Fox & Hound: Part Two
https://interracialerotica.net/erotica/articles/172/1/Fox-amp-Hound-Part-Two/Page1.html
By Tracy Ames
Published on February 23, 2010
After what some called “stealing” the majority of her former employers’ clients, it had only taken Monica ten months to establish herself as Atlanta’s go-to promoter. She hadn’t stolen her employers’ clients, they were hers, she’d put Fleming’s on the map. Frustrated and more importantly, bored, Monica clawed her way from lowly secretary to the most sought after promoter Fleming’s had to offer. Even still her then boss, the hollow faced Adira, refused to acknowledge her worth and often brushed her ideas aside. Monica wanted Fleming’s to be the catalyst in next generation promotions with the glitz and glamour of New York and casual coolness of Los Angeles. But Adira and her constipated reverence for the Old South won the day. So, what was a girl to do? She gracefully bought her time, served her clients well, forged side deals with vendors and businesses, rubbed shoulders with the who’s-who, branded herself as the new ‘It’ girl, and drug her best friend Sharon along for the ride.
In the beginning, Sharon was uncertain their scheming would pay off but she soon found herself sipping drinks with music moguls, film producers, artist and photographers. Monica fit right in with this crowd, she wasn’t insecure and rather enjoyed having the emaciated women eye her—what could a full figured Black woman have over them? If they only knew. Unlike Monica who oozed confidence, Sharon took a second to warm to people. It was time for a complete image overhaul and Cody, Monica’s stylist, was just the guy for the job.
“Honey!” he shrieked spinning her around in his chair like a rag doll. “We gonna be here for a while! Somebody, get me a bowl ready!” He shouted and stood back raking his eyes over Sharon’s questionable attire with passive disgust. “You’re pretty enough, a little high yella and short but you can’t be blamed for that—you have a cute nose and your eyes aren’t bad. Don’t you worry, Cody’s gonna have you tighter than a virgin before prom night!” His fierce eye for drama and Merlin-like skills with weave was well worth the humiliation. In a matter of hours, he’d buffed away Little Sharon Douglas from Backwater, USA and out popped Sharon. She was officially an “It” girl—a one-namer like Madonna and Cher and, thanks to Monica’s connections, she had the wardrobe to match.
Nailing The Links Club account, the oldest affluent and vastly influential ladies organization, sealed the deal. The days of catering to Adira’s ego and her Overies: Over indulged, over plucked, over processed, and over medicated clients, were finished. The day came to turn in their letters of resignation and to add insult to injury; they affixed their simple yet elegant Tiffany blue and coco business cards emblazoned with their company’s name, Cara; and offered Adira free consultation.
More than before, clients began beating down their decadent doors once The Links, as they preferred to be addressed, buy in hit the society pages. Cara flourished but Monica’s love life come to an ear blustering halt—not that she cared, she hadn’t the time or energy to devote to another breathing creature. She and Scott saw one another from time to time but between their schedules and his whacked out ex-girlfriend, Courtney, time was an issue.
Scott and Courtney were on the outs when they’d meet that faithful night but Courtney refused to let him go. Losing him because of her overbearing neediness was one thing but losing him to someone she deemed to be inferior was quite another. She proved to be a level five stalker: calling Monica at random hours, magically appearing in restaurants, even turning up at one of her events. That was the last straw. In no uncertain terms, Monica informed Courtney that if she continued to harassing her, she’d kill her…she was only half joking and had the shovel and duct tape to prove it.
Consequently, there were no sexual liaisons between Monica and Scott during the stalker period. Yes, they chatted quite often, daily even, but scheduling conflicted impeded any intimacy from occurring. And it wasn’t as if they moved in the same circles; Scott was a firefighter, Monica was, for all intended purposes, a party girl…though ‘girl’ seemed a bit of a reach seeing she was well into her thirties. In fact, as far as she knew their friendship with Sharon was their only commonality which made his call confirming her attendance at a friend of a friend’s party that night that much more confusing. She hadn’t planned on going but seeing him was just the sweetener she needed.
It was a fabulous party being held by an acquaintance in his big house in Stone Mountain, just the right size for a good party, with maybe fifty or sixty people, none of whom either knew very well. There were some couples, a few single people, and plenty others looking to flirt, drink, and misbehave. As usual at such parties, most of the guests are divided between the kitchen, where most of the booze and the food were stationed, and the room where the music played, which currently held twenty or thirty people dancing and a few stragglers hanging about the halls. Drink in hand, Monica roamed the rooms speaking politely to people she hardly knew and avoided the unsavory characters lurking in the corners. Usually not one to behave at parties, she was up for some flirting and if she didn’t spot Scott soon she was pouncing on the tall grinning redhead who couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“I’ve been looking for you all night,” Monica heard a hoarse and very sexy voice say from behind. She turned to see Scott smiling down at her; the light caught his blue eyes just at the right moment.
“Hey!” she hugged him genuinely happy to see him. “God, I’ve missed. You look great.”
“Thank you,” he stepped back admiring her short black skirt and black lace bra peering through a chiffon top. “And you look good enough to eat.” He said no bolder than normal, stepping closer. “Are you on your own tonight?”
