“Your voice is so sexy.”
“Thank you. You sound pretty sexy yourself.”
I looked into her eyes. They were big and brown with long, flipped up lashes. “No, you don’t understand. Simply hearing you speak is making me hot.”
“Well, let me say more. Maybe I can talk you out of those clothes.”
“I’d like that a lot,” Bronique said.
I emptied my wine glass and put it aside. I turned to Bronique. Our lips met. Hers were hot, soft and full. Soon, my tongue found hers and our kisses deepened. I touched her face. I felt her head. I pulled her closer. We fell back on the bed. Our lips remained locked. I pulled away, looked at her, and said, “Say something.”
“Fuck me,” she said. I moaned, laid on top of her, and, again, I kissed her deeply. She felt my ass through my skirt. She traced the divide of my ass with her fingertips. My pussy watered. I rubbed it against hers. I wanted more. Bronique wanted more. I could tell.
She pushed my skirt down over my ass and hips. Someone, not Bronique, pulled my skirt down the rest of the way. I straddled Bronique and removed my shirt. She felt my breasts through the black satin bra. She ran her hands down the front of my thong, tracing the “V” that made its way between my thighs. She felt my heat. My wetness. I kissed her and pulled off her shirt. I unlatched her bra. Her breasts spilled out and begged to be kissed, sucked, nibbled. I fulfilled every request.
I looked around. I noticed that everyone else had stripped. I got up and removed my thong and bra, but I left my heels on. I felt lustful in them. We were all on the bed naked. Bronique and I were side by side. She pulled me into her arms. I kissed her. Beside me, I heard Sierra and Tammy kissing. Hearing them pleasuring each other filled me with pleasure. A feeling I wanted to share.
I slide my fingers down toward Bronique’s clit. It was hard and she was wet. I slipped three fingers into her pussy. She moaned, rotated her hips and spread her legs wider. I thrust my fingers in and out of her wet pussy and kissed her again. She arched her back to meet each blow. Tammy and Sierra moved closer. I stopped kissing Bronique. I looked over at Tammy. She lay next to Bronique with her legs wide open. I could smell her sex. I was brought back to our encounter on her kitchen counter.
“Fuck me, too, Gail,” Tammy said. “I want you and Sierra to fuck me.”
I reached over and rubbed Tammy’s mound. It was hot, hairy and horny. She wiggled when I entered her. Then Sierra pushed her fingers into Tammy along with mine. Tammy moaned and gyrated. Bronique moved faster. My other hand was deep inside of her. It dripped with her juices. I stroked her faster to match her rhythm. I could tell she was about to climax. I pulled my hand out of Tammy and focused on Bronique.
“Oh, yes,” she said in that sexy voice of hers. “Faster! Faster! Give it to me! Don’t stop! I’m…I’m…coming!”
Warm liquid washed over and down my hand. She called out and gyrated her hips. Her toes curled. She reached for my hand and pulled it further into her pussy. I slipped another finger into her wetness. She moaned loudly and tossed her head from side to side. I pushed my fingers in further. She spread her legs wider in acceptance. I pumped and I prodded. Bronique gyrated and moaned. Her vaginal walls clenched and released, clenched and released around my hand. Her movements slowed. Then she collapsed deeper into the bed.
Tammy fingered me now. “Wait,” I said. I could barely get the words out. “I know a way we can all be satisfied at once.”
I turned Bronique over onto her stomach. I told Sierra to get on top of Bronique. I told Tammy to lie on top of Sierra. I got on top of Tammy. The ultimate sandwich—pussy to ass, pussy to ass. We fucked like a well-oiled train. Tammy’s ass was plump and sweet. I broke a sweat giving it to her from behind. I felt like such a stud. This time, I was the cowboy. Tammy bucked and swayed beneath me. I held on to her waist and rode her ass. The juice from my pussy spread across it. Up and down. Up and down. We moved in unison. As if choreographed, Bronique came first, then Sierra, then Tammy, then me.
Well into the night, we found new ways to satisfy each other until we were spent. We showered, exchanged phone numbers, promised to get together again and kissed each other good-bye.
When I got home it was one o’clock. I put on my pajamas and eased into bed. My husband was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. Besides, I was dead tired. My husband turned on his side.
“How was moms’ night out?” His voice was groggy.
“It was great,” I said. “We’re going to do it again next month.”
“That’s nice, honey.” I heard him snoring before he finished the sentence. I smiled and fell asleep.
Regina Jamison has been writing since she was twelve years old. She has always dreamed of becoming a writer. Her love of language led her on the path to speech therapy. She is now a speech therapist by day and a writer by night. She is finally finishing her first novel.
Woman of the Year
Charlotte Dare
O utside the luxurious Bay Side Inn, morning fog hovers over San Francisco Bay as a haze of sun tries nudging through. The conference room overlooking the city’s famous Fisherman’s Wharf bustles with an eclectic array of business-women gathered for the annual event honoring the achievements we sisters have long struggled to attain in this man’s world. Ladies of all shapes and sizes, creeds, colors and zip codes descend upon the spread of tofu omelets, bagels, croissants, fruit salad and yogurt dip like squirrels stockpiling food supplies for a New England winter. Who could blame them?
The National Association of Female Small Business Owners spared no expense in making guests feel they’re getting every penny’s worth of the registration fee for the weekend celebration. More than just a schmooze-fest, the convention offers a plethora of networking possibilities, support services and plenty of female bonding, all culminating in the awards brunch late Sunday morning in which one highly accomplished, trailblazing American businesswoman is honored for her stellar contributions.
A female small business owner myself, I’m always game for a weekend hailing the successes of my overachieving, go-getter colleagues provided the buffet is long, the speeches short, and I can get a plane out by two p.m. Sunday. I’d gorged myself on the vegetarian welcoming dinner the night before, yet this morning, oddly enough, I’m famished. As I inch along the line at the refreshment table, I grumble to myself about how these shindigs always feature the Queen’s ransom in breakfast but set tiny little plates onto which guests must either pile a precarious tower of food or make four separate trips for refills.
“We havin’ fun yet?” she drawls, leaning into my arm as she pours a stream of hot coffee from a towering percolator. I laugh before I even glance over at the face producing the quip. It’s a relief to learn I’m not the only female who finds the annual festival of upwardly mobile sisterhood somewhat of a bore.
“A blast.” I grin, turn away from the fruit salad ladle and feast my eyes on the most exotic beauty I’ve ever seen roaming earth among mortals.
“Girl, they should hold this event in Vegas each year. At least we can jaunt down to a crap table when it gets really hard to stay awake.” She stirs half a packet of Equal into her coffee and reveals a shiny row of impossibly perfect teeth. “I’m Poetess Andrews,” she says, extending long, brown fingers with French-manicured nails. “Of Andrews Travel in D.C., specializing in business, pleasure, and any exotic locale near or far, recently voted the Beltway’s number one travel planner.”