Another Time, Another Place

JANICE N. ADAMS

With downtown Atlanta in my rearview mirror and Sandy Springs north of me, I start my long commute. Thank the Lord, it’s Friday. I’m completely exhausted and can’t wait to get home. My crazy-ass manager, Ms. Collins, has worked my fingers to the bone. Every time that heifer plans to go out of town on business, she dumps so much work on me that I damn near lose my mind. She makes sure that I earn every penny Clark and Howard International, Inc. pays me.

Ahhhh yes, home sweet home. I enter through the garage, open the kitchen door and am hit with the aroma of sizzling steak, onions and peppers. The enticing smell leads me through the family room to the deck out back where I find my boyfriend, Keith Nelson, manning the grill. I stand at the sliding-glass door for a moment, taking in the sight before me: a well-groomed, buff, caramel brother wearing only a grill apron and a pair of kneelength jean shorts. Sweat beads on his forehead and glistens across his upper body from Hotlanta’s ninety-eight-degree temperature and the heat of the grill. Mmmm-mmmm, he’s simply scrumptious. He makes me want him every time I look at him. I open the door and his welcoming eyes greet me.

“Hey, baby. How was your day?” He presses his soft and sexy lips against mine and I can’t help but to kiss and slurp them.

“Insane. Boss lady is at it again. She’s out of town all next week and gave me a pile of crap to do between today and when she gets back.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re the star. She trusts you. That’s a good thing.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t have to work a sista like this to show her confidence. Some of the other assistant attorneys can share the load, too. Anyway, enough about work, what are you preparing?”

“One of your favorites, a big juicy steak, veggies on the barbie, and baked potatoes.”

“Mmmm, you’re making my mouth water.”

“Yeah? Well, after dinner, I plan to put something else in your mouth.”

“Oh really.” I grab his sweaty shoulders, draw him closer, put my hand in his pants and take hold of his dick and scrotum. “Is this what you’re gonna feed me?” I squeeze his groin harder.

“Oh, so, it’s like that? Aight. We’ll see who’s holding what. Dinner should be ready in about twenty minutes.”

“Fine.” I release him with a smile and watch him regain his composure.

“Are you hanging outside with me?”

“Hell to the no. It’s too damn hot out here for my cocoa behind. I’m going inside and get comfortable. Call me when dinner is ready.”

“Cool.”

After changing into a soft, cotton summer dress, I lay my head back and relax on the sofa with a glass of white Zinfandel. As I watch Keith’s gleaming, athletic body put a hurtin’ on my steak, I drift and reflect about him.

***

The rainy season is gone, been gone, and doesn’t seem like it’s ever coming back. I miss the days when I dated a freak as freaky as me. I wish Keith would let his cum rain down on me like I really like it, all over my face, tits, and belly. What better way to find out the taste of a man than to have him skeet on your face, right? I like to take my hands and rub the warm cream on my face like moisturizer. Every man’s cum is different, some tart, some bland, and some downright sweet. Those are the ones I like the best. Keith thinks letting his creamy, hot fluid run down my pussy and thighs is exciting enough. Hell, I like that shit in my cookie, up my ass and all over my dark espresso skin. Quite frankly, his conservative attitude and behavior is getting on my last nerve. The drought sets in like the Sahara Desert and this shit is getting harder to endure.

I crave the dangling, long dong between a robust man’s legs. Watching a huge cock bounce toward me with each step a man takes excites the hell out of me. How many more days and nights can I stand watching my boyfriend walk toward me with his six inches of dick that’s only going to saturate my pussy and thighs? I’m dying for nine inches and my creamy, pearly shower.

I remember the first time I saw Keith’s half-naked body. I knew I’d hit a homerun with his fine, athletic build, big hands and large feet. But when he dropped his boxers and I saw his thang, I snickered “pencil dick” in my mind but I didn’t dare show my amusement. Hell, he spent two hundred dollars on dinner that night. Most ladies are happy with six inches of lead pipe but not my golden kitty. I need a dick that consumes the center of me. If I can close my thumb and middle finger around the dick, and the dick doesn’t bottom me out, it’s a small dick to me.