“Yeah, Sharon’s out on a dated.” The look in his eye and the smell of his cologne made resisting the temptation to wrap her legs around his shoulders more difficult. “Are you alone?” He didn’t reply, he was fascinated by the way her lips moved. “What, what is it?” she asked coyly.
“Nothing,” he whispered through a pleasant, almost wishful smile and his eyes flickered into hers in a way they’d never done.
“Ohmigod, Scott Harrison, do you know who this is?” came a blood-curdling whinny with a bouncy blonde attached, flashing a Colgate smile.
Oh God, she’s an Overie. Monica thought. Minimal eye contact.
“Yes, Amanda. I know Ms. Galloway very well.” He angled his body between them. “We were just about to have this dance so…” he handed Monica’s drink to her and prompted her to step aside, guiding Monica to the floor with the other couples. They moved in close, arms wrapped lazily around the other and swayed dreamily to the music.
“Thanks for rescuing me.”
“It’s what I do for a living.” Scott fought to hold a straight face but failed miserably. “I can’t lie; it was a completely selfish gesture. I wanted to get you alone.”
Monica tossed her head back and gave a humorless laugh. “At least you’re honest. Most of these people don’t know me and the ones that do only want to give me their business cards.
“I’ve never lied to you, Monica.”
The sincerity in his tone melted her bones. “Kissing You,” she said abruptly. The look on his face prompted her for further explanation. “Kissing You, it’s the name of the song. I haven’t heard it in a long time. It was one of my favorites. He brushed a stray hair away from her face and leaned in gently for what Monica presumed would be a kiss, instead his lips grazed her jaw and rest his cheek on hers and crooned the songs’ lyrics into her ear. This man is gonna make me have his babies. She wagered.
Finally, he tilted her chin up until their lips met. She responded easily, kissing him long and slow, their lips sliding deliciously together, letting the rhythm of the music guide them teasingly against one another, the heat and sensuality of tasting the others lips after such a long time was unbearable. Monica whimpered as his hands gently drifted over her body, silently willing each gentle caress to linger just a little longer than the last. Whether she realized it or not, her kiss betrayed her. It was the kiss of a woman who’d gone without the touch of a man for far too long; the kiss of a woman who needed intimacy from someone who understood her. And tonight that man was Scott.
The song tapered off, and a faster tempo began. Scott pecked her lips twice and suggested they move to the sitting room for privacy. Taking her gently by the hand and walked into the dimly lit room. There was another couple seated on the large plush sofa in an adjunct corner but they left within minutes of Scott and Monica’s arrival. They sat and don’t talk for very long before they were kissing again, more sensually this time, their lips sliding together, his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her, his fingers running through her hair softly, as the kiss becomes more passionate. Suddenly, he pulls away.
“I want to apologize, again, for Courtney’s behavior.”
Who the hell is Courtney? Oh yeah, that bitch. Monica frowned disappointed that he’d interrupted her face-sucking time for BS. “You don’t have to apologize. Like you said, you never lied to me. I knew you had a girlfriend when we first met.” She tried to kiss him again but he leaned away.
“It was over between us but we were still living together.”
Monica sat up, clearly frustrated but trying not to appear so. She placed a kind hand on his chest. “Sweetheart, are you seeing her now?”
“No,”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
“No.” He smiled. “I can’t believe it’s been almost since we’ve spent time together.” He pecked her lips. “I’d do anything to make it up to you.”
Monica could feel each part of her body ignite as he eyed it. “Anything?” She felt his hand slip slowly along her inner thigh, surely he would stop but he continued until his fingers brushed against her panties. “Be careful what you say.”
His words came smooth and purposefully between kisses. “Monica, I would do anything, anything you wanted, to make it up to you. Anytime, anyplace.”
Just as she was giving in to him, she heard a door open, suddenly remembering they weren’t alone and who she was. She couldn’t carry on in someone’s house like a common harlot, these were potential clients. “No,” she whispered, “Not here, too many people. I live in Smyrna; you’re in Buckhead...shit!”
“What’s the problem?”
“I can’t wait that long. Look, I have goose bumps,” she giggled holding up her arm for inspection. He kissed it. “Can you still do that thing with my G-Spot?”
“Baby, I told you. I’ll do anything you want.” He lips found her neck while his finger found her clit.
Monica stood abruptly. “Alright, let’s wrap this up. We gotta go.”
Back at her place, it didn’t take them long to get out of their clothes and into bed. She was a vision laid before him and he savored every inch of her. From head to toe, his tongue worshiped her. Slowly, seductively, his kisses burned a trail down the center of her body, as she lie back on the soft pillows, surrendering and arching to meet each soft kiss, and each lap of his tongue. His hands slipped down the inside of her thighs, parting them. She looked down at him for a moment, her face a picture of lust, watching as his tongue traced over her shaven mound.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he nibbled her inner thigh.
“No,” she said breathily. “Take your time…oh!” managed just before he drug his flattened tongue slowly upwards, and gently teased the hood of her clit back with his fingertips. Gingerly, he opened her lips and ever so sweetly eased her clit between his lips and patiently sucked her into silence. She gasped a little as his tongue flicked slowly and sensuously around her clit; his fingers wandered down to her pussy and stroke her. There she lie with one of the most beautiful men she’d seen, with his face nested between her thighs and the deliciously reverential sounds of his mouth making love to her pussy filling the room. It was too good to be true. “Please...Scott,” she whispered and fell mute, anticipating his next move. His tongue circled her clit softly and moved further down to her slit until it played between her wet, pouty lips, licking until he felt them part around the tip of his tongue. He lapped at her greedily. She took a handful of his hair. “I’m cumming!” she screamed, he licked…she panted and he sucked...she surrendered and he grinned and kissed up her naked body, between her open thighs.
