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

his chest. With her weight she pushes him backward until she is astride him and he has entered her so deeply he has touched the wall of her womb.
    She bucks above him, head thrown back, eyes closed, palms pushing against his shoulders. She is a shadow woman writhing in the moonlight. Her spice scent floods the room and underneath, the hot pungent smell of sex. He feels himself swelling even more, rising to her body’s silent commands. He grinds into her, exploding in tiny volcanic eruptions until finally, as her mind screams his name, he releases a gushing fountain, a roaring river. Her skin glows copper-red in the heat of her coming. She is all the colors of the stained glass window on the staircase landing, rainbowed in her ecstasy. He gasps with the power of his climax and brings her down to him, burying his face in the cushion of her breasts, then seeks the hollow of her throat to suck the tiny pulsing vein through which the blood races so swiftly, sings so sweetly. His lips, his tongue, his mouth devour hers. Spent, she is limp against him, surrendering completely to his dominance. For these few brief moments she is his and his alone. She folds herself beside him and sighs deep in her throat. The sigh becomes a purr and he imagines a sleek mountain lioness warming him through the night.
    When he awakes, the morning light streaming from the dormer windows causes him to blink. He rolls over and discovers
that he is lying naked on the dusty bare mattress of the old brass bed. The crocheted coverlet lies crumpled on the floor. No lace curtains swing in the breeze. The magic is gone and he is lost and bewildered in the sun’s bright rays.
    For several days he wanders about the house talking aloud, lecturing himself, convincing himself that what he experienced was merely a vivid dream. But each time he ventures near the attic stairs, his nostrils flare as he picks up the woman’s musk whispering beneath the scent of spice.
    He becomes despondent and lies on his bed in the dark trying to coax with his hands the exquisite orgasm that had consumed him that night. Was his desire and fulfillment only an illusion? He thinks not, for in the midnight hours he still hears the faint echo of her calling. The persistence of that mind-voice beckons him, but when he rushes to the attic he finds it empty and untouched by the sexual substance of his dreams.
    Days pass and one night during an electrical storm when the elements threaten to rip the roof from the house, boil the waters of the ocean, and scatter sand from the beach out into the atmosphere, he hears her call. His mind floods with the force of his desire. He approaches the passage to the attic slowly, clutching an old woolen robe about his naked body. When he reaches the door he hesitates, wondering if he might be on the brink of insanity. But the power of her summons forces him forward. It is as he remembered. The attic gleams in the moonlight. Lace curtains stir in the breeze at the open windows. The brass bed is dressed in white satin shimmering in the silvery glow. No woman reclines on the bed but spice infuses the air. He knows she is nearby. He can sense the pulse of her blood, the beat of her warm heart. He turns and sees her moving toward him as if floating. Her scent precedes her. The diaphanous gown caresses the curves of her body. Her eyes are gold and black, diamond-pointed like a cat’s. Her head is held proudly and her silky brown skin begins to glow
as she moves toward him. Her spice intoxicates him; he is drunk with the essence of her. Gently, she takes him by the hand and crosses to the bed, where she seats him at the foot. Lifting her hand, she gestures behind her. In the shadows, by a wicker chair, he perceives another figure. It is a woman.
    She steps into the pool of light spilling from a window. She wears a hooded cape that swirls about her feet as she advances toward the bed. The Spice Woman reaches for her sister and they undress one another