Zane's Erotica Noir eMonthly

December 2000

BlackGentlemen.com has gone live.  Come on over and visit my new site at http://www.blackgentlemen.com  I am still looking for bachelors as well as for positive African-American males to showcase on BlackGentlemen.com.  Please spread the word about the site.  If you would like to join the mailing list for BlackGentlemen.com, please send a blank email to BlackGentlemen-subscribe@topica.com 

ZANE'S EROTICA NOIR: THE ANTHOLOGIES

I am seeking submissions from both MALES and FEMALES for an African-American erotica anthology series I will be editing.  Please send your poems and/or stories to me at zane@eroticanoir.com

You can also mail the hard copy (preferred) to:

Zane, c/o Strebor Books International LLC, Post Office Box 10127, Silver Spring, MD 20914.

I am looking for the unusual.  Don't assume I won't publish your work until you hear it from me.  It is time for the African-American sexual revolution.  I said that a long time ago.  Now it amuses me that a lot of the top publishing houses are scrambling to get in on Black Erotica.  Well, my anthologies will be unlike any other.  I am not going to say why because someone might steal my ideas, but it will.  

Like all anthologies, payment will run about $100 per story and $25 per poem.  This is about getting exposure for your writing, not unlike the Features Section on EroticaNoir.com.

JOKES

A little boy's first day in school and a teacher was going to play a "guessing" game. She passed out different items to each of the students and proceeded to ask each student what item they received. When it was the new boy, Jimmy's turn, the teacher gave him a candy kiss. She asked, "Do you know what it is?" Jimmy replied "No."  The teacher said, "Go ahead and open it up and taste it." Little Jimmy did so. The teacher then asked, "Now do you know what it is?"  Little Jimmy said, "Nooooo." The teacher said, "I'll give you a hint...it is something your daddy wants from your mommy every morning before he goes to work."A little girl in the back of the class jumps up and screams, "JIMMY, SPIT IT OUT.......IT'S A PIECE OF ASS."

There was a father who was very proud of his three daughters. Every night he took a stroll around the house to make sure everything was all right. One night when he was doing his stroll, he could hear laughter coming from his youngest daughter's room. He stood there for a while and thought about this, but reached the conclusion that he could always ask her tomorrow, instead of bothering her at this time of the night. When he reached the window of his second daughter, he could hear her crying. He thought about this too, but ultimately he decided to ask her tomorrow and continued. There were no sounds at all coming from his oldest daughter's room, and he then went to bed, satisfied. The next day, when they all were gathered around the breakfast table, he said to his youngest daughter, "I heard you laughing last night, as I walked past your window. Why was that?" She answered, "That's because you taught me to laugh when someone was making me happy." He then asked his second daughter, "I heard you crying last night, why was that?" She answered "That's because you taught me to cry when someone was hurting me." He then told his oldest daughter, "I didn't hear anything from you..." She said, "That's because you taught me not to talk with my mouth full."

A blonde decided that since she had a little time on her hands, she could earn a few extra dollars doing some handy-man (woman?) kind of jobs in the neighborhood. She went to a neighbor’s house and asked the man if there was anything she could do to earn some money. The man said, Sure, I’ll give you $50 to paint my porch. The paint and brushes are right outside. I was going to do it today, but I’ll let you do it. The blonde thanked him, and went off to paint the porch. The man proudly went to his wife and announced, I just got that dizzy blonde down the street to paint my whole porch for $50! Wait until she finds out that it goes all the way around the house! About twenty minutes later the blonde returned, proudly announcing that she was done. Impossible! exclaimed the man. No said the blonde, As a matter of fact, I had some extra paint, so I gave it two coats. And then the blonde added, Oh, by the way, that’s not a porch - it’s a Ferrari.

A small guy goes into an elevator, looks up and notices a huge dude standing next to him. The big dude looks down upon the small guy and says, "7 feet tall, 350 pounds, 20 inch penis, 3 pound left testicle, 3 pound right testicle, Turner Brown." The small guy faints. The big dude picks up the small guy and brings him to, slapping his face and shaking him and asks the small guy, "What's wrong with you?" The small guy says, "Excuse me, but what did you say?" The big dude looks down and says, "7 feet tall, 350 pounds, 20 inch penis, 3 pound left testicle, 3 pound right testicle, Turner Brown." The small guy says, "Thank God! I thought you said "Turn around'."

