He barely blinked as she approached him in her
T-shirt and barely-there cutoffs. “I have to …” He never did finish that thought.
“You have to take good care of your wife,” Angelique cooed. Unbuttoning his denim vest, she slipped her fingers inside and slid her hands down his chest. It was hot and damp with sweat. Her knees nearly gave out at the scent of him—man and hair products. She pulled him back until her butt met his desk and then she spread her legs. Wide. She took his hand and forced his fingers down her front. The waist on these jeans rested above her navel. They sucked in her belly like a corset. No way she’d be taking them off. Anyway, these tight jeans got her hot and horny as a teenager. Ryan could work around them.
When his fingers met her exposed pussy lips, she gasped and then stopped his hand from moving any farther. “Grab it,” she said.
He grabbed her pussy and squeezed. She grabbed the table to support herself. His touch made her weak as a kitten, but she knew what she wanted. “No, baby, grab my crotch!”
“I am!” He looked so puzzled, and his uncertainty warmed Angelique’s heart.
“Sorry.” She shook her head, smiling at his mystified expression. “Grab the jeans—the crotch of the jeans.” Weaving his fingers between her bare skin and the denim seam, she formed his hand into a fist.
After so much instruction, Ryan finally seemed to realize what she was after. He straightened up like his muscles were possessed by the spirits of the throbbing teenagers downstairs. Grabbing an ass cheek in one strong hand, he pulled up on the crotch of her jeans until he’d lifted her bare feet off the floor.
“Yessssss!” Angelique hissed as the sopping wet seam of her cutoffs dug into her clit. He rested one of her thighs on one of his, and the feel of his denim on her naked skin made her melt. The garbled music from below pumped through her veins. When she closed her eyes she saw strobe lights.
Ryan had her totally in his power. As he pulled her forward, the denim seam felt fatter and wetter and her clit grew bigger and harder. She hadn’t felt so engorged since she was sixteen, walking around all day and all night in tight jeans like these, feeling how wet her pussy got every time she sat down in class …
All she’d ever wanted throughout four years of math classes, English classes, sciences classes, and all the rest, was for some guy with strong hands to grab her by the fly and get her off on her own jeans. Why could nobody damn well figure that out? And, hell, for that matter, why could she never tell anybody what she really wanted? But that’s what girls were like at that age—they strived to meet the man’s needs.
Now she was older. Now she was a woman—strong, powerful, and opinionated. Her husband didn’t mind indulging her cravings, but in all the years between then and now, she’d forgotten about this deeply held love of denim.
Angelique still had her hands back against Ryan’s desk as he rocked her back and forth, alleviating the pressure on her clit before laying the force on strong. Back toward the desk, and then forward toward Ryan’s bare chest, he compelled her to ride her jeans like a bull. He tossed her around at varied speeds, at varied pressures. One hand at a time, she reached up and grabbed hold of his neck. She clung to him, panting and whimpering as he rocked her body in time with the 1980s dance beat downstairs.
Ryan swung around until he was the one leaning back on his desk. And then the hand on her ass started to move. He slipped his thumb in between her flesh and the denim until he was holding her jeans at the back the same way he was holding them at the front. The seam now pressed against not only her throbbing clit, but against her asshole, too.
“God!” she whispered, clinging to him. Was she more awed or turned on? Hard to say, until he pulled her up high enough for their lips to meet. When he drew her tongue inside his mouth and kissed her, Angelique became his wild woman. Shifting her suspended body on the miracle denim, she thrust her hips. Ryan responded by bouncing her on her own jeans. Grasping his shoulders, she threw her legs around his waist. He rose to that challenge by flossing her wet slit with denim. The closer she got to her husband, the closer she came to orgasm.
Some might say she’d lost control downstairs at the dance. Angelique knew this was her moment of abandon. Her body bucked and thrust against Ryan and the denim. That wonderful seam slid to the side of her clit, and she struggled in his arms to land it smack on top of her pounding bud. Boy, she would be sore in the morning, but right now she didn’t give a flying flock of seagulls. She was going to come, and it was going to be huge. There was so much pent-up energy inside her body she could feel it sizzling in her fingers. Her heart beat as erratically as her lunges against Ryan, and she didn’t call it quits until all the throbbing warmth in her pelvis banded together to erupt in the most volcanic super-orgasm she’d ever experienced.
Ryan held her until she couldn’t stand the pressure against her clit. It was too much now. Any more of this and pleasure would turn to pain. He laid her out on the table like a crying infant and cut off the seam of her jeans with that same pair of black-handled scissors. Her body pulsed and seized, and she latched on to her husband’s hand and kissed his palm again and again. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
Tossing the scissors in his desk, he cupped her face in his hands before bending to kiss her forehead. When he pulled away from her, every bone in her body felt the loss of him. Even this stark room of washed blackboards and generic desks spoke little of Mr. Lambert, her husband, the teacher. She’d always been so proud of him, and look what she’d gone and done! Embarrassed him in front of his boss and his students and his colleagues. After all that, he’d still indulged her denim fantasy. This man was perfect. He was perfect, but was he angry?
