Z-Rated (Chocolate Flava 3)

“Wearing those blouses that hugged your tetas. Hugging and rubbing against me.”

“Wishful thinking, pendejo.”

“I wouldn’t take what you offered when he was alive, but since you’re giving it away now that he’s gone I might as well take my fill,” he said, pulling her toward him.

“I never offered when he was alive,” she said, trying to dodge his hands, but he held fast. She struggled silently, not wanting the mourners gathering in the chapel to hear. He was a head taller and a good fifty pounds heavier, so restraining her was not difficult. Before long, his hand was under her sk

irt and his fingers trailed through the still sensitive lips of her sex, toying with the rampant clitoris that protruded just there. It was still damp and slippery from their mingled juices.

He pushed her roughly over the armrest of the ornate wooden chair that probably served as the priest’s resting place after a strenuous mass. The armrest caught her just at her waist; her hands splayed, grappling against the velvet of the seat’s cushion as she tried to balance herself.

Julio was behind her, pushing her skirt up higher until her ripe bottom was on display to him. She could hear as he unzipped his pants and as the cloth fell to his ankles. He leaned down, his teeth grazing, then nipping the smooth flesh of one cheek as a finger teased and tested her moist sex. He stood again, kneeing her legs, opening her wider. Then, with no further preamble, he was pushing into her, the distended head of his penis bumping and grazing the engorged labia, finally slipping past and into the newly made wetness that greeted him. She grappled for support, her hands slipping over the plush fabric as he rammed himself into her, the hard length of him heaving and shoving its way to her center, his hand gripping her hips.

“You bitch,” he said as he pounded into her. “You fucking bitch.”

Her muscles clenched around him involuntarily, sucking and straining against his rapid thrusts, his insistent intrusion.

“Fuck,” he groaned as she tightened around him. “Fuck,” he said again as she slid back against him, all wet and juicy. And then, he couldn’t say anything else. He could only continue to give her all he had as he pounded into her, the rasp of each thrust sending shooting sensations that caused his groin and his thighs to tighten and tremble. He held her hips firmly, his fingers denting her skin. There would be bruises later, but she let him grip and hold her, tight and still, just the way he needed to.

He took her hard, aiming himself so that each time he drove into her, he slid all the way, the head of his penis nudging at her womb like that and like that. She mewled and moaned beneath him, her pussy holding him fast like it was made for him. She was so wet and hot and tight and her ass was so soft and buoyant, he gripped her hips harder trying to hold on, to maintain his stance. The sweat and a shattering light filled his eyes and his head, and he was coming into her, long and hard. He wanted to paint her pussy with his seed, to tattoo his mark inside her. His seed gushed forth, filling her, filling his pussy, his “Mígda,” he cried out. “Mígda.” The echo was torn from him as the muscles of her canal trembled hard, squeezing him, milking the last of his seed from his spasming cock.

He wanted to kiss her, to slip his tongue into her mouth, to hold her and maybe there would be tears, his. Instead, he pulled out of her and turned his back to her as he pulled the rumpled altar cloth from the nearby table. Without looking at it or her, he wiped himself before pulling his pants back up and making the necessary adjustments to his clothing.

“See,” he said, tossing the thick white cloth back onto the table, “una puta.” He’d stopped himself from pulling her dress down, from covering her. He wanted her to feel the shame, to feel exposed, to feel what he’d been feeling long before he stumbled upon her in this room. He couldn’t look at her.

She said nothing, but he thought he heard a whimper.

“Fix yourself up. We have to bury my brother.”

He didn’t look back at her when he reached for the door of the sacristy.

“I’m glad that you never had kids with Luis. Now, I can truly be rid of you. There is nothing else.”

“Julio,” she called to him. His hand gripped the doorknob, but he didn’t turn around. “I really loved Luis. I’ve been missing him for a long time,” she said, her words soft, trembling.

His hand tightened on the knob. He turned to look at her. She was still a little tousled, though her hair and skirt had fallen back into place, more or less. She leaned against the wall, hugging herself. Tears made her face shiny and her nose a little red. The smell of what they had done filled the small room. He looked away, ashamed.

“He loved you, too.” He looked at her as he spoke, wanting her to understand the truth of his words. The tears ran down her face now, and she was nodding her head up and down. He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he remembered how she felt, her breasts against his chest, her thighs cupping his. Shaking his head, he gripped the doorknob harder and closed his eyes, squeezing the lids tightly. When he opened them again, she still stood there, face wet and hands gripping her upper arms. They stood like that for a while, not saying anything. He sighed.

“Come on.” He held his hand out to her, palm up. “You’ll need water for that face and new lipstick.”

She looked at his hand suspiciously, but the tears seemed to slow a little.

“Luis would want you to look your best with this crowd.” He lifted his hand and extended it farther toward her.

He waited, and when she didn’t move, he said, “Come on, Mígda. It’s okay. You can do this…. We can do this.”

She looked at him, measuring his words, the look in his eyes. But she didn’t move, the fear of further censure evident in her eyes. He waited, trying to look … not sorry, because he wasn’t sorry that he’d taken what she’d readily given. He wanted to show that he was at least penitent because he’d shown so little grace in accepting it.

“Lo siento, Mígda. Estoy aqui para ti.” His words were spoken softly as he lifted his hand to her again and smiled, his damp eyes seeking her watery ones. She watched, assessing him, her arms dropping to her sides. “Venga, Mígda,” he coaxed, his voice a gentle whisper, his outstretched hand beckoning. Then slowly, almost bashfully, she made her way across the room to slip her small, cold hand into his much larger one.

Trapped

Pat Tucker

The cabdriver took off before I could close the car door completely. It was raining buckets—no, make that barrels. A flash of lightning bolted through the dark sky. I barely made it inside the hotel. I was drenched and tired. I wanted a hot shower and a warm bed. Inside the hotel lobby, I heard music, loud chatter, and laughter floating in the air, but I wasn’t in a festive mood. I tugged at my roller suitcase and made my way to the front desk.

“Oooh, are you okay? May I help you?” the friendly clerk asked.