There was this virgin that was going out on a date for the first time and she told her grandmother about it. So, the grandmother says sit here and let me tell you about those young boys. He is going to try to kiss you, you are going to like that but, don't let him do that. He is going to try to feel your breast, you are going to like that but, don't let him do that. He is going to try to put his hand between your legs, you are going to like that but, don't let him do that. But most important, he is going to try to get on top of you and have his way with you. You are going to like that but, don't let him do that, it will disgrace the family!!! With that bit of advise, the granddaughter went on her date and could not wait to tell her grandmother about it. So, the next day she told her grandmother that her date went just like she said. But, she said grandmother I didn't let him disgrace the family. When he tried.... I turned over, got on top of him, and disgraced his family!!!!

The Other Woman

By Private Joy

Copyright©2000

All Rights Reserved

What can I say?  Private Joy is back with yet another freaky tales for everyone.  Enjoy!  Zane

I know you have heard the story before. How "the other woman" met a man, maybe yours, fell in love with him and stole him away from "his woman." But come on ladies, most of you know better than that. I mean some brothers are just dogs and that's how women like myself end up on the receiving end of what you aren't getting at home. Cause honestly most of the time I don't want your man's love and I make no pretenses about us being "together." If you find out about me I'll be the first one to call it off cause I don't need the drama but honestly do you think I'd be there if he wasn't calling. Your men, and I use the term loosely, can't get enough of women that don't expect anything back from them.

Like this one brother I know, let's call him Jamal. Jamal got skills from here to eternity and that's all I needed from him. If he opened up a school I would be referring some brothers and of course I'd volunteer for those in class demonstrations. But I digress. I met Jamal at a club of all places. Bad relationship scene, good for sex though which is all I wanted that night. I was in a long skin tight black dress that was low cut and a split on my thigh almost up to my panty line. For some reason I was into rocking thigh high boots at the time so I had on my matching black boots and some stockings of course. Can't be looking rambunctious in the boots and no hose. By the time Jamal came into my line of vision I was already hot and sweaty. My hair was sticking to the side of my face and my nipples were acting like radar detectors. Good thing they were because I felt a tingle right before I turned around into Jamal's chest.

The man radiated sex and I was facing his chest because a sister is short, five foot something on a good day and he was a good six foot four. Anyway he parted through my girls like he was crossing the Red Sea and leaned down so that his perfectly formed lips were at my ears and began speaking. 

"I know you didn't come with me but are you going to tell your girls you are leaving now or must I wait here all night?"

Now it wasn't like I wasn't going to sleep with him but the way he asked just irked my nerves so I had to be a bitch about it. Told him to fuck himself and leave me alone. We ended up arguing in the middle of the club until our respective group of friends drug us away from each other. I went home with my girls and slept with my boyfriend instead. So I didn't mention him before, not crucial to the story.

It was several months later when I went back to the club but this time I had on a wee bit more clothing. I came in my favorite pair of jeans, a tank top and what my girls call my "fuck me" boots. I saw Jamal standing with his boys before they finished carding my behind and it was on from there. Instead of letting him make the first move, I strutted (have no choice in those boots) over to him and took his hand in mine. He hesitated as I started to pull him away but when I grabbed his dick he began to follow me. I took him to a chair at the corner of the bar and had him sit next to me.

"Now, I'm gonna give you a second chance to be a gentleman about this. We both know that we are going to fuck each other silly as soon as we leave here but you don't have to be so blunt about it in front of the crew."

He looked at me for a minute before he started talking. "Are you crazy or do you have a twin because I tend to not fuck women who curse me out in the middle of the dance floor?"

I was horny again that night and my nipples were on fire just sitting next to him so there was no way in hell he was getting away that night. "Darling there's only one of me. I'm not crazy but I do have to maintain a modicum of respect in front of the girls, and unlike most women I'll have you addicted to everything about me before you finish cumming tonight." It must have been the way I was stroking his hardening dick but Jamal just shook his head and officially introduced himself.

"The name is Jamal and so there's no misunderstanding, I have a woman."

"That's cool honey cause I have a man and then some.  My name is Diane." I leaned in and licked from the front of his throat up to his chin and said, "Let's go."