From his cupboard by the classroom door, Ryan pulled out a long raincoat and used it to cover Angelique’s half-naked body. “Put this on and wait for me in the car,” he instructed. “I need to talk to the principal.” His face was stone, utterly unreadable. “You stay in the backseat under the blanket. Once I’ve made our excuses, I’m taking you to Makeout Point … and that pussy better be hot for me when we get there.”
When he’d slipped out the door, Angelique set her fingers on her lips and smiled. Who could resist tight jeans?
The Pussy Pleaser
Cairo
Pussy, in my opinion, is one of the most preciously delicious wonders of the world. Real shit. Muhfuckas have lied for it, cried for it, and ultimately died for it. So why most cats don’t cherish it is way beyond me. But, hey … it’s not my issue and definitely not my worry. See, I’m a connoisseur of pussy—good pussy, that is, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Real talk, I can spot … uh, sniff out … good pussy a mile away. Call it a gift. Call it a curse. Call it whatever you want. Fact is, I can tell whether a woman has that goody-goody-make-a-nigga’s-knees-buckle type of pussy, or if she has that Run-Forrest-Run-I’ma-strip-the-skin-off-ya-dick–type shit instead.
I’ve been fucking since I was fourteen. And over the course of twenty-two years, I’ve sampled, savored, and slayed enough pussy to know when a woman has that bomb-ass pussy neatly tucked in between her thighs. How? I can’t answer that. It’s a knowing. Because of that knowing I can tell exactly what her body needs way before she opens her mouth to tell me. It’s like I have this telepathic connection to a woman’s pussy. It speaks to me. It calls out my name. And I can tell when it wants, needs, to be fucked, or simply yearns to be made love to.
Like right now, which is why I’m sitting here, licking my thick pussy-eating lips at these three honeys sitting across from me in the American Airlines waiting area for flight 1879 to the beautiful island of Curaçao. Hands down, Curaçao—situated slightly off the coast of Venezuela—is one of the Caribbean’s best-kept secrets. Whew, beautiful peeps, beautiful weather, good food, and no damn hurricanes. It can’t get any better than that. Although considered a part of South America, it’s also a part of the Dutch Caribbean. And it’s my secret hideaway spot, where I go when I wanna escape the hustle and bustle of life and bullshit. It’s my time to do me, solo. In the last four years that I’ve flown to the island, I’ve fucked some of the most amazing women. Some locals, but mostly tourists, like me. Chicks I either met on the plane en route to Curaçao and vibed with—if they’re sitting in first-class, that is—or those I’ve met at one of the bars at the hotel where I always stay. Either way, I’m guaranteed to sample a sweet, sticky dish—or two, or three—of piping hot, wet pussy.
I gaze at the three beauties as they situate their handbags and carry-ons in front of them and take their seats. They’re all sexy as fuck. One has a caramel complexion. Another’s skin is the color of molasses. But the one who really catches my eye is the one sitting in between her two girls, with the smooth, dark-chocolate skin and long, thick eyelashes wrapped around doe-shaped, brown eyes. Her V-neck blouse is showing an ample amount of cleavage, and the way her cantaloupe-sized tits are sitting up all nice and perky tells me she’s rocking a good bra. There’s something sexy about a woman who takes pride in her undergarments. I try to picture what type of panties she has on; something lace, maybe silk. I imagine them to be thongs, neatly pressed up against the mouth of her pussy, the place where my tongue wants to be.
I take in her long, slender fingers and manicured nails. Glance down at her strappy-heeled feet and see mouthwatering toes peeking out. Subconsciously, I lick my lips. Yeah, the chick is bad. And I know—without a doubt—that she has some good-ass pussy.
My eye catches hers. In a flash, I imagine her swirling her pussy on my tongue, tossing her head back and moaning. I envision her sweet jewel stretched and open from hours of fucking. I breathe in, deeply, imagine her smell; the tangy scent of her pussy stained on my lips, tongue, and fingers. I can visualize how her pussy is: wet and tender from an early morning fuck; glistening cunt lips splayed open by her long fingers, beckoning for my dick to enter. I grin, blinking back all the nasty shit I wanna do to her if the opportunity presents itself. Damn, how I hope it does.
She shifts her eyes. I shift in my seat, pressing my legs shut, hoping to pinch off the slow swell of my cock before it starts to brick up. I’m not the longest-dicked muhfucka there is, but at seven-and-a-half very thick, meaty in
ches, I’m damn sure not the shortest either. Still, I don’t want my shit getting hard when there’s only fifteen minutes before boarding. The last thing I wanna do is stand up and give onlookers an eyeful of fat cock bulging from my baggy sweats. Advertising my hard dick in public isn’t how I like to do mine.