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

was left with, or the self-hate coursing through her veins. She questioned what she was doing at all here in this cold, lonely city, speeding toward winter. Maybe she should have just stayed home and gotten married to her intended, followed expectations. Why had she been so headstrong about coming to America and going to school, about trying to find some big, exciting life? Maybe she had fooled herself into loneliness and pain and starless skies.
    Z found herself lying across her bed with her face pressed into the pillow. She felt the cotton case soak up her hot tears and spread them cool across her cheeks. Her body was almost feverish. Slowly she let her hands lift her nightgown up and over her head. She buried her face back into the wet pillow as her fingers trailed almost imperceptibly up her thighs. She let them linger, drawing circles with one hand, while the other reached up to cup her breast.
    Sweat dripped like dark rum down her temples, riding the salty rails of her tears. It broke out like dew along her arms and chest. With one hand pinching and pulling her nipple, she let the other drift impatiently between her thighs. She settled her fingers along the scar she had cursed so many times, and
for the first time she felt how soft it was. The skin was damp and getting slicker. She spread the wetness around and felt herself getting warmer still as she circled her fingers around the spot. She moved her hand around and rubbed the space where her thighs met her small opening, front to back. She rubbed slowly, then more quickly, returning to the scar with which she was slowly, seductively becoming enamored. Each rough edge swelled to caress her fingertips, like lips welcoming her into a kiss.
    The palm of her hand was pressing into bone where her thick, black curls began. Her breath started coming hard and fast as she rubbed her forearm across one breast and gripped the other’s nipple tight between her fingers. Pinching and pulling. Pushing and circling. She became enraptured by the rhythm as her body danced. She felt as though she’d never heard music before, never felt the freedom of movement.
    At first, it almost felt like laughing. Her shoulders started to softly shake. Her lip trembled. She felt a squeezing, like a firm, desperate handshake gripping the pinky she pushed inside. Her fingers grasped their nipple more tightly. Teeth clenched. A grin would have pulled her lips apart and spread like sunshine across her face if her mouth hadn’t been so busy birthing a scream. If her throat hadn’t already been choking up moans of never befores and the blessings of honey-coated wholeness she found deep inside herself, then, yes, she would have been laughing. Throwing her head back and laughing at the astonishing simplicity of it.
    Falling back on the pillows as she gasped for breath, Z ran milky fingers up her stomach, dragged them across her chest. They lingered on her neck, glided up her cheeks and over her lips. When they found their way into her mouth, her tongue lovingly bathed them, savoring the nectar as its flower twitched her continuing release.

    Z woke up and realized she had less than two hours until her cousins returned from school, and T would be home soon after. She balled all the dirty clothes she could find into her sheets, threw the nightgown on top, and headed downstairs to the washer. The rest of the afternoon she was astonished by the brilliant light that filtered in through the kitchen blinds. The sudsy water felt like warm ocean waves caressing her skin. The reds and oranges in the living room draperies had never looked so bold. The blue shag of the carpet held a brilliance that she was amazed she hadn’t noticed.
    At dinner, everyone complimented her on how rich her chicken and rice tasted. Even though she made the same dish every Thursday night, she couldn’t help but agree that tonight it was especially flavorful. Every spice exploded across her tongue; each drop of sauce