I gave my girls the nod on the way out and he caught his keys from one of his boys as he passed by. We got into his big black Expedition and I laid back into the big plush seats. I took off the tank top so he could get a nice look at the twins, 42D and growing.  I know that breast reduction is in my future. The black strapless bra was struggling to support its load when he leaned over and popped out the nipple closest to him. He sucked it into his mouth and provided one of the best tongue baths my nipples have ever received. It sent a charge straight down to my clit and before I knew it my panties were soaked. I had to push his head up and tell him to drive so I could enjoy what my hands had been caressing.

We went back to my place because it was closer and a hell of a lot safer. He could have been dangerous or something, ha ha. Anyway I was stepping out of my clothes as soon as I locked the door behind me. I told him to do the same and follow me as I picked up the cordless phone and called my boyfriend. "Darling I'm home but I'm tired so don't come by tonight. I'm okay. Don't worry about it. I just think I'm going to go to bed early and I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning." I hung up the phone and put it on the nightstand as Jamal came up for air.

"Do you always remain calm when a brother is sucking on your clit?"

"Only when I'm talking to my man. Now roll over.  I see the number 69 in your future."

He rolled onto his back and I climbed on top of his face. There is nothing like sitting on a man's tongue. I tell you.  Well, unless you are sitting on a woman's tongue but that's a whole different story. As soon as he had snaked his long tongue back into my pussy I leaned over and started licking his dick. Now I know this is going to sound strange but the boy tasted like cocoa. Sweet and rich and it was all I needed to start my oral Olympics. I wrapped my tongue around the head and watched as it grew in diameter. I took a deep breath and started swallowing his dick as I closed my eyes and enjoyed the feeling he was giving to my mouth and clit. We both started cumming at the same time and the harder he licked the harder I sucked and before you knew it we were both exploding all over each other. I swallowed some but the rest I rubbed into my tits as he unleashed his grip on my clit.

When our breathing returned to normal, he pulled me up next to him and started kissing me. As if it was possible his lips tasted sweeter than his dick did but that might have been due to my lubricating the area. Regardless he had me sopping wet in no time so I had to start giving him head again so he could give me what I really wanted. I moved down so that my face was being smothered by his crotch and slid his dick into my mouth. When he was soft he tasted like a Tootsie Roll which was too funny to me so I giggled around his dick. He moaned and then pulled my ass back up towards him. The next breath I took I felt his fingers plunging into my ass and pussy. That was all she wrote cause I came on his hands but I also increased the speed and pressure of the head I was giving him. Every stroke up was making him harder and every stroke down got me wetter. 

He pulled his fingers out and pushed me on my back. He climbed on top of me and plunged that hammer into my pussy. My pussy started grabbing at his dick every time it left the confines of my warmth. He started long stroking me and I felt my eyes start fluttering and like I was about to pass the hell out. When I looked up he was smiling at me before he said, "You can't go to sleep yet darling."

He pulled out of me and I swear I let out a whimper. He rolled me over and pulled me up on my knees and then told me to brace myself. I should have listened because he gave me all ten inches at once. My eyes shot opened and I moaned out a string of expletives. 

"Now if you had just played nice at first I wouldn't have to fuck you drunk tonight but I know we'll both be friends in the morning."

He started the long strokes but mixed it in with some swirl thing before he stuck his thumb in my ass and started lubing it up for the next round of festivities. I knew he was right of course and I thought that as I felt my pussy contracting around his dick once again. I was having more orgasms that night than I ever remembered having before. We moved in and out of so many positions I think we made the Karma Sutra obsolete. All I felt all over my body was pleasure. We collapsed in a heap in the center of my bed around two hours later. He had probed every hole on my body and I had licked him so many times I knew every nook and cranny on his body.

We talked before drifting off into sleep. Turns out he didn't have a girl, that was his club line before sex to see if it would be worth telling the truth. But I did have a man so I wasn't going to fill that position for him. Any other one he thought of was fine with me but I couldn't be that woman. Women came and went and we kept doing our thing. My man has long since exited the picture but that gave me more time to devote to being the ultimate sexual diva that I have become. We are still cool now but in the long run it was a good thing that I never assumed the alpha female role in his life because his monogamy record is horrible. Now you might be thinking that's my fault but technically I had him first so that would make you The Other Woman.

