Free Best Black Women's Erotica 2 by Samiya Bashir Page A

she’d seen since she arrived. Reagan plied Z with food and dessert while telling her story after story of her journey through self-love. Z learned about the first time Reagan did it, pulling down her Spiderman Underoos after her parents tucked her in and turned off the lights. Z remembered playing with herself in the dark when she was a little girl: how sweet the pleasure was, how she knew instinctively to keep quiet so as not to wake anyone else in the house.
    As the night progressed, Reagan told Z all about vibrators and dildos, gels and lubes, powders and feathers, whips and chains, and rubbers and ropes. Z got home exhausted, thinking about the miracles that could be attained from just the right pressure on a nipple, or the pinching of a thigh. She gave cursory greetings to her cousins, said goodnight to her aunt, and fell into bed. Her dreams were filled with lips and tongues, probing fingers, and taut, sensitive skin.
    When she awoke late the next morning the house was eerily silent. Her aunt had left for work over an hour ago; her cousins had gone to school. She wasn’t due at work until late that night, and had the house to herself for the rest of the day.
She rolled over and tried to climb back into the wet warmth of the dream she’d been having, but it was too late. She was up.
    Images of laundry, dishes, and the dinner that needed to be prepared before everyone came home poked around her mind but she shooed them away. Instead, her fingers began slowly trailing their way up her stomach. She felt the curves that led to her breasts and allowed her fingertips to linger at the place just beneath the rise. She traced the spot with her index fingers, surprised at how soft and sensitive it was. She left her right finger there, and allowed her left hand to drift up, over her breast. Her fingers encircled her nipple and gave it a tug. She arched her back in response and pinched it harder, tugging it again, gently. A moan slipped from between her lips. Z repeated the motion again and again, pinching, then pulling. Pinching, then pulling. Her left hand drifted from the pit of her shoulder to the swell of her hip. She slowly rubbed the side of her hip, reached around, and squeezed the flesh of her backside before sliding her hand back up.
    She felt her skin get hotter and hotter, her hips instinctively rocked in circles as she kept up the motion of her hands. She lost track of her moans and felt a soothing sense of peace begin to envelop her. Z wanted more. She was just about to reach down, dip her fingers into the forest between her legs, when the phone rang and startled her to attention. It rang again and she stumbled up to answer it, modestly pulling her nightdress down over her knees and looking around to make sure she was alone.
    Yes? Hello, Auntie—Yes, I will finish the laundry and wash the morning dishes—The chicken from the freezer? OK, I’ll take it out right now—OK—Yes, Auntie. I know I stayed out late, but—OK. OK, Auntie—Yes. Yes, I know. I’ll talk to you when you get home. Yes—Good-bye—
    T hung up before she could finish. Z puttered around the kitchen for a while, stacking the dishes and getting the drainer
out to set them to dry. She pulled the chicken out of the freezer and placed it in water to defrost. When the water poured over her fingers she almost jumped. Her skin was still burning.
    Giving up on the concentration needed to clean, she tried to sit and watch television. Curling up on the sofa Z grabbed the remote and turned on the set, flipping from channel to channel to channel. As the images went by in a blur she thought back to when she was little, when she would lie still and quiet, touching herself until she shook. She remembered the innocent joy, and tried to imagine a richer, fuller, grown-woman gratification.
    She cursed her body, cursed her curiosity. She sat up straight and wondered aloud if she was supposed to feel pride in the scar she