thrusting to a steady rhythm. I felt his breath heavy on my neck, his tongue licking my
earlobe, his hands cupping my hips as he held me firmly and rode me from behind.
"My turn." The voice of the strange man in front of me was deep and thick with
arousal, reminding me of his presence and of my role. At my husband's command, the
two of them had made a sandwich out of me. They were the bread, and I was the meat.
Taye Diggs, Wesley Snipes, Kobe Bryant--they were down with me too. They knew the deal
when it came down to sisters. Corn bread, hogmaws, collard greens, and chit'lins! Mouths
too foul, fingernails too long, weave too big, and way too much drama in their blood.
my shit was on. I'd ducked out of work early and swung by my apartment to jump out of
that hot-ass uniform, then I hit High Street and got my hair did and my nails did and my
feet did too!
there ain't a Twelve Step program in the world that can ease my pain. I'll stay out all
night long, fuck over my best friend, deceive my boss, whatever it takes to keep my
jones fed and my sins secret, I'll do it.
FANCY
AKA
"FREAK NASTY"
This shit ain't normal, I told myself as my husband moved against me, moaning and thrusting
to a steady rhythm. I felt his breath heavy on my neck, his tongue licking my earlobe, his hands
cupping my hips as he held me firmly and rode me from behind. Despite myself, I sighed and
pushed back against him, enjoying the pool of wetness he had created between my thighs. I
hated that I loved him so much. Hated that I could allow him to treat me this way.
"My turn." The voice of the strange man in front of me was deep and thick with arousal,
reminding me of his presence and of my role. At my husband's command, the two of them had
made a sandwich out of me. They were the bread, and I was the meat.
Like the others before him, this man was tall and good-looking. He sat facing me, naked and
beautiful, perched on the edge of my glass dining table, and for the life of me I could not
remember his name. My hands left prints on either side of his muscled thighs, and I watched as
he stroked himself, then took my submissive fingers and guided them around his shaft.
This just can't be normal. My husband's hands were no longer on my hips. Caressing my
shoulders, he urged me into a slight bend, then pushed downward on the back of my head. I
knew what he wanted and as usual I obeyed. With my lips wet and wide, I took the strange man
into my mouth and raised and lowered my head to the same beat that was being pounded out
behind me.
The sex was raw and primal. Two penises. Two tongues. Four hands. Nasty Fancy. The sounds
and smells were incredible. Freak Nasty Fancy. I felt my clitoris clenching, my orgasm rising even
as the shame of it hammered away at my heart.
I was damn good at what I did, and the man in front of me finished first. Groaning out his climax,
he pushed me away and held his still-hard penis in both hands.
My husband was more patient.
Clutching me against his chest, he controlled his strokes, waiting for me, and moments later we
exploded together: me crying out loud with tears in my eyes, him whispering his perpetual
promise into my ear. "This the last time, baby. I swear. This the last time."
