1
Taylor
I sat quietly in my brand-new lavished condo, waiting for my night caller to arrive. Divorce can be a bitch—and sometimes divorce can get a bitch paid! I learned that catchphrase from the sassy black receptionist at the law firm I walked away from six months ago.
When I first started at Crane and Baxter, I was just a lonely intern, fresh out of UCLA. Back then, I kept my head down and did what was expected of me. That all changed when one of the head partners, Winston Baxter, approached me one afternoon as I was heading out for lunch. He was forty-nine, and I was the eighteen-year-old blond hair, blue-eyed newbie. Go figure. Ironically his age didn’t bother me one bit. He wasn’t fat and balding like the other partners; he actually was kind of cute.
Needless to say, after a year of expensive gifts, candlelit dinners, and overseas vacations, I became Mrs. Winston Charles Baxter III. My husband and I shared a great life together when he wasn’t out sleeping with every whore in LA. He never respected our marriage or me. But I didn’t complain. I just laid flat on my back for ten years and took the pain he inflicted like a good little wife, just as I was trained to do. I smiled for the cameras, attended black tie events, and even played the role of his bleached arm charm. We were a match made in hell, but I stayed right by my husband’s side up until some random woman called my cell onenight, screaming, “I’m pregnant!” on the other end. That was it for me. I was done and vowed I wasn’t taking anymore, so here I am divorced at twenty-nine and filthy rich. I got half! Judge Marshall granted me half of everything Winston, his best friend of twenty years, owned.
I know you’re probably wondering; how did she pull that off? Let’s just say it’s incredible how far a bag of cough drops—and a good BJ—will take you. I learned that from the receptionist, too!
I jumped when the chime of my doorbell filled the air. There it goes again. And again!
Earlier tonight, I was lying across my king size bed watching a rerun of Sex And The City when another one of those ads came on for a new dating app to meet local singles. I was feeling a little lonesome tonight, so I decided to give it a try. When I downloaded the app, I wasn’t expecting to meet him. Not a black guy. Never a black guy. I don’t discriminate; they just do nothing for me. But tonight, I did meet a black guy off that stupid app, and now he’s standing on the other side of my front door in the middle of the night waiting to get in.
I crept to the door, hoping he would be gone by the time I opened it, but he was still standing there waiting patiently. When I opened the door, he introduced himself as Jamal, which I’m sure was just his app alias.
Once I invited him in, he stepped into the foyer wearing a chocolate brown and cream sweatsuit, a V-neck white T-shirt, a thick gold chain, and Timberland boots.
His silence made me uneasy while his scent sent some sort of electric current between my legs.
When I gave him the silent invitation to follow me, his head nodded, and chestnut-colored eyes said, after you. I then eyed him, hoping he wasn’t about to pull out a pair of O.J. gloves ready to attack.
After sizing him up, I’m guessing he was around 6’3”, one hundred eighty pounds. Instantly my eyes zoomed to his crotch as I prayed that wasn’t a gun bulging out the front of his sweatpants.
My lips quivered. My breathing increased. I felt heart palpitations, sweat beads, then wetness—as in dripping wet. I couldn’t control myself in front of this man. He was so dark and mysterious. I wanted him to say something, so I’d know he was real, but then again, I didn’t want him to speak at all, which he didn’t.
He followed me as I walked through the foyer over to the winding staircase. Once we made it up to the second level, we entered my bedroom with the view of the city dancing in front of us.
I quickly grew paranoid of this stranger only inches away from me. I didn’t know whether to hide my Gucci bag that was sitting on my oak desk, or at least fold in the tag on my Egyptian duvet comforter so he wouldn’t know it was a duvet comforter, get tempted and grab it. He didn’t...Instead of going for my pricey cover, he grabbed me. He rushed me up into his arms right before he started running his long tongue in and out of my mouth. I could taste his saliva. His mouth was warm and sweet. His lips were lush. His kisses were rough but gentle.
Before I could catch my breath, he snatched my shirt from the bottom, lifted it over my head, and tossed it onto the floor. I could tell my perfect size 36 C’s commanded all his attention. He cupped my left breast and teased my nipple with his thumb, not once breaking his constant glare into my eyes.
With his free hand, he ran his fingertips down my body. He traveled into my boy shorts, exploring my juicy pussy. His forefinger landed on my throbbing, sensitive clitoris as his middle finger made its way inside of me. I didn’t stop him as two more of his full fingers traveled to the middle of my sex. I became lost in Jamal’s rugged scent, his warm breath, and his hard-on.
