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Hot, muggy, the kind of heat that coats the skin, pushes the wetness through the tiny pores of the flesh, covers the body in a thin sheen of dewy dampness. A Bayou heat. Summer heat in Louisiana.
The hot, demanding hands of it fanned across my bare back, eased me toward the porch door and out into the clingy night seeking what I could not see. But I knew it was out there, just beyond the mist hanging over the lazy, lapping river. Hanging like warm breath puffed into the frigid air—waiting, changing.
Frigid, ha, yeah, that’s what they call me. At least that’s what the men in the dim saloons and sweaty cafés, where I work, call me. Call me Frigid, instead of Chantel when they can’t get their grubby, gumbo-stained fingers around the swell of my breasts, their lips locked on to the hard nipples that poke out to taunt them, or their thick, knobby cocks into that damp darkness between my brown thighs. Brown-sugar thighs, I’ve been told. Frigid. Ha. They know nothing about my heat, my secret, my mojo.
“Cher, what you got so good under them skirts we can’t have?” they’d taunt, between long, dribbling swallows of ice-cold tap beer and hurricanes that would have them speaking in tongues before the night was over. I could never tell them. They wouldn’t understand. Neither did I, didn’t want to make sense of it no how. Just didn’t want it to ever stop being what it was.
So I just stroll by their tables, slinking slow, like the hypnotic drip drip of a faucet, letting their eyes measure every strut, dip, every jiggle, smiling a pussycat smile. If I turned just right at the precise moment, the one hanging lightbulb would cut straight through my thin gauzy dress, give them an eyeful of lush tits, firm high ass, and that dark space between my sugar-brown thighs they couldn’t get up in.
Those boys would holler and squeal like tortured pigs, banging the tables and tossing dollar bills at my feet, just to get me to bend over. Look, look down. I never took no money, though. I’d just toss my head back, smile my pussycat smile, and go about my work—wetting the tables and wiping them down.
Sometimes, when it was getting close, close to the time when I knew it wouldn’t be much longer—like tonight—and my body hummed and vibrated with electricity, my nipples turned a deep purple, and my swollen clit poked out from between my lips I’d let them touch me—just a quick feel—cool the burn, muffle the humming.
I’d walk even slower between the tables, stopping a moment longer to rub the rag across the chipped and scarred wood. Sway my hips back and forth to the tune of the blues, blowing in time to the stroke of fingers that played on the globes of my behind, squeeze out a note before letting go. Take that quick dip down the valley of my damp blouse, pinching the purple nipples, knowing the flow would come—squeeze out over my puffy clit, between my sugar-brown thighs, wet and sticky in the heat. It would be soon—tonight.
And I’d laugh, laugh at my secret, knowing what awaited me beneath the overhanging willows, on the bed of the cool waters, in the wake of wet mist. Tonight.
Fresh from the shower with those urging hands at my back, I crossed the creaking threshold, finding my space on the top step of the porch, enough room on the two below to stretch my legs, loosen my thighs, and catch a little breeze. Catch something.
Elbows found their resting place behind me, neck arched back as a single line of sweat trickled down the deep cleft of my naked breasts—eyes closed, waiting.
Behind my lids I could see. Tall, sleek as polished wood. Dark as ebony. Solid as a shadow. A whisper, no more than a ruffle across the flesh. Hairs stand on end. Tonight is now.
Like silk, beaded with satin, long and wet, the tongue licks away the soft, sweet cream from my cunt in slow up-and-down strokes. Tease the clit. Suck it gently. Mojo hears me. No need to speak.
Yes, tonight. Elbows brace my weight. Hard purple nipples jut toward the stars. Hips rise, rotate around the tongue of silk and satin—draw it in with two, three quick pulls of my well-trained cunt.
Hot breath rushes up the dark, wet hole, spreads out, fills me. Fingers, long and hard, caress my flesh with a tenderness that squeezes tears from my closed eyes. Lips on mine, the taste of me on my tongue. The scent of him is everywhere; in the trees, the moist earth, the planks of wood that brace my elbows, cradle my hips.
Stars rain down on us, sear our flesh, making the steam rise from the river as we undulate on the rhythmic crest of its ripples. Glide over and then under the lazy current, submerged in wanton abandon—limbs light as air, mouth open, gulping down the sweet shots of release.
Tremors, beginning deep in my womb, spread like a mad flock of doves, clenching my toes, curling my fingertips. The power of it lifting us to the bed of grass and moss beneath the willows.
Wrapped in the dark embrace, the willow’s vines encircle my wrists, ankles, securing them wide and willing. The silk and satin-beaded tongue licks my lashes, traces the bridge of my nose, dips deep into my mouth, circling, dancing, quivering.
My pussycat smile opens and closes begging to be filled. It cries its own river of white tears that soak my gaping thighs. The flesh there trembles.