Damn, look at the time; it’s four-forty-five p.m. on Monday already. Where did the weekend go? The last thing I remember is sitting down eating dinner with Keith. Anyway, let me stop sitting here thinking about his dick and leave this nine-to-five. Besides, I’m just trippin.’ The brother treats me like a platinum princess. I get anything I desire. I’ll just continue to deal with his thang and fantasize as usual.

I step onto the elevator, leaving the thirty-fifth floor, and as usual, it stops on almost every floor as we descend. I’m still getting accustomed to 191 Peachtree, a fifty-story skyscraper. Parked at the twenty-second floor, I hear a deep voice request, “Press fifteen, please.”

I look up from searching my purse for my car keys to see who possesses the sexy baritone. Oh, my damn! It’s the guy from the fitness center downstairs. What I wouldn’t give to see what he’s packin’! The brother goes to the gym as religiously as I do. I work out three times a week on my lunch hour, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And each day, I wait until twelve-thirty when this six-foot-two, Hershey-dipped Adonis walks through the door. I play cool and pretend not to look at him, but any girl would be out of her mind not to. I study him intensely and know his routine by heart—thirty minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, thirty minutes of free weights, and two hundred crunches. One thing is for damn sure: The brother has strength and stamina, perfect for my sexual fantasies with him.

I freeze every time I see him do squats. I position myself in the room so I can watch his tight round ass go up and down while he balances the barbell. I lie on the leg machine to do my hamstring curls, rest my chin on the padded part and enjoy the sight, muscles flexing, sweat dripping, energy and strength exploding, man, what a turn-on. Usually, in his last ten squats, he makes an ugly face as he grunts to complete the set. I wonder if that’s how he looks when he cums. Men can make some crazy faces when busting a nut. With all the weight he lifts, I know his legs and glutes burn like hell. If his legs can handle all that weight, I can only imagine what his strong legs can do when popping a coochie.

Personally, I just want to sink my teeth into his ass—better yet, grab him by the booty and navigate him deep into the center of me. He wears loose-fitting shorts over his spandex biker-like apparel, but I can still see the large bulge in the front. I know he’s packin’ but how much is the question. When he releases the barbell, I drool at his upper body that is exhilarating as well.

His arms are cut to a tee; every bicep, tricep, and pec flexes with each movement. I wonder what it’s like being held in those muscular arms. I envision him standing, holding my five-foot-nine hourglass frame around his waist, while I ride his wild, black stallion. Keith is built, but not like this guy. To top everything off, this fine specimen of a man has those sexy, bedroom eyes like the well-known DJ, Donnie Simpson. His hazel eyes bring radiance to his chiseled face. And may I add, the faint shadow beard he s

ports isn’t bad, either. Whew! The brother gives me chills and makes my pussy want him every time I see him. Six months of watching him, and I’ve yet to learn his name. Everyone at the gym is so into working out, I don’t dare break the flow or expose my desire to know him by asking someone, who is he? That’s how office rumors start.

After I lift weights, I wait for the boring step aerobic class to end. I go to the wooden dance floor to do my own aerobic routine. I open the closet door where the stereo equipment is stored and put in my own CD of hip-hop remixes. I turn that sucker up, face the mirrors, feel the rhythm in my bones, and let go of my own pent-up energy. I love to dance. I’m my own video vixen. I mostly combine moves from Janet Jackson, Ciara, and Beyoncé and generally end my routine with some Latino salsa. I gyrate my hips so fast I wanna holla, “You go, girl,” when I see my reflection. By the time my workout is over, sweat beads down my face, and my cotton tank top displays puddles of absorbed sweat. Even my socks are damp with sweat. Some days, I hear clapping at the end of my routine from someone in the workout area, but I never see who it is because the equipment blocks my view.

When I walk to the closet to retrieve my CD, I admire my workout efforts in the mirror as I see my well-toned body. I love being in shape. I have strength and stamina, too. Mmmm-mmmm, what wonderful things Adonis and I can do with these healthy bodies. I chuckle at my nasty thoughts of having explosive sex with him.