense that the economy was going into the toilet. I called all the girls together in a serious meeting (that is, they were all dressed from the waist down, and I wasn't made to be hard ... just yet). I suggested that I used my money to buy out what was left of the mortgage on the house. They argued some, but not hard, as we all agreed that we were a family, and that all our sex was entirely separate from financial matters. Beside, I'd made a chunk of money, after my portfolio of investments was 're-balanced' by my new financial advisor (Shayla).