By this time, he had me completely naked, fingers still inside of me. I instantly became drunk with passion, caught in a lust-filled fire so hot not even God could extinguish, and I was enjoying every second of it.
He was thrusting in and out of my sweetness as my nectar dripped onto his flesh. I was going wild as I begged for more, and more, and more! I moved my hips to his tempo. Each time he sped up, so did my body.
“Oh God, Jamal, please stop!” He didn’t listen to me. He kept going. He didn’t obey my orders. “Jamal! . . .” I cried again, “Jamal! . . . Jamal!” My breathing was out of control. My body was all over the place. I . . . I couldn’t . . . Oh, no . . . I was about to come! I’m heaving. My heart is beating the lining of my chest, trying to break free. I was about to explode on his fingertips . . . I was about to climax hard and fast.
When he kissed the crease of my neck, it was over. My insides rained all over him. He still didn’t stop. He kept working my bald pussy, fingers never leaving my opening. He brushed up against my engorged pearl more times then I could count as my insides screamed for more.
Right as my third orgasm zigzagged through my body, he stopped. He took his fingers from inside of me with his eyes glued to mine. He brought his sloppy hand up to his mouth and tasted me. His juicy pink lips shined from my moisture.
Watching his tongue trace his mahogany fingers made me hornier. His slurping was driving me into insanity. I swear this man had some sort of control over me, and I didn’t want it back. I was his slave, he was my master, and I would obey whatever he commanded.
After he’d licked his hand clean, he laid me down on my perfectly made bed, spread my legs and began lapping in my creamy, oozing pussy, sucking up every drop. He was flicking his hot tongue all over my smooth clit, causing me to shiver from enjoyment. I started screaming his name as he tongue fucked my soul.
I yelled, “I’m coming!” as my body started to release. Luckily, I owned the place. If I were in some rinky-dink apartment, the neighbors would probably be banging on the walls for me to shut up or be listening to get their own rocks off. At this point, I didn’t care who heard me. I was in ecstasy!
When my juices were comfortably swimming in the pit of his ripped stomach, Jamal stood up from between my legs, and that’s when I saw it in full salute. It looked like ten, or maybe even twelve inches of the biggest, longest, fattest cock I’ve ever seen, and it was wading right in front of me.
My eyes combed this dark, perfect specimen. He stared back at me as he positioned himself. Once he got into form, my shapely tanned legs rested comfortably on his shoulders. When Jamal entered me, I wiggled, my hips gyrating against his pelvis. Our rhythm became one as he gradually started picking up speed. I grabbed his muscular arms as his rod slid in and out of me. His balls slapped against my ass with my petite body now shaking uncontrollably. I screamed, “Oh, Jamal!” as the volcano between my thighs erupted.
He flipped me onto my side and fucked my pussy from a perfect symmetrical angle. I then ended up on all fours, gripping my sheets as he plunged my insides from the back.
When hiked up on Viagra, my ex-husband could be considered a stellar lover, but even on his best night of lovemaking, he didn’t compare to my urban night caller.
Next, Jamal threw me up against my bedroom wall and took me in every position our standing bodies could master. He then bent me over my computer desk, then the computer chair, the window seat, back to the bed, back to the wall, the bed, all fours, more symmetrical angles; bed, the wall, the floor—I started to lose count of my orgasms, and the many positions we engaged in, as my mind spun out of control.
Suddenly, my breathing calmed. I started to gain composure. I opened my eyes prepared to look into Jamal’s, but he was gone. His jacket he’d thrown on my bed was gone. His cologne had evaporated, too. I turned on a light in search of him but found nothing. I rushed out into the hallway and over to the staircase but still came up empty-handed without any signs of Timberland boots on my white carpeting.
I headed down the stairs to find my place in eerie silence: no sounds, no lights, and no Jamal. I went over and checked my front door to find it locked. Now, how could that be? I looked over at the alarm system; it read ARMED.
No-fucking-way!
Someone was here tonight—I’m sure of it. I looked at myself and, sure enough, I was naked. I felt around between my legs, touching the folds of my exhausted, soggy pussy. I had sex tonight, but with who? The man . . . this man that had me screaming at the top of my lungs . . . did he just vanish into thin air? There were no signs of him anywhere. But that couldn’t be! My body confirmed there was a man here tonight, but where is he now? Where did he go? What happened to the dark, tall, lean, sexy man I knew as Jamal? . . .