I cannot cry out, plead, or implore. The bulging thickness fills the hollow of my mouth, stretching my cheeks, teasing the back of my throat. Ribbons of hard muscled thighs clamp the sides of my face, fighting for control, losing the battle on the downstroke—suckled and teased with the tip of tempting tongue. One drop, two, I savor the bittersweet nectar.
An almost animal howl, heavy, deep, inflamed, pierces the night sky, tumbling over and over, scattering the birds, rising the tide of the river, stirring our bed of mint-green grass and moss.
The eager, skillful mouth that moments ago held captive the cock upon which all time and man began was suddenly empty, gaping, needy like a babe hungry for its mother’s tit.
I felt then hard and sleek, wet with the pleasure of my mouth—felt it slide down my chin, probing, looking. Swallowed now in the warm valley of my breasts, dripping a dewdrop path of eternity in its wake. Across my belly into the circular hole of my navel—hovering there, taunting me.
Round hips arch, ready, as the vines tighten—stretch wider, the loose thighs higher, legs spread east and west.
Clit, like a pink pearl, slick, pulsing and hard—my tiny cock—needing someone, something to fuck. Tonight.
The weight of his rich, shadowy blackness bears down on my spread-eagle form, light as air, heavy as night.
The head, full, round like the polished knob of an African walking staff, probes against the wet walls of my smile. Wide. Wide. Inch by inch. Creamy flow smooths the entry, pulses like my own heartbeat growing.
Hip-length dreadlocks descend around us in a blanket of black velvet, shutting out the world. Only us now—pumping, grinding.
No words, just sounds tear from my throat. White light dances behind my closed lids. Farther, deeper, the mahogany staff plunges, pries—wider, slower. Maddening.
Shuddering waves of lust electrify, send my body jerking toward the heavens, bound to earth only by the tender vines and the pulsing, pumping shaft that remains locked deep in my pussycat smile.
Hips above me move in a hypnotic, rotating rhythm. Teeth nip the purple nipples—snapping my well-trained cunt open and closed. Silk tongue with satin beads is everywhere at once, even as the African staff swells, beats, meets my heart. My skin sings to its song. Bodies tremble, rising from the bed of grass. Wanting it. Wanting more. Tonight.
“Cher. Cher,” croons deep in my ear, hot as a desert wind. Large hands cup the perfect globes of my ass, squeezing the cheeks, kneading. Faster. Pulling me closer.
Vibrations consume me, stiffen my limbs as the cock reaches that hidden place deep within the walls that suck and tease—touches it. The perfectly carved head rubs it, bumps it, strokes it. Delirious now with pleasure, time and space merge as the eruption of eternity splashes within, the promise of forever fills me, and I weep in joyous response.
Tender lips, tinted with honey, kiss away my tears, join my mouth in silent song. Bodies locked into the hereafter begin to beat again, insatiable, eager. Again and again. Over and over.
“Cher,” he cries now, the only word in my ear. All I ever need to know or hear.
Night moves toward dawn. The scorching orange sun rises above the horizon, hangs above us, darkening our blacker-than-black skin.
More. Again. All through the day we love, fuck, screw, come again and again. On the waves of the rivers, the bed of moss, the planks of porch wood. Even as the world moves around us, without us. And night returns, then dawn, still we are bound—pushing, pumping, crying, coming—over and again.
A cool breeze slowly sneaks through the willows, ruffles the blades of grass, and we know that our time is near.
My eyes drift open in time to see the shadow and hip-length dreads move in a blink beyond the threshold of my bedroom door.
The scent of him lingers in the air, clings to my skin, crawls through my hair, creeps up between my brown-sugar thighs to whisper good-bye to my smile. “Au revoir, Cher.”
And I sleep.
When daylight streaks through my window, slowly I rise from the dream that held me captive for three days and nights. My reflection mirrors my mind. Blades of grass cling to the backs of my thighs. Prints from the vines outline my wrists and ankles. My cunt throbs and beats to the tune I sung with him in my head. Clit, still swollen and hard, peeks out from between wet lips. The taste of honey still clings to my mouth. The deep-throated groan of “Cher” burns my ears.
Yet I am alone in my room in the light of day.
I smile. Mojo lover.
Washing down the tables at the saloon, dress clinging to my damp curves, body humming to my Mojo’s tune, I smile.
“Where you been, Frigid?” one of my regulars asks as I dip out of the way of groping, gumbo-stained fingers. “Lemme see what you got under those skirts.”
I laugh. My pussycat laughs, too, just as I catch a fleeting glimpse in the dulled saloon mirror of a shadow draped in locks of black velvet.
I arch my neck as the single thread of sweat dips between the swell of my breasts. White tears slide down my brown-sugar thighs. The heat is near. I feel it fanning against my back, pushing me out into the night.