He was on top of her, embracing her close on her bed. She wasn't a petite woman and he wasn't a bulky man, but he was strong, muscular and sinewy, and she wanted him there. She felt him erect, scandalously black, and huge between her thighs, and although he was moving his hips and the underside of the hard phallus was rubbing in her puffy folds, he wasn't inside her—yet.
She dug in her heels and raised her pelvis, trying to take him in, but he gave a low laugh and held her tighter, controlling her fully. She had pendulous breasts and he was making love to them, squeezing them and kissing them—pinching the nipples to hear her gasp and moan, and gasp and moan she did. He worked her breasts hard with his hands and mouth, and she arched her back and head, pushing her breasts up into his calloused fingers and moist lips and nipping teeth, focusing her visual point of attention on the brass headboard behind her, gently, rhythmically rubbing on the wall from the swaying movement of their bodies. She moaned deeply, her tactile attention on the sucking and squeezing of her breasts and on the hard phallus between her thighs, reveling in being fully under his control, knowing that soon he would be inside her, filling her—and she would be having a virile and forbidden man between her legs, fucking her.
It was afternoon and they were upstairs in her Lexington, Virginia, Dutch colonial house, in her bedroom—not in his bedroom, although the room across the hall wouldn't be his bedroom anymore after this one last fuck. Without losing his grip on her breasts, the tall, slim, ebony man moved his lips down her creamy white, voluptuous body as he slid his tightly muscled torso down hers until she gave a little cry and shuddered when he slipped his tongue through her folds, searching for her nub, finding it, and giving her suck there. They weren't young—Cynthia was forty-two and Emory was forty-seven, but they knew how to do this. They'd done it before—often.
She dug her fingernails into his bulging biceps and begged him, contradictorily, to get off her, to leave her be now that he was moving out, or to fuck her. She just couldn't withstand what he was doing in her folds with his mouth and tongue. But Emory wouldn't relent. He ran his rough tongue over her clit again and again as she shuddered and shimmered, going beyond moist. She gave a little cry as the nub engorged and bulged and he got it between his teeth and sucked hard on it. He continued feasting on her as she bucked against him, crying out her passion, her captivity, and his possessive punishment. She flowed and spasmed and spasmed and collapsed, but he wouldn't stop working her cunt with his mouth. She spasmed again and then again and, with a long, low moan, collapsed totally.
Feeling he had arrived, he kissed back up her body. He was in massive erection. He fisted his cock and dragged the head of it through her folds, pausing at the center of the yawning slit, teasing her on the possibility of a plunge, and continued on up to her clit. He was holding her tight, and she shuddered in his arms, whining, "Put it in. Fuck me." He laughed and teased her some more with the play of the cockhead in her labia and rubbing her clit, as she panted and begged for it—for the big, black cock, for the end of the tease, for the penetration, for the fuck.
She cried out as he brought the bulb back to her slit and plunged, thick, throbbing, filling, stretching, possessing, and punishing, and immediately started to move: in and out, in and out. Without losing purchase, he raised his body in a pushup position, a ramrod straight, long, slim, sinewy-muscled recline over her, taking his weight on the heels of his hands and on his toes, his head hanging down, his eyes capturing hers, aware of every jerk and shudder reflected in her eyes, as, inside her, he rose and fell, stiff armed, knuckles pressed into the mattress beside her breasts. She clutched his buttocks close to her and pressed her knees into his hips, crying out, "Yes, yes. Fuck. FUCK!" as his mouth went back to her breasts and his buttocks, flexing and relaxing, flexing and relaxing, set up a steady, lengthy, and deep rhythm of the fuck.
He was fit. He had stamina. He fucked her and fucked her and fucked her.
Cynthia lay there afterward, exhausted, and watched Emory go into her bathroom, use her shower, and stand in the doorway between the bedroom and bathroom. He leaned tall, slim, hard-bodied, provocatively and familiarly into the doorframe and dried off with her towel. Emory was her first black lodger. Were all blacks hung like he was, she wondered. She'd heard it as a legend. He was her only reference point, but he bore up the legend. Long and thick. Masterful. He took her breath away . . . every time.
He had used her bathroom to clean up in because he'd already scrubbed out his, making it ready for however she now planned to use the bedroom and bath across the hall on the second floor of the house. His suitcases, packed, were on the bed in the other room. As soon as he was dressed, he'd be gone.
"I'll be just down the road in Roanoke," he said as he dried himself and reached for the briefs scattered among the clothes he'd discarded when they'd come into the bedroom. "You can come visit anytime you wish."
"I'm sure your mother would have another stroke seeing a white woman coming up your sidewalk," Cynthia said. That was the reason Emory had given for going. His mother in Roanoke had had a stroke. She needed him to come home. Just as much a reason, though, had been that he'd had a succession of jobs here in Lexington, each one more menial than the other. He was college educated, but perhaps that had been the problem. He was black. And he was living in the house of a white woman. He was seen as uppity. He had started as the technical engineer at the local television station. The next lower stop was working the toll booth at the airport parking lots. Assistant night manager at a fast food restaurant was as far down as he got before his mother had had her stroke.
