Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (16 page)

“Whew! That was incredible,” I said.

He smiled.

After fifteen minutes, he turned to me and said, “Why don’t you come over here and sit on my face?”

“You want more?” I asked, unable to believe he wasn’t finished.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he said.

“But you have, you have. How long do you think we’ve been in here?” I asked, looking around.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know, but I’m glad I’m here with you.”

“You probably say that to all the ladies when you’re trapped in an elevator together,” I teased.

Flex reached for me and I snuggled up next to him. He started kissing my neck and my earlobes. Before long, I was climbing onto his face. Hell if I know how he was able to balance my body on his face, considering the way I was wiggling my hips as he caressed my breasts. The man was talented.

Despite my constant moving, he was still focused on his target and I couldn’t be happier. His sweet assault against my clit didn’t last long. Unfortunately, orgasm number four wouldn’t wait. When I came with a gut-wrenching scream, I could hardly catch my breath before Flex flipped me over and mounted me from behind.

“Oh, Jesus!”

“He can’t help you right now; this ass is mine,” he said.

I was raw but still enjoying the mixture of bliss and pain. Flex was doing everything right and he wasn’t easing up.

“Damn, you’re so good,” he said.

I couldn’t believe a porn star was calling me
good
. I was beaming on the inside.

When he hiked up my right leg and started slathering it with hot wet kisses, I didn’t know what to focus on, the pleasure from his lips or what was coming from his hips.

A short while later, we collapsed again and I thought I’d die if he wanted round five.

“How you feel?” Flex asked.

I eased my head up slightly and said, “I’m sore!”

“Here, lemme help you.”

Before I could adjust myself in a good position, he spread my legs and started kissing me tenderly. I couldn’t even complain. He used his tongue to lap my juices like a hungry puppy.

He was the most incredible lover I’d ever experienced.

When the elevator jerked hard, my heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach. I thought it was the delayed reaction from having more orgasms in a span of several hours than I had experienced in nearly all of my adult sex life.

“Oh, looks like we’re finally moving again,” he said.

The lights came on and I sat, stunned.

Flex stood in all his naked glory, his ripped chest heaving as he held on to the side wall. His massive dick was still wet. I must admit, it looked delicious and inviting. He slipped on the silk pajama bottoms he had been wearing.

I scrambled to throw on my clothes as the elevator took off.

When it stopped on the twelfth floor and the doors eased open, I looked at Flex. He smiled and shrugged a shoulder.

A small crowd was standing outside the elevator.

“Are you guys okay?”

A short, chubby man wearing a suit pushed through the crowd. “Flex! Flex! We’ve been worried sick!”

“What time is it?” Flex asked.

“It’s six-thirty in the morning,” Tiffany said. “I’m so sorry about this. We couldn’t get the technicians over here fast enough. Because of the storm and malfunctions all over the city, they made it as fast as they could,” she stammered.

“It’s fine. Really, it’s not a problem,” Flex tried to assure her.

“Please speak to me. I’m Flex’s agent. We’re gonna need to talk about this; he missed several appearances while stuck in there,” the man said.

Finally, Tiffany looked at me, then she looked back at Flex. I remember the confused expression from the night before. But I was completely stress-free.

People flocked to Flex, and aside from the man in the suit,
Tiffany and I were standing alone. “I’m headed to my room,” I said.

“If there’s anything you need? Anything at all?” she asked.

“I’m fine, seriously.” I headed up the hall to my room, figuring I’d have to rent a flick if I wanted to see Flex again.

But deep down inside, I was okay with that. He had helped me immensely. I figured I’d get a few hours of sleep in before I had to rush to the airport for my flight. But thanks to Flex I knew I’d sleep like a well-fed, newborn baby.

Thomas Slater

Canderick Mann was an ebony Adonis. He was refined chocolate that had been poured into a frame of ripped muscle and stretched to average height with a mustache being the only hair on his boyish face. He was a shrewd, thirty-year-old businessman that could back up his game with the hefty one-hundred-thou-a-year salary he pulled down as a bank senior exec.

It would appear that, on paper, Canderick Mann was in possession of the perfect life. But nothing could be further from the truth. He harbored two deep, dark secrets: Canderick was a diagnosed kleptomaniac, and had an incurable obsession with eating pussy belonging to the beautiful and desperate. He also celebrated the scent of their juices settling into his mustache and would go for days without washing.

His many visits to a half-dozen shrinks couldn’t yield a definitive reason as to why he’d been stricken with what the medical world referred to as “multiple disorders.” Lexapro, Zoloft, and Prozac formed the short list of antidepressants he’d been prescribed by high-end shrinks to control his impulses. The quacks could kiss his ass. He wasn’t taking crazy pills, as he called them. He was simply a nigga in possession of a powerful position, making plenty of money, with a hearty appetite for eating punany and a rock-hard dick for committing larceny.

Canderick’s kleptomania went way past the regular clinical definition of stealing little objects that held no significant value. He left shrinks baffled because Canderick’s condition compelled him to take much bigger items with no monetary value to him and eat as much pussy as he possibly could along the way.

Canderick functioned in a white-collar capacity at Servicing Our Community Bank & Loan. It was a huge, black-owned institution that was independently owned and operated by Harry Reynolds. The bank had been servicing an upscale, black suburban Detroit community for three decades. Canderick was senior exec of operations with a special interest in the loans and collections department. His job provided him access to a countless number of women that kept both of his so-called “disorders” fed.