Resting was not an option. He couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed the swollen head of his cock between her lips and began sliding deep—back and forth.
“I’m such a whore,” She gasped.
Fox & Hound: Part Two
The last thing Monica, an Afro-American woman, wanted was a last night pub crawl with people she hardly knew until she was introduced to Scott, a tall, devilishly stunning man. As the night quickly progressed they find themselves exploring their sexual limits....
The last thing Monica, an Afro-American woman, wanted was a last night pub crawl with people she hardly knew until she was introduced to Scott, a tall, devilishly stunning man. As the night quickly progressed they find themselves exploring their sexual limits....
Fox & Hound: Part Two
After what some called “stealing” the majority of her former employers’ clients, it had only taken Monica ten months to establish herself as Atlanta’s go-to promoter. She hadn’t stolen her employers’ clients, they were hers, she’d put Fleming’s on the map. Frustrated and more importantly, bored, Monica clawed her way from lowly secretary to the most sought after promoter Fleming’s had to offer. Even still her then boss, the hollow faced Adira, refused to acknowledge her worth and often brushed her ideas aside. Monica wanted Fleming’s to be the catalyst in next generation promotions with the glitz and glamour of New York and casual coolness of Los Angeles. But Adira and her constipated reverence for the Old South won the day. So, what was a girl to do? She gracefully bought her time, served her clients well, forged side deals with vendors and businesses, rubbed shoulders with the who’s-who, branded herself as the new ‘It’ girl, and drug her best friend Sharon along for the ride.
In the beginning, Sharon was uncertain their scheming would pay off but she soon found herself sipping drinks with music moguls, film producers, artist and photographers. Monica fit right in with this crowd, she wasn’t insecure and rather enjoyed having the emaciated women eye her—what could a full figured Black woman have over them? If they only knew. Unlike Monica who oozed confidence, Sharon took a second to warm to people. It was time for a complete image overhaul and Cody, Monica’s stylist, was just the guy for the job.
“Honey!” he shrieked spinning her around in his chair like a rag doll. “We gonna be here for a while! Somebody, get me a bowl ready!” He shouted and stood back raking his eyes over Sharon’s questionable attire with passive disgust. “You’re pretty enough, a little high yella and short but you can’t be blamed for that—you have a cute nose and your eyes aren’t bad. Don’t you worry, Cody’s gonna have you tighter than a virgin before prom night!” His fierce eye for drama and Merlin-like skills with weave was well worth the humiliation. In a matter of hours, he’d buffed away Little Sharon Douglas from Backwater, USA and out popped Sharon. She was officially an “It” girl—a one-namer like Madonna and Cher and, thanks to Monica’s connections, she had the wardrobe to match.
Nailing The Links Club account, the oldest affluent and vastly influential ladies organization, sealed the deal. The days of catering to Adira’s ego and her Overies: Over indulged, over plucked, over processed, and over medicated clients, were finished. The day came to turn in their letters of resignation and to add insult to injury; they affixed their simple yet elegant Tiffany blue and coco business cards emblazoned with their company’s name, Cara; and offered Adira free consultation.
More than before, clients began beating down their decadent doors once The Links, as they preferred to be addressed, buy in hit the society pages. Cara flourished but Monica’s love life come to an ear blustering halt—not that she cared, she hadn’t the time or energy to devote to another breathing creature. She and Scott saw one another from time to time but between their schedules and his whacked out ex-girlfriend, Courtney, time was an issue.
Scott and Courtney were on the outs when they’d meet that faithful night but Courtney refused to let him go. Losing him because of her overbearing neediness was one thing but losing him to someone she deemed to be inferior was quite another. She proved to be a level five stalker: calling Monica at random hours, magically appearing in restaurants, even turning up at one of her events. That was the last straw. In no uncertain terms, Monica informed Courtney that if she continued to harassing her, she’d kill her…she was only half joking and had the shovel and duct tape to prove it.
Consequently, there were no sexual liaisons between Monica and Scott during the stalker period. Yes, they chatted quite often, daily even, but scheduling conflicted impeded any intimacy from occurring. And it wasn’t as if they moved in the same circles; Scott was a firefighter, Monica was, for all intended purposes, a party girl…though ‘girl’ seemed a bit of a reach seeing she was well into her thirties. In fact, as far as she knew their friendship with Sharon was their only commonality which made his call confirming her attendance at a friend of a friend’s party that night that much more confusing. She hadn’t planned on going but seeing him was just the sweetener she needed.
It was a fabulous party being held by an acquaintance in his big house in Stone Mountain, just the right size for a good party, with maybe fifty or sixty people, none of whom either knew very well. There were some couples, a few single people, and plenty others looking to flirt, drink, and misbehave. As usual at such parties, most of the guests are divided between the kitchen, where most of the booze and the food were stationed, and the room where the music played, which currently held twenty or thirty people dancing and a few stragglers hanging about the halls. Drink in hand, Monica roamed the rooms speaking politely to people she hardly knew and avoided the unsavory characters lurking in the corners. Usually not one to behave at parties, she was up for some flirting and if she didn’t spot Scott soon she was pouncing on the tall grinning redhead who couldn’t take his eyes off of her.
