Zane's Z-Rated: Chocolate Flava 3 (34 page)

He looked into the car at me. “’Sup, shawty?” His white teeth juxtaposed nicely against his black velvety skin. The peach-hued sheen from the streetlights bounced off his bald head.

“You want a ride?”

“If you don’t mind.” Brandon opened the door and got in. I noticed the large blistered symbol on the upper part of his left arm. I had seen the same painful-looking sign branded before on another brother’s skin. I recognized it as a symbol from one of the local black fraternities on the campus of Florida Southern University. Alpha Omega, I think. I had always wanted to ask Brandon about it when he worked at the theater, but we hardly said so much as boo to each other.

“Where you comin’ from?” I asked.

“I walked my ass all the way from Chubby’s. They had that Rick Ross concert over there.”

“I know. I wanted to go, but I couldn’t get anybody to cover my shift. How was it?”

“Keisha, it was off the chain.”

“Whaaat?”

“Ricky Ro-zay!”
he yelled out the window.

“Stop, boy, you crazy!” I tugged at him, pulling him back in the car.

“You missed a good-ass show.”

“That’s why I need to quit that shit. No social life.”

“That’s why I left, working every damn weekend. Is that where you comin’ from?”

“Yeah, I just got off.”

“You smell like popcorn.” I tugged at my shirt and took a whiff. Brandon started laughing. “I’m playin’, boo.” The smell of liquor and cologne filled my silver Charger.

“So, I heard you quit because of pencil-dick Chris.”

“That was part of it, but mostly because my grades were taking an ass-kickin’ because of the late hours.”

“So you don’t miss it?”

“Hell no! I mean, I miss you and the free movies, yeah, but not getting home late and, on top of that, tryin’ to study.”

I knew Brandon’s type. A player, a butch brand type of brother. To say that Brandon is fine as hell would be the understatement of 2012. I was always checking him out, swiping glances at his sinewy muscles, his firm booty. He would come to the theater when he was off, looking much like he looked that night in my car: muscles tight under a Hollister T-shirt, a pair of baggy jean shorts hanging just so, showing some ass under his boxers. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was doing it on purpose, teasing me, so I would walk around work the rest of my shift with a wet pussy. If that was the case, that shit was working. A day doesn’t go by when I’m not fantasizing about him booty-naked, fucking me stupid over the snack bar. I thought of how lucky his girlfriend was that she could have his dick whenever the mood struck.

“So where you stay?” I asked.

“You can drop me off at the Omega House. You know where that’s at?”

“Over on Wahnish Drive, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll point you to it when we get up there.”

Brandon went on about the Rick Ross concert. The alcohol on his breath was like a slap to my face.

Brandon kept grabbing his dick. I tried not to look, but it’s like I’m programmed to zero in on dick, especially when somebody like Brandon gave attention to it. The symbol on his arm, though, was enough to keep my eyes off what he had in those baggy shorts.

“I’ve wanted to ask you about that right there forever,” I said, pointing to it. “That must have hurt.”

“Hell yeah, but only for a bit.
Alpha Omega for life, baby!
” Brandon hollered, as he formed a symbol of his frat with his skinny fingers.

“How long you been a member?”

“Pledged my sophomore year.”

“What made you wanna pledge?”

“Had to keep it in the family, baby girl. All my brothers are Alphas. My daddy’s an Omega and my granddaddy. Omegas for life.”

“You oughta have that tattooed on your chest somewhere.”

“What? Omega for life?”

“F-o-u-r life. You know, a number instead of the letter, like Tupac.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Um, jokin’, damn.”

“No, for real. I might do that shit.”

Dudes and the crazy shit ya’ll do,
I thought.

“So what do ya’ll do, like sit around drinkin’, hazin’ brothas?”

“That’s what people think, but no. We do throw parties and socials and stuff, but we don’t let shit get out of hand. We don’t
haze people. I know frats that do that, but we don’t. People have a lot of misconceptions about us. A good frat brother is a gentleman; you know what I’m sayin’? Leaders in the community.”

“I think people have that idea based on what they see in the movies,” I said.

“Some dudes only pledge ’cause they think all frats do is drink and party, but we—and I speak for all fraternities—we are more than that. Omegas have gone on to be doctors, lawyers, teachers, guys givin’ back.”

