Best Black Women's Erotica Read Online Free PDF Page A

erupting into an all-knowing, I’ve-got-a-secret smile.
    All I could do was bite my lower lip in anticipation and make sure my hands were on the table in full view.

The Spice Woman
    Ethel Mack-Ballard
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    Prologue
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    You may well ask who I am, for I see you do not recognize me. But deep in the far reaches of your mind you have heard my voice. I am a teller of tales, a spinner of magic and fantasy. And tonight I have come to spin for you a story of eroticism and mystery. Give me your undivided attention and let me slip into your mind as gently as fog steals from the ocean’s breast. Close your eyes and visualize the scenes I describe to you for it will be as if you are the one of whom I speak, as if these are your thoughts, your touch, your fears, and your ecstasy. Now, if you are ready, I will relate to you the story of the Spice Woman.

    A man weary beyond his years, weary to the depths of his soul, has sought refuge in a rented Victorian overlooking the ocean. The house is situated on a small bluff rising above the Monterey coastline. Surrounded by brush and stubble, it fades into the natural landscape. Its buff-colored paint is peeling
and the steps to the veranda sag. A steep incline leads to the beach below. The area is isolated, about a mile from the main road. The nearest neighbor shelters in a house of redwood and glass which can be seen around the curve of the beach on a rocky bluff several miles away.
    This man is a refugee from the civilized frenzy of the city. In this furnished house, which he has taken for one month, he has found a haven, a resting-place. He loves the high-ceilinged rooms, the bare wood floors, and the ornate carved banister bordering the staircase, the floor-length stained glass window on the landing spilling jeweled messages into the entry hall below. The kitchen is stocked and he has provided himself with a small wine cellar and several bottles of good cognac that he sips from a heavy lead-crystal glass before the fireplace in the parlor as he listens to the ocean’s evening song. There is no telephone. He wants no communication with the outside world. He hears only the sound of the wind sighing around the corners of the house, the rhythmic lapping of waves breaking against the shore. He thinks he is at peace. He thinks he has brought to heel those emotions that in the past have pained him so.
    He spends his days puttering about the neglected herb garden discovered behind the house or walking along the beach in the early morning mist. In the evening he sits on the veranda watching the sun surrender its golden flames to the onslaught of twilight and he dreams of a woman—a woman he sees only in his mind’s eye. Her features are blurred yet he knows her, recognizes in her some hidden remembrance of passion that he has smothered in himself.
    His days are even and uneventful, but his nights are spent in troubled dreams barely remembered in the pearl light of dawn. Dreams that cause him to soil the sheets or to awaken suddenly with an erection so powerful that the pain is a sweet ecstasy. Sometimes he thinks he hears someone calling him,
sighing his name as if the sound were carried on a breeze. It seems to come from the attic, but when he explores (in the bright glare of daylight) there is only the usual clutter one finds in such places—boxes, trunks, broken toys, and an old brass bed with a bare mattress partially covered by a hand-crocheted bedspread. Light filters through dusty dormer windows and cobwebs gleam in the rafters and in the corners.
    One night during the second week of his residence in the old house, he is awakened by a voice heard only in his thoughts. As if in a trance, he leaves his bed and walks down the darkened hall to the attic stairs. His naked skin pimples in the chill air and his bare feet make light slapping sounds as he mounts the steps. When he opens the door, he is encompassed by a halo of light. The moon is so