“I’ve been looking for you all night,” Monica heard a hoarse and very sexy voice say from behind. She turned to see Scott smiling down at her; the light caught his blue eyes just at the right moment.
“Hey!” she hugged him genuinely happy to see him. “God, I’ve missed. You look great.”
“Thank you,” he stepped back admiring her short black skirt and black lace bra peering through a chiffon top. “And you look good enough to eat.” He said no bolder than normal, stepping closer. “Are you on your own tonight?”
“Yeah, Sharon’s out on a dated.” The look in his eye and the smell of his cologne made resisting the temptation to wrap her legs around his shoulders more difficult. “Are you alone?” He didn’t reply, he was fascinated by the way her lips moved. “What, what is it?” she asked coyly.
“Nothing,” he whispered through a pleasant, almost wishful smile and his eyes flickered into hers in a way they’d never done.
“Ohmigod, Scott Harrison, do you know who this is?” came a blood-curdling whinny with a bouncy blonde attached, flashing a Colgate smile.
Oh God, she’s an Overie. Monica thought. Minimal eye contact.
“Yes, Amanda. I know Ms. Galloway very well.” He angled his body between them. “We were just about to have this dance so…” he handed Monica’s drink to her and prompted her to step aside, guiding Monica to the floor with the other couples. They moved in close, arms wrapped lazily around the other and swayed dreamily to the music.
“Thanks for rescuing me.”
“It’s what I do for a living.” Scott fought to hold a straight face but failed miserably. “I can’t lie; it was a completely selfish gesture. I wanted to get you alone.”
Monica tossed her head back and gave a humorless laugh. “At least you’re honest. Most of these people don’t know me and the ones that do only want to give me their business cards.
“I’ve never lied to you, Monica.”
The sincerity in his tone melted her bones. “Kissing You,” she said abruptly. The look on his face prompted her for further explanation. “Kissing You, it’s the name of the song. I haven’t heard it in a long time. It was one of my favorites. He brushed a stray hair away from her face and leaned in gently for what Monica presumed would be a kiss, instead his lips grazed her jaw and rest his cheek on hers and crooned the songs’ lyrics into her ear. This man is gonna make me have his babies. She wagered.
Finally, he tilted her chin up until their lips met. She responded easily, kissing him long and slow, their lips sliding deliciously together, letting the rhythm of the music guide them teasingly against one another, the heat and sensuality of tasting the others lips after such a long time was unbearable. Monica whimpered as his hands gently drifted over her body, silently willing each gentle caress to linger just a little longer than the last. Whether she realized it or not, her kiss betrayed her. It was the kiss of a woman who’d gone without the touch of a man for far too long; the kiss of a woman who needed intimacy from someone who understood her. And tonight that man was Scott.
The song tapered off, and a faster tempo began. Scott pecked her lips twice and suggested they move to the sitting room for privacy. Taking her gently by the hand and walked into the dimly lit room. There was another couple seated on the large plush sofa in an adjunct corner but they left within minutes of Scott and Monica’s arrival. They sat and don’t talk for very long before they were kissing again, more sensually this time, their lips sliding together, his tongue slipped into her mouth, tasting her, his fingers running through her hair softly, as the kiss becomes more passionate. Suddenly, he pulls away.
“I want to apologize, again, for Courtney’s behavior.”
Who the hell is Courtney? Oh yeah, that bitch. Monica frowned disappointed that he’d interrupted her face-sucking time for BS. “You don’t have to apologize. Like you said, you never lied to me. I knew you had a girlfriend when we first met.” She tried to kiss him again but he leaned away.
“It was over between us but we were still living together.”
Monica sat up, clearly frustrated but trying not to appear so. She placed a kind hand on his chest. “Sweetheart, are you seeing her now?”
“No,”
“Are you seeing anyone now?”
“No.” He smiled. “I can’t believe it’s been almost since we’ve spent time together.” He pecked her lips. “I’d do anything to make it up to you.”
Monica could feel each part of her body ignite as he eyed it. “Anything?” She felt his hand slip slowly along her inner thigh, surely he would stop but he continued until his fingers brushed against her panties. “Be careful what you say.”
His words came smooth and purposefully between kisses. “Monica, I would do anything, anything you wanted, to make it up to you. Anytime, anyplace.”
Just as she was giving in to him, she heard a door open, suddenly remembering they weren’t alone and who she was. She couldn’t carry on in someone’s house like a common harlot, these were potential clients. “No,” she whispered, “Not here, too many people. I live in Smyrna; you’re in Buckhead...shit!”
“What’s the problem?”
“I can’t wait that long. Look, I have goose bumps,” she giggled holding up her arm for inspection. He kissed it. “Can you still do that thing with my G-Spot?”
“Baby, I told you. I’ll do anything you want.” He lips found her neck while his finger found her clit.
Monica stood abruptly. “Alright, let’s wrap this up. We gotta go.”