Scar Tissue

By Cole Riley

Copyright©2000

All Rights Reserved

Cole Riley is the author of The Devil to Pay, Dark Blood Moon, Hot Snake Nights, and The Killing Kind.  Published by Holloway House/All America Distributors, the same people that bring you the bomb ass novels by Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines, Cole Riley shoots straight from the hip with his words and takes no prisoners.  Cole is the male advice columnist for BlackGentlemen.com so if you want a man's outtake on a situation, email him at Cole@blackgentlemen.com

Meanwhile, enjoy...

The preliminary bouts were still going on at the Garden. Tony "The Tiger" Munford is getting his fists taped in his dressing room by his trainer and manager, "Squirrel" Flynn, the guy who found him on the street. He has about a half hour before he is on. Legend has it that Tony was beating the hell out of a ruffneck who was much taller and bigger than him in an alley when Flynn and some of his gym buddies walked up. They didn’t stop the dusting, instead the men watched the younger man give the older tough a taste of redemption with his fists. After Tony finished his handiwork, Flynn, the crazy white man, strolled over to him and asked him if he wanted to escape the projects.

"I looked at him like he was missing a screw in his head," Tony tells the New York Daily News reporter, who is interviewing him just before tonight’s fight with Duke Zale, a prep bout for the elimination fight in December with Cruz. "What dude wouldn’t want to better himself. And the Pink Houses, that’s the projects, in East New York ain’t no joke."

"Where’s East New York, Tony?" the reporter, a young black woman with a sturdy frame that wasn’t hard on the eyes, says. "I’m from Chicago. This is my second interview today. First day on the job."

"You like the city?" the boxer asks, testing the wrapping by pushing punches into the outstretched hand of Flynn. "Yeah, East New York is in Brooklyn. In the heart of darkness."

"I like the city so far. I’ve only been in town four days. So Tony, what did you do before you became a boxer?" She writes something on her pad and Tony tries to see, but she moves out of his view.

Tony looks at his trainer quickly with a quizzical face. "I gave up on school so I used to roll drunks and squares. Easy marks. But that ain’t no way to make real cash. So I listened to what this white man here had to say, make the cash money fair and square in the ring. That was five years ago, right Tony?"

"Don’t you worry that you’ll get hurt in the ring?" she asks. "It happens, you know. Aren’t you afraid of that?"

"Yeah, what fighter ain’t afraid of getting hurt. But you gotta take a risk. Hey, there are millions of fighters out there waiting for the opportunity to make something of themselves. Like me, they’re afraid that there will be nothing left for them. That time will pass them by."

"You’re a strange man for a boxer," she says, wanting to squeeze one of his monstrous biceps. "You sound like a philosopher."

He smiles, stretching his arms out to flex the tendons. "I come from proud black folk. None of my people ever took a handout, no welfare for us. We did for ourselves and did alright for a long time. My father worked two jobs for years until my mother left him for this slick hood rat. She used to clean white people’s houses up in Westchester somewhere. Did that for years. I don’t know what she does now. Ain’t talked to her for years. She left us when I was fifteen."

"I’m sorry." She says it like she means it.

"Said my father didn’t pay her enough attention, said he wasn’t around enough. That messed him and messed all of us kids too. After she left, my father turned to drinking, whoring around, and we took to the streets. My young brother, Edgar, got mixed up with a band of thugs, robbed an ice cream store and got shot in the neck. He can’t move anything but his legs. My older brother, Teddy, has a moving business, married a white girl, drives a white BMW. We don’t see him at all. The brother right under me, Larry, joined the army, went AWOL in the Philippines, and that was that."

"It seems like your family has had nothing but bad luck."

"Maybe so, maybe so," he says glumly. "I think the curse has caught up with me. I killed a man in the ring two fights ago. I’m a murderer. Flynn says it’s no big thing, says it happens. But how am I supposed to live with that?"

The reporter doesn’t reply, instead she goes back to writing on her pad.

"You know, I felt odd before the fight, something bothered me like mad and I couldn’t put my finger on it," he continues, not looking at anyone in the room. "I flew down to Malibu a few days before the fight, breaking training, to be with my girl. She sensed something was wrong. We were at the beach. I was distant, surly, and not saying much. She tried to get me to lighten up a bit. I felt weird."

