Honey Flava

He was a living, breathing jackhammer to satisfy her not-easily-satisfied hungers, free from drama. Thank goodness for Pleasure Principle. It was like shopping for a sweater. You could get whatever you wanted for the right price; all that and no uncomfortable attachments.

Janet had made a good number of client contacts in Hong Kong, and she convinced Susan that it would probably make good business sense to branch out and take their business “on the road.” Susan knew the real reason Janet wanted to “branch out” was because the love of her life, an art specialist at Christie’s New York, had recently been offered a promotion and transfer to Christie’s Hong Kong. Susan agreed to go and check things out, never one to forgo an opportunity to expand her horizons, although it occurred to her that Hong Kong was not the place. Besides, if nothing else, she could see some really great art.

The sixteen-hour flight to Hong Kong left Susan feeling no less horny than usual. She had an insatiable appetite, and being a visitor to a strange place, she suddenly missed Pleasure Principle more than usual. She was reminded of Janet’s insistence that she not fuck her man; and Susan had promised herself she wouldn’t. Even she had some principles.

Kyung, Janet’s art specialist/lover, had suggested she take a taxi to the Christie’s salesroom, since it was right near the Grand Hyatt where she would be staying. But Susan desperately wanted to ride the metro (the Hong Kong subway system or MTR). So per Kyung’s instructions, she rode the Tsuen Wan Line from the airport to Wan Chai Station, not far from the Christie’s salesroom, where Kyung would be waiting to take her to dinner. Boarding the train, Susan was acutely aware of the massive overcrowding and how any crowds on any given day on the New York City subway system paled in comparison to this. However, she boarded the train prepared to fully enjoy her first experience on the MTR. The pushing and shoving was commonplace, and everyone was packed in like sardines. Just as Susan thought the ride was becoming unbearable, she felt the most masculine, powerful hands caress their way up her thighs.

“Uhm,” she gasped, more audibly than she would have liked.

“You are Susan?” the voice attached to those warm hands asked.

The only person who knew she was in Hong Kong was Kyung. But he was Janet’s man and she had promised to keep her hands—and everything else—off. But damn, this felt good!

As his hand traveled to places farther south, Susan spread her legs wide enough to grant him entry, surprised that no one around them seemed to notice. As her juices quickly lubricated his artful explorations, she could feel his hard dick beckoning to her. As though mentally in sync, he turned her toward the door, hoisted her skirt above her hips, and entered her now quivering pussy. The rattling and jerking of the train and the numerous passengers shoved in around them provided all the movement they needed. His dick was guided by force in and out of her pussy, leaving her head spinning with wanting more.

“Do you feel it? This is our qi, our spirit, the electricity that flows between us and all around us.”

“Yes,” Susan whispered, so as not to alert her surrounding passengers to what they were doing, although some seemed to notice anyway.

As the train began to grind to a halt en

tering the next stop, her stop, Wan Chai Station, this beautiful, driving force inside her seemed intent on coming at the exact moment that she arrived at her destination, but not before he introduced himself quietly in her ear.

“Susan, I am Cho. My brother Kyung sent me to welcome you to Hong Kong and all the many riches it has to offer.”

The Big Bang Theory

ZANE

WHEN I ENTERED THE club True Meaning, the DJ was working his ass off and remixing “Tambourine” by Eve. That was a booty-shaking song if I had ever heard one. Women were lined from wall to wall in tight clothes, showing off their assets, whether they were hitting on everything or nothing at all. I had never been one to have all my shit hanging out. If a man was lucky enough to get to the point of finding out what I had underneath my clothes, that was a privilege, not a right.

I worked out five times a week at the twenty-four-hour World Gym in Largo, Maryland. I was cut from head to toe and I knew that I was a sexy bitch. Yes, I said bitch, because I did not take shit off anyone, especially shitty-ass men out there. That was one of the reasons why I worked out so much. From childhood, I had always set out to prove that I could do anything a man could do, only better. I worked out like a man; I played sports like a man. Most important, I raced cars like a man.

I loved cars. When I was a teenager, I would always tell my mother, “Look at that sexy thing there.” She assumed that I was talking about the young men driving the cars, but I meant the cars themselves. By the time I turned twenty, I had six cars in my garage and driveway. I went to mechanics school and learned how to repair them and rebuild them. I had a 1980 Trans Am, a 1993 Mustang, two high-performance trucks, a 1970 GTO, and a 1991 Chevy Nova. I was the shit and I knew it.

I raced at the track, for the most part. But street racing was what really got my adrenaline rushing. The only problem was that all the other women were punks. I was the only bitch who raced the men. They could not stand me because I would whip their asses every weekend. In fact, as I entered True Meaning, I was cheesing because I had won yet another one earlier that night at the track.

Quincy was this brother I had grown up with in Bowie, Maryland. He was cool but determined to get into my drawers, and that shit was not happening. I had done his older brother once, more out of curiosity than anything. Other women claimed he was the ultimate in bed. His ass could not even handle me. It was a true disappointment. So when Quincy started insisting that we hook up, I finally had to tell him that his brother had a pencil dick and I bet that trait ran in their family. His brother, Robert, didn’t really have a pencil dick. I only said that to see if Quincy would try to find out. Men are so strange. They will try to scope out other dudes’ wang-wangs to see if they measure up. After about three months, Quincy told me that his brother was hung like a mule, just like him. I made a scene with him and asked if he found that out when his brother was ramming it up his ass. Everyone laughed; except Quincy. We were at the track and he challenged me to a race. I love challenges. We raced around the track at 140 mph and I won by a frog’s hair, but I won.

Quincy was the first man I spotted as I walked into the club. I could not miss him gritting on me. I gritted right back. Sitting next to him at the bar were Hakaru and Chiyo, two Asians who were cousins. I had to give it to them, they looked good, but they were still assholes. Always primping, always bragging about their rides. Hakaru had once told me that his name meant “one who measures, plans, thinks things through.” That name fitted him perfectly because he was one conniving, deceptive motherfucker. Chiyo’s name meant “thousand lifetimes, thousand years.” That name fit him as well because he had what my grandmother used to call “an old soul.” She used to look at certain kids, even babies, and say that they had been here before.

I walked right up to them at the bar and started bragging. “How’d you all like that shit earlier tonight? How I wiped up the track with all of you?”

“Larissa, you ain’t wipe shit,” Quincy came back at me. “You need to go wipe that ass though. I smell something foul.”

Chiyo and Hakaru chuckled, and all three of them clanked their beer steins together.

“Quincy, you’re just mad because I wouldn’t let you tap this ass,” I said. “Everyone knows you’ve been trying to get me in bed for years.”

Quincy turned his nose up at me. “I was just treating you like the obvious trick that you are. I can get pussy when I can’t get sleep. Good pussy.”

He was getting on my last fucking nerve. “Oh, really, and they don’t mind that pencil dick of yours?”

The other men laughed, and Quincy didn’t like that at all. “Look, I don’t have no damn pencil dick. Neither does my brother. You’re just mad because he fucked you once and kicked you to the curb.”

I sat down and waved the bartender over. “That’s his version. Men are a trip. They have a one-night stand and think it was them, but what about the fact that the women never call their asses again either?”

I ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser and proceeded to get drunk. I talked mad shit to the three of them for the next hour. Then I got so tipsy that I ended up slow-dragging with Chiyo to “Bed” by J. Holiday. I don’t even remember how we got on the dance floor, but there I was, grinding into him. His dick was hard and I was pleasantly surprised. At the end of the song, I pulled away from him in disgust and said, “Don’t ever touch me again, trick!”