Back at her place, it didn’t take them long to get out of their clothes and into bed. She was a vision laid before him and he savored every inch of her. From head to toe, his tongue worshiped her. Slowly, seductively, his kisses burned a trail down the center of her body, as she lie back on the soft pillows, surrendering and arching to meet each soft kiss, and each lap of his tongue. His hands slipped down the inside of her thighs, parting them. She looked down at him for a moment, her face a picture of lust, watching as his tongue traced over her shaven mound.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he nibbled her inner thigh.
“No,” she said breathily. “Take your time…oh!” managed just before he drug his flattened tongue slowly upwards, and gently teased the hood of her clit back with his fingertips. Gingerly, he opened her lips and ever so sweetly eased her clit between his lips and patiently sucked her into silence. She gasped a little as his tongue flicked slowly and sensuously around her clit; his fingers wandered down to her pussy and stroke her. There she lie with one of the most beautiful men she’d seen, with his face nested between her thighs and the deliciously reverential sounds of his mouth making love to her pussy filling the room. It was too good to be true. “Please...Scott,” she whispered and fell mute, anticipating his next move. His tongue circled her clit softly and moved further down to her slit until it played between her wet, pouty lips, licking until he felt them part around the tip of his tongue. He lapped at her greedily. She took a handful of his hair. “I’m cumming!” she screamed, he licked…she panted and he sucked...she surrendered and he grinned and kissed up her naked body, between her open thighs.
Resting was not an option. He couldn’t wait any longer. He pushed the swollen head of his cock between her lips and began sliding deep—back and forth.
“I’m such a whore,” She gasped.
Fox & Hound: Part Two
“You’re not a whore, you just know what you like,” he felt her slick wet lips trying to pull him deeper inside. “Damn, Monica.” His firm hands underneath her ass. “You wanna get fucked, don’t you?” harder, he thrust a little deeper.
“Yes, fuck me...hard,” she insisted, a tad irritated that there’d been any question.
His cock throbbed intensely, the sight of her lovely chocolate body bouncing beneath him; the lustful look in her eyes; the intimate wet sounds accompanying each thrust was edging him closer to cumming, and he needed to control himself. Her pussy engulfed him, slick and hot and wet around him as he began driving into her harder, more urgently then ever. “Damn, you feel good.”
“Harder... she cried, “You know you want to, just do it,” she urged, her walls sucked him.
Admittedly, Scott was holding back. He was trying to be a gentleman, but seeing as she wanted to be manhandled, all bets were off. No man could withstand this amount of intense provocation. He drove deeper until she groaned with pleasure. He wrapped her hair around his fist and pulled her up hard to his lips and she gasped, his cock rammed into her like a piston. “Is this what you want?” I hissed, “Rough like this? Tell me you’re a dirty slut. Tell me you want it and I’ll fuck the hell out of you.”
Monica was at a loss; a loss for words; a loss of sanity and a loss control. She came so continuously hard, she almost loss consciences. “Oooohhhh!!” she choked.
“That’s my girl,”
“God...” she heard herself cry, “My ass...in my ass, please,”
“Ask me again...” His cock throbbed, just the thought of him inside her ass threatened to push him over the top. “Beg me... beg me to fuck your ass.”
“Please, I want it…cum in my ass. Lube, top drawer.”
He was throbbing so hard, he almost missed the last bit of her sentence. He pulled out, retrieved the lube, gave himself a generous amount and rubbed his head round her hole slowly, teasingly.
“Do it,” she pushed towards him, not prepared to wait another second. The head of his cock slipped into her ass and they both groaned. He pushed further, inch but inch, she cried for more. He pumped and pump until her slit leaked. “I’m cumming!”
“No you’re not,” his thumbed her clit as his cock took her ass. “You’ll cum when I let you.” two fingers entered her wetness; his thumb stroked, his cock rammed deep and hard into her ass. He turned his hand, palms up and teased her g-spot.
“Oh Goood, don't stop!” she begged, her pussy sucked his fingers. “I'm gonna cum... I want it harder”
“It that what you call begging?” his fingers stroked her g-spot, his cock stroked her ass, she repeated cries and whimpers stroked his ego. “Look at you,” he groaned. “You wanna cum so badly, don’t you?”
“Pleeeease!” she screamed. He was doing something different then before; one palm pressed on her mound, the other fingered her g-spot. It was a sensation she’d never experienced before. She love it, she didn’t want it to end…damn she didn’t want it to end but she had to cum. “Scott, please make me cum. Please...” she was close to trembling with tears.
He couldn’t take it anymore. “Cum for me,” his stroked her spot…in just the right spot. “Cum all over my fingers.”
“Oh Goood, yes!!” That was it—a wet stream juice seeped from her pussy, soaking his fingers, and she began to convulse, cumming hard. “Oh shit, Scott!!” she shouted with pleasure as her orgasm pulsated through her body. Rhythmically, she bucked and writhed beneath him.
He cried out intensely, urgently. His cum poured from him in wave after wave, shooting deep into her ass, again and again, his fingers massaging her as she rode out her orgasm, panting and writhing and quivering as his cock released hard and deep, again and again.
Their orgasms abated, they cleaned up and returned to bed. Monica never felt so safe as when in his arms listening to him breathe.
“Monica,”
“Yes,”
“I don’t really think you’re a dirty slut, you know that right?”