When Tony talks, his mind whirls back to that day on the beach, before he killed, before his life was transformed by a lethal combination of blows. He sits on the warm sand in his memory of that last day, watching a group of nude bathers in the distance, three young girls and an older man with a stomach that made him appear pregnant. The heat is almost unbearable. To break the tension, Cathy, his girl, insists they take a swim but he resists at first, choosing to ignore her, watching a sailboat very far out on the waves. Finally they run down to the water, she diving right in, with him waiting a bit. The water is comfortable, not as warm as the air above the shore. They swim out quite a distance. When they tire, they flip on their backs, feeling the sun’s strong rays on their exposed faces and limbs.

"I like when you’re gentle, not that crazy gladiator bull you try to be for your fans," Cathy says, looking at him with squinting eyes. "I hate that part of you. I like you like this, the way you are now. The gentle part of you. The way you were with my sister’s kids this morning, so free, so easy."

He does not answer her. Instead, he takes a deep, long breath and goes under the water. She does not follow him. Finally he surfaces, blinking the bite of the briny, salt water out of his eyes. She is in the same spot as before. He swims to her, puts his arms around her. In that instant, he feels safe, wanted, no longer afraid. She wraps her strong brown legs around his middle and his dick stiffens and surges at her touch.

Later, back on the beach, she starts at him again with the questions, avoiding the real one of why won’t he quit the ring. This is a thorny question that she can’t ask so she supports him in a sport she despises. Her decision is to help him succeed as soon as possible so he can get out of the fight game injured and with a little money. Her timing with the questions is miserable because he is a hard man to read. If she continues, he will totally shut down and not speak.

"Does Flynn know you’re here?" she asks, her butt seated on a towel. Her top is off and her well-endowed breasts are exposed. A couple of men eye her as they pass but hurry along once they see the scowl on Tony’s face.

"Yeah, he does." He mumbles the words, digging his toes into the sand.

She twists up her face and glares at him. "I think you’re lying. I bet he doesn’t know where you are. He’s probably worried out of his mind. Tony, aren’t you fighting in a few days?"

"Yes." His answer is short.

"Then you’re breaking training, aren’t you?" she asks pointedly. "I can’t figure you out for the life of me. This is your big chance and you’re about to blow it. All that work, down the drain."

He watches a pair of sea gulls playing tag in the clear blue sky overhead. "Don’t lecture me."

"Stop the one-word answers," she insists. "Talk to me."

He frowns at her and concentrates on his biceps, his neglected biceps. "What do you want me to say?"

"Just talk. What about this junk I’ve been reading in the papers about you? Is any of it true?"

"Is any of what true? You can’t believe all of that jive you read. Most of it is made up. Lies to sell papers."

"I don’t know about that," she says. "But people are saying a lot of things about you, bad things. They say you use drugs, they say you’re into beating up women, into a lot of kinky shit."

He refuses to give ground, remaining stone-face and closed-mouthed. "Like I said, you can’t believe what you read."

His silence weighs on her, on their relationship because she prizes communication and interaction so much. He speaks very little around women. He is much more comfortable with the fellas and even then he is never a chatterbox. You don’t have to play games with guys, he thinks. You can be yourself. Besides, most women, he concludes, like the strong, silent type. He smiles at Cathy, his small weird smile that often brings sweat to her beautiful forehead.

"Answer me, Tony," she whines. "You never answer me. I can never figure out what you’re thinking. I always have to imagine with you. How can we have a relationship if we never talk openly?"

He stares at his hands, his weapons, his big ham-sized fists. "I don’t have much to say. I don’t like to talk. People lie too much when they talk. I let my fists talk for me."

"Don’t give me that, Tony." She stares at him in child-like amusement, trying to get through his defenses. Then she tries another approach. "My poor baby, what’s bothering you? Huh?"

She is making fun of him, teasing him for his silence, and he does not like it one bit. "What do you care about what’s bothering me? You don’t give a shit about me? You’re just like the rest of them. As long as I win, you’ll be around, but what happens when someone kicks my ass? Will you be around then? No."

That hurts her, stops her in her tracks. She doesn’t know what to say for a minute, but she rebounds real fast. "Are you scared about the Del Vecchio fight on Thursday? That’s it, isn’t it?"

