Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (36 page)

He wipes away my tears, wraps his arms around me. I realize it was no longer pleasurable for him either. Again he pulls me closer than close. My inner walls throb against his manhood as my outer walls crumble against his chest.

“Are you sure we can’t work this out?” I hear myself plead.

He looks at me, kisses me with the love he’s always had for me, the love he had before everything changed.

My answer is in his kiss. Nothing else is to be said.

I loosen my legs from around his waist. Feel life escaping from me as he withdraws from between my legs for the last time.

• • •

Going in the house is the last thing I want to do. I want to stay in the pool until the water doubles over with my tears and
drowns me in my apology. Doing so would be insane. It’s my fault that life has come to this point. Nobody made me do what I did. Can’t blame Trevor. Can’t blame circumstance. It was my actions.

I let my body drift to the bottom of the pool, but my damn skirt acts like a life preserver, refusing to let me sink.

What the hell? This is futile. I walk the floor of the pool toward the steps. With each step, the weight of my emotions decreases as less water engulfs me. My nipples harden as the air lays kisses on my wet skin. I take off my skirt and wrench the water from it, grab the rest of my clothes from the ground, and enter the house of loneliness.

“I thought you were going to stay out there forever.”

I use my clothes to cover my exposed flesh. “Trevor? I thought you left.”

“I did. Came back.”

“Oh” is all I’m able to say.

Neither of us look at each other, both of us probably feeling a mixture of shame and remorse from where we let our emotions take us a couple of hours ago.

“Come here,” he instructs with an outstretched hand.

Still holding on to my clothes, trying to cover as much of my private parts as possible, I take his hand and move to where he is.

He grabs an orange envelope from the dining room table and walks us over to the fireplace. He removes papers from the envelope, takes our ending in his hands, rips it to pieces. Tosses it on top of wood. Clicks the remote to the gas a few times until the hum of gas kicks in and fire slowly begins to burn what would have been our demise.

Our hands tighten around each other’s as we watch those divorce papers turn to ashes.

Trevor turns to me, says, “This is our beginning.” He clicks the remote again to shut the gas off.

Though the light from the fire diminishes, the light in my eyes glows.

Hand in hand we walk upstairs. When he opens our bedroom door, several candles are lit. Sheets are pulled back on the bed with rose petals sprinkled over it.

“Remember our honeymoon?”

I feel my cheeks spread from ear to ear. “I do.”

On my pillow, petals form a heart and a letter with my name on it is in the middle of it.

“Read it,” Trevor says. “When you’re done, join me in the bathroom.”

We decided not to write our own vows when we married. But my husband surprised me on our wedding night by putting his written vows on my pillow for my eyes only. I thought it was the sweetest thing ever. I went to a printer and had them overlay the vows over one of our wedding pictures. It’s been on my nightstand ever since.

I unfold the paper to see a resignation letter to his job.

With the letter in my hand and tears streaming down my face, I join my husband in the bathroom. “You did this for me?” I ask him.

He helps me in the tub, gets in behind me. Says, “Couldn’t imagine doing it for anyone else.”

We settle into the tub together. His legs straddle my body. I lean my head back on his chest. “I can’t believe you’re letting your job go.”

“It needed to be done. In order for this marriage to work, it had to be done.”

Nothing else needs to be said. I understand him and he understands me.

He rubs his soapy hands up and down my arms, rubs my neck. Takes a few suds and teases my nipples. He smoothes my curls to the side, whispers in my ear, “I miss making love to my wife.”

“I miss my husband making love to me.”

He kisses behind my ear. His lips make love to my burnt-almond skin. He turns my face up toward his and our lips connect. My mouth opens, his tongue greets mine. I can still taste my love on his tongue from earlier. Can feel him hardening against my back as my love below coos.

“Wait,” Trevor says. He fumbles in the water for a washcloth. He pours my favorite black orchid and velvet hibiscus body wash on it and lathers me up from my neck to my toes. He leaves no skin unclean. I take the washcloth and do the same to him. We jump in the stand-alone shower to rinse the suds off and run water through our hair to get rid of the chlorine. I hand him a bottle of lavender oil for him to rub me down before I pat myself dry. I take the bottle and do the same for him. He squeezes as much water out of his locs as possible, then carries me back into the bedroom.

Everything about tonight reminds me of our honeymoon. He did the same exact things the night we married.

He lays me on the bed ever so gently. “Turn over.”

I do as told.

He warms oil in his hands and places them on my back. He’s careful around the scratches I got from the pool. Soft kisses apologize to my tender spots. His hands work out every worry in my body, every fear, every doubt. His lips do the same thing to the opposite side of my body, starting with my face. He kisses
my forehead, my eyelids, my lips. We stay mouth to mouth for a while, slowly tonguing each other with so much passion. He sucks my bottom lip before heading further south. Locs tickle my skin as his tongue traces the roundness of my nipples. He does one then does the other. Goes back and forth before putting both breasts in his mouth at the same time. He does that and I swear the rivers of life flow from between my thighs.

His lips continue down to the land of milk and honey. “Baby, you are so wet.”

“You did that,” I say.

Instead of draping my legs over his shoulders, I spread them wide, placing one foot on each side of his rib cage. Opens me up something serious, allows him to dive face-first into my heated waters.

He licks and sucks like I’m a double scoop of ice cream melting down his cone. Surely my juices are dripping down his chin and he doesn’t want to lose one drop to the sheets.

My husband holds my hips in his hands as my freshly waxed folds grind against his face. He holds me to keep us going in the same pace. His tongue flicks my swollen clit and for a minute I lose my breath. I can’t moan, can’t yell, can’t scream my infamous, “Shit.” I fight to find air, yet I ride his face until he comes up for air.