“I know. Pillow talk is pillow talk. Goodnight John Boy,”
******
The next morning, they said their goodbyes. Scott made Monica promise to have dinner with him that night—he’d cook; she simply needed to show up. He scribbled his address on a piece of paper and pressed it into her hand before she could protest. “Fine, I’ll see you after work.” She kissed him and he was out the door.
An hour later, Monica rushed into her downtown office building praying the surly security guard wouldn’t ask her to present her ID card. After losing it three months ago, “I left it stairs in my office” no longer rang true and she could no longer utter the lie with a straight face. They exchanged “fuck you” expressions and she scampered across the marble floor towards the elevators as fast as her Gucci pumps could take her. As the doors swung open, her cell phone rang, she answered.
“MG,” Sharon whispered like a hostage. “I called you warn you, Kenya, I mean Catherine is waiting for you and she’s especially chatty.”
“Great, just what I need first thing in the morning. I guess locking her in a closet would be out of the question,” regrettably watching the elevator light blinking pass each floor. “Damn, thanks for the warning.” She disconnected the call and swaggered into the office. She gave the briefest of good mornings to her assistant, barked an order for coffee and retreated behind closed doors with Kenya/Catherine or “KC” as they’d dubbed her. This woman had balls of steel. She actually believed exchanging her African name for an Anglicized one would somehow blind people to fact that she was a six foot tall skeletal Black woman. Not just any Black—we’re talking Sudanese Black. That, coupled with a fake British accent she’d adopted, bemused those who knew her from the bullet-riddled Grady projects. If it weren’t for her keen eye and stealthy ability to commandeer exotic botanicals at a moments notice, Monica would’ve cut ties months ago.
“Catherine, don’t start,” Monica insisted, rounding her desk. “I have a busy morning ahead of me so please keep it short.” She sat and interlaced her fingers. “What?”
“Well, good morning to you,” Catherine pouted her lips which called attention to her protruding cheek bones. “I’ll get straight to the point: I want the Sixth District’s Debutante Ball. You know the project is too large for Vanessa to manage. You promised me…”
“I never promised you anything,” Monica checked her. “I said I’d send work your way…not this particular event. Vanessa’s firm was requested by the client and I happen to agree with them.”
“It’s insulting…”
“What’s insulting is you telling me how to run my business!” Monica snapped but calmed quickly when she realized that shipment of strelitzias for the Mayor’s ball weren’t going to deliver themselves. “Don’t forget, I’m the one keeping your books filled, not the other way around. Concentrate on the jobs I’ve sent you and we’ll talk but this conversation is over.”
“Fine, I see you’re been quite unreasonable,” Catherine stood hotly. “Ring my mobile, we’ll do lunch.” She headed for the door.
“Kenya,” Monica rubbed her forehead. “Drop the act. Living six months in Kent and owning a pirated copy of “Upstairs, Downstairs” doesn’t make you British anymore than it makes me Chinese. So, please stop.”
Aghast, as usual, Catherine slithered through the door.
"Record time," Monica looked at her watch.
******
Twelve hours later Monica’s heels were clacking back across the lobby’s marble floor—right passed the evening security guard who appeared to have given up on life too early. There was something disconcerting about a man who looked reassigned to a life of sorrow guarding a multi-million dollar high rise in the heart of Midtown, but Monica was grateful he didn’t harass her about her missing ID card. She scuttled passed him and prayed for his swift deliverance.
Outside, the doorman hailed her Town Car.
“Goodnight,” she said briskly.
He sighed woefully. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
The employer of these people should be investigated for war crimes. She crawled into the car and handed the driver Scott’s address and immediately began practicing her “Oh my goodness! I can’t wait to ingest this!” facial expression. She’d been meaning to practice all day but it slipped her mind—and said with apparent enthusiasm, the clipped version would have to suffice.
Forty-five minutes and two phone calls later, the car pulled in front of a sleek retro building with “The Metropolitan at Buckhead” emblazoned on its awning. Monica questioned the driver—this couldn’t be his apartment building…there was no way he could afford the rent on his firemen’s salary. The doorman open the car door and Scott, dressed in jeans and a black button down pushed up at the sleeves, met her in the lobby. With a quickly hello to the security guard, Max, he took her laptop bag and threw it over his shoulder, offered his hand and they went upstairs.
Upstairs being his fabulous retro chic three bedroom apartment done in rich hues blue, whites and browns, clean lines and micro-suedes, even a fish tank. Seeing Monica’s disbelief, Scott launched into an explanation for his domestic awesomeness. He and a firefighter buddy, Louis, leased the place years ago. When the buddy came out of the closet, he begged Scott to keep up appearances until he told his parents…shortly thereafter he moved to Spain with his lover and continues to pay his half of the rent. Luckily, Louis’s folks call as often as he did, which was never. Whether it be his mother’s remorse for utterly shattering her sons’ spirit or the thought of her poor baby living on his own salary, Scott routinely received large guilt checks from Louis’s mother. As such, Louis established a collect and keep system—Scott collects, Scott keeps. The distain between mother and son was palpable.
To Monica’s surprise, Scott cooked very well. When he’d placed her dinner plate in front of her, she recognized the veal shank and steamed vegetables but the creamy mash potato-ish offering left her puzzled.
“Try it, you’ll like it.”
“What the hell is it?” Monica frowned.
“It’s Colcannon, any Irish dish,” he sat his fork down and explained. “Its potatoes, ham, cream, butter, onion and, cabbage.”