Cathy knew how to mess with his head. He thinks she looks like that Brazilian actress, a young Sonia Braga. She is pretty and all but she was a real pain in the ass. He hates it when she says he looks like Sonny Liston, the guy Ali once teased and called a bear. Liston was the guy he knocked out with a phantom punch.

"Leave me alone, leave the hell alone," he shouts, feeling the tightness coming into the pit of his stomach again. That strange feeling of something dark and terrifying. He jumps up, glares evilly at her, and runs off for the water.

The fear. There is something he feels during the days leading up to the fight, a dread, a warning of sorts. That something is going to go wrong. Flynn tells him to face the fear, to use it, to bend it to his will. Often when he has a fight and couldn’t sleep, Flynn tells him that it is normal. When he throws up before a fight, Flynn tells him that it is normal. When he tells him he’ll forget everything he learned in training camp once he gets hit, Flynn says that it is normal to think that way. All of that fear and doubt will vanish, he adds, the moment he enters the ring and he is right. To lessen his fear, Flynn works with him on his defensive skills, hours of bobbing and weaving, hours of moving and ducking to avoid getting hit. He practices his literal movement, dancing from side to side to screw up his opponent’s timing. And if he does get hit, Flynn teaches him how to hold, to clinch until his head clears.

But what happens is that Tony goes crazy before the Del Vecchio fight, and breaks training again by bedding as many women as he can in the hours before the bout. The ladies. Harriet, Conchita, Ava, Rachel, Tamara, Laura. Anything with breasts and a heartbeat. He reasons that he needs some recreation, some fun, after such grueling work in the gym, a physical release. He needs to have sex and lots of it. Solange, a dark Jamaican beauty, asks him after three hours of non-stop bumping if he is always like this. He leaves her spent, laying amid her tangle of dreads across his large bed, sore and nearly delirious. Hours before the actual fight, he takes Astrid, a tall, blonde Swedish lovely, back to his Atlantic City hotel room and pounds her into erotic submission. He rams her pink flesh for hours, driven by an excess of coke, hard as a crowbar but unable to climax. He holds the woman by her hair while he tries to make her suck him to softness and relief, but neither thing ever happens. After wearing her out, he dumps the empty rum and scotch bottles in the trash, along with stubs of reefer joints, and leaves the nearly devoured mound of gleaming coke for her date to consume after she revives.

In the fight, he loses his control and Flynn tries to calm him in his corner. They work on him, pouring water on his head, pulling his trunks back and pouring water over his privates. Hands are on his face, rubbing Vaseline into his skin, smearing it into the scar tissue on his swollen eyebrows. Once the bell rings, they go at it in the center of the ring, hammering each other. Tony stands his ground, landing a savage three-punch combination, then he digs a vicious hook to Del Vecchio’s body, slams a clubbing right to the man’s head, followed by a left-right-left combo and his opponent stumbles backwards. His hands go down as he rocks back on his heels. The Italian boxer staggers around the ring, bleeding from his mouth. The crowd cheers every blow, sensing a kill. Tony backs him into the ropes, the man totally defenseless, and beats the hell out of him. After raining punches on the man’s head and chest, Tony steps back and watches the man fall. His head hits the canvas with a hard thud. He tries to get up but his legs don’t obey. Blood pours from his nose, mouth, and ears. The crowd roars. The next thing Tony knows is the ref holding his arm up in the air, the victor, the conqueror and the ring lights come up. He looks across the ring at the fallen man, still stretched out, with the referee removing his mouthpiece so he could breathe. Still not moving. He hears someone call for a doctor and a stretcher. Del Vecchio dies that night of a blood clot in his brain and Tony’s life is never the same again.

Tony thinks about killing the man before going into the ring this night, about Cathy leaving him afterward, staring into the eyes of the reporter. She says nothing as Flynn fits the gloves on his fists and guides him out of the room. She remains for a moment, then walks down the dimly lit corridor out to the roar of the arena where she watches Tony finish off Zale in two rounds with a quick knockout. Later, she waits for the boxer in his dressing room, charged up by the brutality and blood, determined to sleep with this Atlas of a man.

In her car an hour later, Joyce, as she now introduces herself, listens to the hulking boxer cry like a baby and repeat countless times that he’s quitting the fight game. That he keeps seeing the dead man’s battered face. That he doesn’t want to kill anyone else. That he shouldn’t fight again.