On his way up, he stops at my breasts again and perfumes them with the scent of my love.

I feel my sweet spot revving up again, ready for round two … three … four.

He kisses me; damn near tongues me down. I try to eat my flavor off his palate. Feel myself grind against his pelvis until I find what I’m looking for. I draw him in like quicksand; feel him
hit the bottom of my pit. He makes slow, deep strokes, and enters my soul in a way he never has before.

Every stroke is an apology to what went down earlier this evening. Saying,
“I’m sorry for treating you as anything less than my wife. Sorry for pushing you into the arms of another man.”

He pulls all the way out to the tip and then glides back in. Every time he does that he promises to never leave me lonely, to always listen to what my heart says, and to be a better husband.

With every rock of my hips, I apologize for not trusting in his position as the head of this household. Every tilt of my pelvis begs for forgiveness for stepping outside of this marriage for comfort and validation.

I open my eyes and see my husband’s on me. I tell him, “I promise to never leave your side again.”

He kisses my tears and reminds me, “This is just the beginning.”

Rachel Kramer Bussel

I clutched Phil’s hand lightly, digging my red nails into his palm as we entered and gave our names before being ushered into the decked-out loft space, which had been transformed into a true sex den as befitting the city’s most erotically adventurous. I’d been there for sex parties before, but those felt like they’d taken place in another lifetime; since I’d started dating Phil six months before, it had just been the two of us. He’d swept me off my feet, literally—we’d met at an ice-skating rink, where I’d decided, on a whim, to try it, even though I hadn’t skated since I was a little girl. I felt a little silly in my short skirt, my mocha legs bare, my little red sweater hugging my breasts, but I couldn’t resist the idea of ice skating in downtown L.A. on a gloriously sunny day in a mostly empty rink.

Once I’d started, I’d found that thrill came back to me, tinged with an edge of something a bit more adult as my short black skirt fluttered in the breeze. As I was sailing along, feeling free and happy, a tall, thin white guy had skated over and offered me his hand, then proceeded to make me feel like we were in the Olympics, flying around the rink and then holding me up in a victory pose before lowering me down, our lips almost but not quite meeting.

The tension had simmered between us for the entire hour we skated. After a while, I stopped thinking about the fact that he
was a stranger, that we were in public, that he was white, a rarity in my dating landscape—not because I have anything against white guys. I just don’t tend to meet any I click with that often. His name was Phil and he was a writer, taking a break from being cooped up in his studio to get a little exercise. I’d taken the day off from my job in advertising on a whim. The fact that he was clearly interested in me, but not outright hitting on me endeared him to me.

By the time we took a break for hot chocolates, I was dying to kiss him, but as confident as I usually was with guys, I’d suddenly turned shy, waiting for him to make the first move. “Do you want to go on a proper date?” he asked as I blew on my drink, the steam heating my cheeks.

“I’d love to,” I replied.

“Where should we go?” he asked, then blushed, clearly thinking he should’ve been the one to make a plan. But I didn’t mind, and only at the end of that date did he live up to the promise of his full, beautiful lips. When they pressed against mine, I forgot the fact that I’d sworn off serious relationships, not to mention that I was five years older than him, because he made me tingle all the way to my toes with just a look.

Somehow, he turned me, a thirty-three-year-old woman, into a blushing teenager. I wanted to make out with him for hours, and I did, that day, before we even got a chance to go on our first official date—followed by so much more. He took every step of sex seriously, savoring the time he spent sucking on my breasts, playing with my sex, urging me not to rush when I moved to whisk our clothes off. Most of my other lovers had been eager to get to the main event, but Phil was a revelation. He managed to worship my body in a way that made me feel like a queen, and maybe that’s why I had trouble thinking of him the
way I was used to thinking of guys: as potential tops, men who’d treat me like the dirty girl I longed to be.

With Phil, though, I was too busy having multiple orgasms, my body on an extended high, to miss the more perverted aspects of sex. Even when we weren’t together, he had a way of saying something suggestive that wormed its way into my brain and then simmered down lower and lower. We were having such a good time that I hadn’t thought about adding anyone else to the mix or offering up my truly kinky side. I was beginning to think that part of me was dead until I was cleaning on a rare weekend day I wasn’t spending with Phil and found my stash of porn. It featured women getting spanked by men and women, and the sight of it immediately made my heart race. I love being spanked—the harder, the better.

It has nothing to do with my upbringing; the first time a man took me across his lap, I was in college. He was ten years older than me, a scholarly black guy who ultimately deemed me too frivolous, but once he got his glasses off, he could really deliver a wallop. I liked that he couldn’t rationalize or intellectualize his interest, either; he just knew he liked the way I squealed when he smacked me, liked how wet it made me.

I popped in the video, pulled out my favorite rabbit vibrator, and spent the next hour lost in sensation, remembering the feel of the men and women who’d spanked me right here in my bedroom and at the parties I used to attend before Phil. Only when I was done coming did I wonder what Phil would think of those events. First of all, I’d never taken a white guy. There were other interracial couples who attended, and everyone was totally chill. I didn’t think any of them would judge me, but still—was I ready for that? Was I ready to show him that side of me, to take on any baggage he might have?

I wouldn’t say he put me on a pedestal, exactly—he had no problem pulling my hair while I sucked his cock or occasionally “ordering” me into a certain position—but overall, he did treat me like a queen. He took care of me in bed and out, and to suddenly ask him to show me off like the slut I wanted to be, for the night, anyway, seemed like a bold leap. But I knew if I didn’t ask him, I’d only resent him for holding me back, and that’s not hot at all.