The problem wasn't that he was threatening looking in Lexington. He actually was quite handsome. His father had been white, and he had taken many of the characteristics of him, whoever and wherever he was. The locals in Lexington were prone to ask if he was Jamaican. He was good-looking, so they assumed he must have come from somewhere else. Being knocked down continuously seemed more that he spoke like a professor and lived in the house of a white woman. In Lexington still that was taken by many as putting on airs and grasping above oneself.
He'd do better in Roanoke. Lexington was too high class—and the highest class was still too southern.
Dressed, he stopped at the door and turned, looking at Cynthia, sprawled out naked on her bed, still quite attractive for her age—and there were those pendulous breasts and the wide hips . . . the puffy labia. She was an Earth goddess. He'd miss that.
"There are hotels in Roanoke," he said. "Even ones that won't raise an eyebrow at mixed couples."
"You could come back to Lexington to visit from time to time," she said. That's as far as she would go with that. She'd made commitments before; she'd even begged. Never again.
"I doubt that will happen," he answered, and then, "Will you be bringing in another lodger?"
"I don't know. Maybe," Cynthia answered.
He smiled. That meant "yes." He took one last look at her voluptuous body, turned, and went across the hallway to retrieve his suitcases.
Cynthia listened while he banged the luggage down the narrow staircase. When the house was quiet, she sighed, closed her eyes, and, despite it being only the afternoon, drifted off to an exhausted, but satiated, sleep, the fingers of her right hand playing in her folds.
* * * *
"And you are without a lodger now? The one you had . . . Avery . . ."
"Emory," Cynthia corrected.
"Emory. He's gone now?"
"Emory had to move back to Roanoke, yes," Cynthia said. "His mother has had a stroke, and he had to relocate." She didn't respond to the first part of Melissa's question.
They were sitting in the back yard of the Dutch colonial house in Lexington. The tree-shaded yard wasn't large, but Cynthia had had it all laid out with red sandstone blocks, the entire yard a patio, with inviting outdoor furniture, a water fountain and wind chimes hanging in the trees. It surrounded a glassed-in sunporch on the back of the house on three sides. She and Melissa Bard were lounging, recovering from a hard three hours of shared work, chatting, and sipping wine. Cynthia was putting her long auburn hair, shot through with strands of silver gray, up into a tight bun on the back of her head. Cynthia wasn't a vain woman. She'd go gray as nature dictated she would. She'd let gravity take her body too, as and when it pleased, although she still could be considered in the realm of voluptuous—especially her large breasts.
"Do you need to take in a lodger?" Melissa asked. "This is a nice part of town and your house is lovely. I don't know if you can afford maintaining the house by yourself."
"I can," Cynthia said. "The house is paid for and I make good money—enough to make it through. I take in lodgers more because they need someplace to light."
"Well, if you want to take on another lodger, I think we could find some young women who need someplace to light."
So, that was what it was, Cynthia thought. She knew there had been talk of Emory boarding here—primarily because he was black and not least because he was good-looking and looked as capable in bed as he, in fact, was. And, as Melissa said, this was a nice part of town, which translated as "white" and "up class." Melissa meant well, in her stuck-in-a-small-southern-town way, Cynthia knew, but in this line of enquiry Melissa and the other proper matrons of Lexington could just fuck off. She wouldn't say that, of course. Melissa was one of the few friends she had here. Cynthia didn't go out much, and she wasn't a Lexington native. They'd met when both signed on to help Mondays at the Episcopal church luncheon soup kitchen for the homeless. Melissa was a member of the church. Cynthia wasn't, but she'd wanted to help the community in some way. They'd become friendly and had fallen in to just continuing their Monday afternoons on when they could to unwind from the grind of serving hot lunches. They usually ended up here at Cynthia's house, sipping wine and chatting.
Everyone loved Cynthia's back garden. It was so eclectic, laid back, welcoming—unlike the front yard. Her house sat back on the lot, and she kept the front in heavy foliage, protecting her from the neighborhood's prying eyes. She liked her privacy. It was a privilege to be invited to the back.
"I prefer men lodgers to women," she said, standing her ground. "They tend to be neater, despite what some would think, and they mostly use the house as a stopping-off place and center their lives elsewhere. They aren't as much a bother as I think a woman would be. In that regard, I think it was just as well that Emory moved on. He kept losing jobs and spending more and more time here. He was vegetating, mostly just eating, sleeping, and staying up to watch TV." He, of course, did far more than that, Cynthia knew, but anything she could do to put Melissa and her friends off the scent was effort well spent. "I don't have to have a lodger. But it's useful to have someone to talk to and have a meal with, if only on occasion. My work tends to get intensive."