"Don’t be such a baby," she chides him. "We’ll go back to my place. I know just the thing to relax you. You’ll love it."

At her apartment, Joyce wastes no time in getting him settled with a stiff drink, then mentally transforms herself into the sex object of his dreams. She smiles provocatively at the man with the massive biceps leering at her. She prances in front of him, slowly unzipping her skirt, letting it fall. With slow, measured movements, she removes everything until she stands before him in her yellow panties. His big-shouldered, muscular body hunches forward, with his huge fists clenched between his powerful legs. He watches her with lust-filled eyes while shucking down his pants, never taking his stare from the curly triangle of black hair covering her sex.

"Lay down on the couch and part your legs so I see what you got," he says crudely. "I want to see what I’m getting first before I hit it."

The sense of danger she feels with this mass of muscles excites her in a way she has never known. He could kill her with one blow. He could take what he wanted from her if he wished. Just the thought of that made her shiver with excitement as she watches him watch her. She can tell he likes her body. The surprise registers on his face when he realizes that she is smaller without her clothes on, thinner, almost boyish around the hips. Her breasts are small with pronounced nipples.

He walks over to her reclining body and kisses her face, her nose, eyes and neck. Hearing her slight moan, he reaches down and cups one breasts with an enormous hand, tweaking a nipple to stiffness. She whispers softly that she is his when he picks her up from the sofa with ease, his arm muscles barely tensing, and carries her over to the dining table, depositing her amid plates left from breakfast. With a sweep of his arm, he knocks things aside and opens her legs and inserts his skilled tongue into the dark fur of her pubic hair. His thick fingers part her vaginal lips to reveal a red pocket moist with juice. He kisses her tender clit, laps around it, and slowly pushes his tongue as deep as he can inside her. Almost against her will, she moans into the back of the hand covering her mouth, stifling a scream, and squirms frantically on the top of the polished oak table. She let her head fall back, closing her eyes and shutting out the world, concentrating on the feel of his mouth devouring her. He is tireless, seemingly able to breathe through the top of his head, for not once does he take his lips away from her crimson opening.

Feeling the orgasm building inside her, she sits up and tells him to stop. She does not want to come so fast. There is a game she has in mind, something that will put her back in control. Then she will let him have her, anyway he wants. But first he must submit to her wishes. From her intimate knowledge of her sexual past, she knows that she can only reach full satisfaction if there is a bit of fear and danger present in the mix of love and lust.

He stands back while she scoots off the table, reaching for her but she eludes his grasp. "Why don’t you give me some head or something?"

"In time," she says. "But first you have to do something for me. It’s a game. Just play along and it’ll be fun for both for us. Alright?"

He nods, confused by this sudden change in the program. What kind of game is this? What is she planning to do to him? While he pours himself another drink, he watches her disappear into her bedroom, thinking sadly that she might not sleep with him after all. This Joyce might be another teaser. He’d had too many of them in his lifetime, all flirt and no follow-up. Too many nights he has had to take matters into his own hands so he could avoid a case of blue balls or worse. It is either feast or famine. Too many females or not enough.

"You can come in now," Joyce shouts from the other room.

He enters her bedroom, which looks like a French boudoir, the wide bed with satin sheets, the plumped-up pillows, the seductive lighting, and the soft scent of exotic incense. This is not the bedroom of someone who dislikes sex. She stands near the bed with a handful of silk scarves, smiling as if she knows this game much too well. Her first order to him is to lay on the bed with his arms and legs outstretched. Not once does he feel like his life is in jeopardy because he knows that he could overpower her any time he wants and put real hurt on her. He follows her command and positions himself on his stomach with his ass up. She kneels over his flawless physique, first with her pussy facing him as she secures his legs to the bedposts with the scarves, then with her pelvis against his head as she ties his hands fast to the other end.

"What are you doing?" he asks, starting to become alarmed at his helplessness. "What do you have in mind, woman?"