“You had me sold until cabbage. I don’t eat cabbage.”
“You do now. Eat.” He insisted. She took a forkful and tried bringing it to her mouth but her gag reflex kicked in. “Open.” He guided a small amount between her lips and waited for her reaction.
“It needs more salt.” She smiled a twinge ashamed she’d given him attitude.
After dinner, Scott loaded the dishwasher and Monica retreated into the living room to relax. She promised herself they weren’t going to sleep together—she was going home and getting a good night’s sleep. No matter how badly she wanted him, it wasn’t going to happen. But…..it happened. Before long, he had her bent over his headboard calling him Daddy with her Gucci pumps still on.
They collapsed on the bed... her body wrapped around his. “Two nights in a row, we have to stop this”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he kissed her forehead. “Goodnight.”
“Yes, fuck me...hard,” she insisted, a tad irritated that there’d been any question.
His cock throbbed intensely, the sight of her lovely chocolate body bouncing beneath him; the lustful look in her eyes; the intimate wet sounds accompanying each thrust was edging him closer to cumming, and he needed to control himself. Her pussy engulfed him, slick and hot and wet around him as he began driving into her harder, more urgently then ever. “Damn, you feel good.”
“Harder... she cried, “You know you want to, just do it,” she urged, her walls sucked him.
Admittedly, Scott was holding back. He was trying to be a gentleman, but seeing as she wanted to be manhandled, all bets were off. No man could withstand this amount of intense provocation. He drove deeper until she groaned with pleasure. He wrapped her hair around his fist and pulled her up hard to his lips and she gasped, his cock rammed into her like a piston. “Is this what you want?” I hissed, “Rough like this? Tell me you’re a dirty slut. Tell me you want it and I’ll fuck the hell out of you.”
Monica was at a loss; a loss for words; a loss of sanity and a loss control. She came so continuously hard, she almost loss consciences. “Oooohhhh!!” she choked.
“That’s my girl,”
“God...” she heard herself cry, “My ass...in my ass, please,”
“Ask me again...” His cock throbbed, just the thought of him inside her ass threatened to push him over the top. “Beg me... beg me to fuck your ass.”
“Please, I want it…cum in my ass. Lube, top drawer.”
He was throbbing so hard, he almost missed the last bit of her sentence. He pulled out, retrieved the lube, gave himself a generous amount and rubbed his head round her hole slowly, teasingly.
“Do it,” she pushed towards him, not prepared to wait another second. The head of his cock slipped into her ass and they both groaned. He pushed further, inch but inch, she cried for more. He pumped and pump until her slit leaked. “I’m cumming!”
“No you’re not,” his thumbed her clit as his cock took her ass. “You’ll cum when I let you.” two fingers entered her wetness; his thumb stroked, his cock rammed deep and hard into her ass. He turned his hand, palms up and teased her g-spot.
“Oh Goood, don't stop!” she begged, her pussy sucked his fingers. “I'm gonna cum... I want it harder”
“It that what you call begging?” his fingers stroked her g-spot, his cock stroked her ass, she repeated cries and whimpers stroked his ego. “Look at you,” he groaned. “You wanna cum so badly, don’t you?”
“Pleeeease!” she screamed. He was doing something different then before; one palm pressed on her mound, the other fingered her g-spot. It was a sensation she’d never experienced before. She love it, she didn’t want it to end…damn she didn’t want it to end but she had to cum. “Scott, please make me cum. Please...” she was close to trembling with tears.
He couldn’t take it anymore. “Cum for me,” his stroked her spot…in just the right spot. “Cum all over my fingers.”
“Oh Goood, yes!!” That was it—a wet stream juice seeped from her pussy, soaking his fingers, and she began to convulse, cumming hard. “Oh shit, Scott!!” she shouted with pleasure as her orgasm pulsated through her body. Rhythmically, she bucked and writhed beneath him.
He cried out intensely, urgently. His cum poured from him in wave after wave, shooting deep into her ass, again and again, his fingers massaging her as she rode out her orgasm, panting and writhing and quivering as his cock released hard and deep, again and again.
Their orgasms abated, they cleaned up and returned to bed. Monica never felt so safe as when in his arms listening to him breathe.
“Monica,”
“Yes,”
“I don’t really think you’re a dirty slut, you know that right?”
“I know. Pillow talk is pillow talk. Goodnight John Boy,”
******
The next morning, they said their goodbyes. Scott made Monica promise to have dinner with him that night—he’d cook; she simply needed to show up. He scribbled his address on a piece of paper and pressed it into her hand before she could protest. “Fine, I’ll see you after work.” She kissed him and he was out the door.
An hour later, Monica rushed into her downtown office building praying the surly security guard wouldn’t ask her to present her ID card. After losing it three months ago, “I left it stairs in my office” no longer rang true and she could no longer utter the lie with a straight face. They exchanged “fuck you” expressions and she scampered across the marble floor towards the elevators as fast as her Gucci pumps could take her. As the doors swung open, her cell phone rang, she answered.
“MG,” Sharon whispered like a hostage. “I called you warn you, Kenya, I mean Catherine is waiting for you and she’s especially chatty.”