The country’s stormy economical climate offered him a powerful tool to fish in a lake of poor, unfortunate women who were behind in their mortgage payments and desperate for some type of a solution. Canderick provided that solution. He was able to grant special privileges to those women looking to take advantage of the mortgage modification program. Being senior executive of operations afforded him the power to bypass the hair-pulling red tape faced by normal people to get his clients’ paperwork pushed through for a small price. The fee called for Canderick’s clients to allow him to eat their pussy until he was good and satisfied.

He thought of himself as the ultimate human stimulus package. The women that he chose had to be gorgeous. Canderick didn’t do women that looked like sea-donkeys. His aggressive screening process kept out the undesirables. A single picture-text of the talent was required to get the ball rolling. Canderick was very particular in his selection. Single-woman pussy was far too easy to come by and the women were too eager to please,
but married-woman pussy always raised his eyebrow. It was always a challenge to see if he could get her to betray her husband. And he always went after those couples that were struggling financially.

Canderick’s larcenous heart went way beyond the normal boundaries of kleptomania. He couldn’t feel complete until he could steal the cookies belonging to another man. He often professed that the love tasted better when it came from a married woman because her pussy had been marinated in the juices of marital stress. He figured married women to be ticking time bombs, ready to have a betraying orgasmic explosion over the face of Mr. Opportunity. And Canderick was just the man to wield the magical tongue that had inspired many pleasurable fantasies.

Monday mornings were the busiest time for Canderick. He always spent the first part of his day discussing alliances, mergers, and acquisitions with the board of directors. Meetings were a way of life for a big-time executive like him. There was always something to do—whether it was training juniors by guiding them through the various banking processes, or meeting and setting objectives with key executives and forming strategies to meet those objectives. He was also responsible for the acquisition of new business.

He was inside his office, dressed in navy-blue slacks, polished loafers, and a crisp, white dress shirt, leaning on a Honma brand golf putter made in Japan. Honma was a very expensive brand with a distinctive 24-carat gold plate on the clubhead. The price: a whopping $52,000 a set. He was staring out of his corner office window at one of the finest views in the building. His exquisitely furnished office overlooked a beautiful five-acre lake surrounded by pine trees and lush green grass.

“So, Mrs. Twissle,” Canderick said into his Bluetooth headset. “I can push through the paperwork for your loan modification. I’ll cap the monthly payments to a percentage of your household income. And just to sweeten the pot, I’m willing to waive the late fees.” Canderick had made it a hard and fast rule to never use the office phone when he was setting up MWP—married-woman pussy.

The lady named Sasha Twissle considered the offer. “I don’t know. I love my husband and I can’t imagine going behind his back to do something like this.”

“I promise,” Canderick said in a smooth baritone as he flashed his picture-perfect smile in the window’s reflection. “This is a win-win for you. It’s a damn good deal. You can’t do better than that.”

“So let me get this straight” was her incredulous reply. “You’re gonna grant these privileges to me … and eat my pussy?”

Canderick simulated the putting of a golf ball as he smiled.

“Yes, ma’am! Let me know the time and place and I’ll lick you there.” The hunger inside Canderick’s soul was insatiable. He was an addict whose one wish was to live eternally inside a moment in time where existence depended on exposure to the tantalizing aroma of female pheromones.

“Okay. Here are the directions. My husband will be out of town visiting family,” Sasha finally relented. “Be at my place this Friday at twelve midnight.”

Canderick was writing down directions with his back to the door when he heard the sound of a woman clearing her throat. He recognized her perfume way before he saw her reflection in the window. She was Claudette Reynolds, the wife of his boss, Harry Reynolds.

“May I help you?” he asked in a voice brewing with agitation.

The middle-aged, mocha-complexioned woman, with salt and pepper hair, dressed in a black business suit, put her hands on her hips with attitude and whispered, “When are you going to stop using our female customers as your dirty little doggy-bone toys?”

Canderick bagged the putter and threw his navy-blue blazer over his shoulder. He walked up to her and leaned in close enough to smell her breath.

“You’re not thinking about growing balls and running to Harry, are you? You wouldn’t want Harry to come across our dirty little sex DVD, taped to his desk, of this dog lapping up your sweet juices that belong to him, now would you?”

“I know about your little operation, Canderick. You’re sick. It’s not enough that you force these women into having sex with you, but sending your goons to break into their houses afterward is just plain sick.”

“I don’t have sex with them—well, maybe some I do—but I eat their pussies. And how many times must I tell you that it’s not what you know, but what you can prove.”

“Canderick, you’re a black-hearted, self-serving narcissist. One day you’re gonna reap what you sow. Trust me, boyfriend, I will have my happy ending.”

“What is it,
Mrs. Reynolds
? Mad because I’m not eating your geriatric pussy anymore?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. Canderick laughed in Claudette’s face before he walked off.

Sasha’s picture text proved her to be a dime. She was what you called “ghetto-gorgeous.” Sasha was caramel-complexioned with a shoulder-length weave and long, fake eyelashes. She was slim but filled out in the appropriate places. Canderick usually
turned his nose up at ghetto chicks, but Sasha was tight. Besides, he’d never eaten the pussy of a stripper before. On her mortgage modification application, she listed “secretary” as her occupation. It wasn’t revealed until later that to make ends meet, she moonlighted as a dancer under the name of Twizzler at a trendy bar called Dick & Jane’s. The paperwork had already been approved and it was too late to back out. Although she’d admitted to being HIV-negative, Canderick had her fax over the results of her latest test—which was negative.

He wasn’t some new kind of a fool. He was thoroughly acquainted with the fact that, in some cases, “stripper” meant “hooker.” But that wasn’t Sasha’s deal. She was a pretty nice girl who’d wedded a loser. Her husband had been a washout on the police force and a relapsed alcoholic who had gambled away their nest egg on the craps table at the Motor City Casino.