She reaches into a trunk at the foot of the bed and retrieves a small belt, like that which would fit a small boy, and without speaking a word, begins to slash him against the back of his thighs. Talking nasty to him all the while, she lays the leather strap across his flesh in long, heavy strokes, leaving red welts wherever it strikes. He thrashes about on the bed, cursing her and straining against the resistance of the scarves, as the belt now falls across the contour of his buttocks and calves. The pain rises and falls with each stroke, sending mixed messages through his body, one of lust and the other of torment, both blend deliciously somewhere in his head. He feels his dick swell and bulge against the satin of the sheets.

"Stop it, stop this sick shit now," he growls at her, ashamed that he is being aroused by the mistreatment of his flesh. Let me up."

"Only if you promise to behave," she says sweetly, troubling her protruding clit with two fingers while she inspects the criss-cross pattern of welts across the boxer’s tight butt cheeks.

She kneels over him once more, licking all along the length of his body, kissing him where the skin is bruised or blistered. Finally after her tongue has subdued the rage within him, she focuses the mastery of her mouth along his spine, the back of his legs, in his armpits, and on the mounds of his bottom. He no longer fights, even when she loosens his bonds and flips him over, securing his balls with one of the scarves. Her grip on them is firm yet gentle during the process and he gasps for air when she ties the scarf around the sac, packing them in a tighter ball that she licks and sucks. Her tongue on the sensitive nerve endings of the genitals sends a stirring of heat along his spine, thighs and finally to the genitals.

"Do you like that, baby?" she asks, sounding like the dominatrix she always dreamed of being. "Tell me like that, sweetheart. Tell me."

He surrenders to the feeling, submits to her. Her fingers adjust the amount of pressure and pleasure he feels as she plays with the scarf, loosening and tightening the knots until the veins in his balls bulge obscenely. Her mouth works along the musky surface of them, again and again teasing and taunting the nerves lightly, the strong male aroma of him enveloping her. He is now no longer powerful, not a force, only a mass of flesh reduced to pure sensation.

Giggling, she removes the scarf, holding out her arms as if inviting him to have his way with her now. She has played her part of the game. He sneers at her, holding his pulsing dick in his fist, and pushing her down on her stomach. His mind tells him to go easy, don’t hurt her. First he sticks his fingers into her, sampling the heat and silkiness of her pussy. Never has he seen a woman so wet, never, her pelvis, upper thighs and the satin sheet underneath were drenched with her juices. He adjusts her up on her knees and slams himself into her, gripping her tightly around the waist to bring her back hard against him. Without any prompting from him, she shoves herself repeatedly back into him, her hands reaching around to pull him into her from behind.

"Damn, you got some hot stuff," he moans, pounding it with solid sex-stretching strokes, each making her pant in short bursts.

"Hit it, hit like you own it, baby," she says breathlessly, her face half buried in the pillow. "Don’t stop, don’t…stop."

He reaches another speed, bucking into her body like a piston, dripping sweat down onto the crack of her ass. Del Vecchio on the canvas, not moving. With a corkscrew motion, he spreads her legs farther apart and latches onto her, grinding into her with such force that her sex makes a rhythmic popping sound. Make me forget, make me forget. They slam against each other in torrid passion, his hands now clamped on her butt cheeks. Going deeper into her and the sound of their tortured breathing filling the room. Make me forget, make me forget him not moving. Her voice is muffled by the pillow, sounding like a hand over her mouth, but he hears her chant oh shit, oh shit, cum in me, cum in me. He rides her, bone to bone, until he can hold himself back no longer and shoots his DNA into her shuddering vault. Elbowing him over, she grabs his spraying dick and covers it with her mouth, drinking him, making him howl. Some of the pearly white drops splatter on her chin and chest, and she rubs them into her skin like an expensive body lotion. She sprawls on top of him, licking and sucking the throbbing, violet-hued head of him until he is at last drained.

When the room stops spinning, she tickles him, smiling. "How do you feel, lover?"

"I don’t know," he stutters, fingering a painful welt with one of the silk scarves. "I’ve never done anything like that before. I don’t know how I should feel."

"Don’t judge yourself," she giggled. "Some guys like it. Doesn’t make you any less of a man. I think you’re all that and more."

Tears fill his eyes as he watches her fight sleep. She kisses his nose, smiling contently, and asks what’s wrong, baby. He can’t speak; he can only cry. He continues to cry, about the boxer still on the canvas, about something ugly he has discovered about himself tonight, and weeps even more as she holds him. Make me forget, make me forget I killed a man.