“Great, just what I need first thing in the morning. I guess locking her in a closet would be out of the question,” regrettably watching the elevator light blinking pass each floor. “Damn, thanks for the warning.” She disconnected the call and swaggered into the office. She gave the briefest of good mornings to her assistant, barked an order for coffee and retreated behind closed doors with Kenya/Catherine or “KC” as they’d dubbed her. This woman had balls of steel. She actually believed exchanging her African name for an Anglicized one would somehow blind people to fact that she was a six foot tall skeletal Black woman. Not just any Black—we’re talking Sudanese Black. That, coupled with a fake British accent she’d adopted, bemused those who knew her from the bullet-riddled Grady projects. If it weren’t for her keen eye and stealthy ability to commandeer exotic botanicals at a moments notice, Monica would’ve cut ties months ago.
“Catherine, don’t start,” Monica insisted, rounding her desk. “I have a busy morning ahead of me so please keep it short.” She sat and interlaced her fingers. “What?”
“Well, good morning to you,” Catherine pouted her lips which called attention to her protruding cheek bones. “I’ll get straight to the point: I want the Sixth District’s Debutante Ball. You know the project is too large for Vanessa to manage. You promised me…”
“I never promised you anything,” Monica checked her. “I said I’d send work your way…not this particular event. Vanessa’s firm was requested by the client and I happen to agree with them.”
“It’s insulting…”
“What’s insulting is you telling me how to run my business!” Monica snapped but calmed quickly when she realized that shipment of strelitzias for the Mayor’s ball weren’t going to deliver themselves. “Don’t forget, I’m the one keeping your books filled, not the other way around. Concentrate on the jobs I’ve sent you and we’ll talk but this conversation is over.”
“Fine, I see you’re been quite unreasonable,” Catherine stood hotly. “Ring my mobile, we’ll do lunch.” She headed for the door.
“Kenya,” Monica rubbed her forehead. “Drop the act. Living six months in Kent and owning a pirated copy of “Upstairs, Downstairs” doesn’t make you British anymore than it makes me Chinese. So, please stop.”
Aghast, as usual, Catherine slithered through the door.
"Record time," Monica looked at her watch.
******
Twelve hours later Monica’s heels were clacking back across the lobby’s marble floor—right passed the evening security guard who appeared to have given up on life too early. There was something disconcerting about a man who looked reassigned to a life of sorrow guarding a multi-million dollar high rise in the heart of Midtown, but Monica was grateful he didn’t harass her about her missing ID card. She scuttled passed him and prayed for his swift deliverance.
Outside, the doorman hailed her Town Car.
“Goodnight,” she said briskly.
He sighed woefully. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
The employer of these people should be investigated for war crimes. She crawled into the car and handed the driver Scott’s address and immediately began practicing her “Oh my goodness! I can’t wait to ingest this!” facial expression. She’d been meaning to practice all day but it slipped her mind—and said with apparent enthusiasm, the clipped version would have to suffice.
Forty-five minutes and two phone calls later, the car pulled in front of a sleek retro building with “The Metropolitan at Buckhead” emblazoned on its awning. Monica questioned the driver—this couldn’t be his apartment building…there was no way he could afford the rent on his firemen’s salary. The doorman open the car door and Scott, dressed in jeans and a black button down pushed up at the sleeves, met her in the lobby. With a quickly hello to the security guard, Max, he took her laptop bag and threw it over his shoulder, offered his hand and they went upstairs.
Upstairs being his fabulous retro chic three bedroom apartment done in rich hues blue, whites and browns, clean lines and micro-suedes, even a fish tank. Seeing Monica’s disbelief, Scott launched into an explanation for his domestic awesomeness. He and a firefighter buddy, Louis, leased the place years ago. When the buddy came out of the closet, he begged Scott to keep up appearances until he told his parents…shortly thereafter he moved to Spain with his lover and continues to pay his half of the rent. Luckily, Louis’s folks call as often as he did, which was never. Whether it be his mother’s remorse for utterly shattering her sons’ spirit or the thought of her poor baby living on his own salary, Scott routinely received large guilt checks from Louis’s mother. As such, Louis established a collect and keep system—Scott collects, Scott keeps. The distain between mother and son was palpable.
To Monica’s surprise, Scott cooked very well. When he’d placed her dinner plate in front of her, she recognized the veal shank and steamed vegetables but the creamy mash potato-ish offering left her puzzled.
“Try it, you’ll like it.”
“What the hell is it?” Monica frowned.
“It’s Colcannon, any Irish dish,” he sat his fork down and explained. “Its potatoes, ham, cream, butter, onion and, cabbage.”
“You had me sold until cabbage. I don’t eat cabbage.”
“You do now. Eat.” He insisted. She took a forkful and tried bringing it to her mouth but her gag reflex kicked in. “Open.” He guided a small amount between her lips and waited for her reaction.
“It needs more salt.” She smiled a twinge ashamed she’d given him attitude.
After dinner, Scott loaded the dishwasher and Monica retreated into the living room to relax. She promised herself they weren’t going to sleep together—she was going home and getting a good night’s sleep. No matter how badly she wanted him, it wasn’t going to happen. But…..it happened. Before long, he had her bent over his headboard calling him Daddy with her Gucci pumps still on.
They collapsed on the bed... her body wrapped around his. “Two nights in a row, we have to stop this”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he kissed her forehead. “Goodnight.”