I could see that Brandon was passionate about what he was saying, and sounded hell-bent on squashing the stereotypes that were always a stigma on fraternities.

“You know what? I respect that.”

“That’s what we try to do. Educate.”

Brandon grabbed his dick again as if it was as common as batting an eyelash, pulling at it as if he sought to make room in his shorts due to its length. I wanted him to pull it out so I could go down on him right there in the car. Sleep was no longer on my mind, and neither was food. I wanted Brandon’s dick. I wanted him to fuck me.

We had reached the campus, slowly cruising past big, brick buildings named after historical black scholars. “It’s right up here,” he said, veering off our conversation.

I pulled into a lot and parked in front of a huge brick house. Big Greek letters were posted above the entrance of the frat house. I thought of all the hot black men that lived under its roof that pranced around half-naked behind those windows. Four men were sitting out front, looking at us suspiciously like hungry buzzards, wondering who it was that had driven up.

“Damn, this place is huge.”

“Wait ’til you see inside.”

I had never been in a frat house before. I expected the place to be in shambles—dirty clothes, beer cans, empty pizza boxes, like in the movies about frat guys.

“It’s late. I gotta be at the theater at eleven.”

“Girl, stop trippin’. Come meet some of the brothers.”

The men that were sitting studied me. They were of assorted tones: brown, dark chocolate, butterscotch, high yellow. There were men with braids, fades, and others with low haircuts, or bald to the scalp.

“This is Trey, Big Will, Taj, and Mike D. Keisha works at the movies.”

“’Sup?” all of them said.

“Can you get us some passes, shawty?” Mike D asked.

“Damn, you always tryin’ to get somethin’ free.” Trey grinned.

“Come by the theater. I’ll hook you up.”

Mike D was one of the cuter ones in the bunch, wearing jeans and a black muscle T-shirt. He had full, kissable lips and short hair combed in waves. He didn’t have anything on Brandon, though.

When I followed him inside, it wasn’t like I thought, but it wasn’t that clean, either. There were a few men, but none of them were half-naked. There were hardly any men around. It was Saturday, so I figured they were out at the clubs.

“That’s the entertainment room where we watch games, study, whatever. That’s the kitchen, and right there is like our romper room.”

As Brandon and I started upstairs, he kept yanking his shorts up over his booty, covering plaid boxers. “These are more rooms and bathrooms and this is my room.” Brandon’s was fairly clean. I looked at the bed and thought of all the women that were
probably fucked in its sheets. “Sit anywhere you want. I gotta piss.”

I sat in the chair at his desk where an open math book lay. Posters of shiny, pricey cars and sports figures plastered the wall. A Rihanna calendar was thumb-nailed above Brandon’s desk. I heard the thick sound of piss splashing in toilet water.

“Oh, hey, you still with what’shername?”

“Who?”

“That girl you used to bring to the movies.”

“Janiece? Yeah, we on and off. Mostly off.”

“What do you mean?” I heard a flush and Brandon walked out with the clasp of his shorts undone.

“She trippin’, talkin’ about how I don’t spend enough time with her and shit. All she does is nag me. I love her, but damn.”

I could see the frustration in his face. The first time I met Janiece, I could tell she was crazy, one of them clingy type chicks. Poor Brandon. Poor fine-ass, Rick Ross–loving Brandon.

“You want something to drink?” He walked over to the mini-refrigerator in the corner of the room.

“Does everyone have one of those?” I asked.

“No, my daddy brought this up from Miami.”

He opened it and took out two beers. Brandon twisted off the tops and handed me a bottle. I’m more of a martini girl, but whatever. We both took a drink. I veered the conversation back to the Alpha Omega Greek letter on his arm. “What made you want to do that to yourself?”

“I’m a member for life. I wanted something to show my loyalty.”

“Yeah, but damn, why not a T-shirt or something?”

“It’s just a part of who I am.”

“I read somewhere that branding was a form of ownership during slavery.”

“It goes further back than that. In Africa, some tribes would brand a boy as he entered into adulthood.”

“Well, you’re braver than me. I would have freaked out.”

“When I’m like, eighty years old, I want to look at it.”

Brandon sat his beer down at the foot of the bed and took off his shirt.
Sweet baby Jesus,
I thought. I tried not to stare. It was like my whole body had gone numb. Roll your tongue back in your head, girl. You could bounce a penny off that chest. Hell, fuck a penny, more like a wrecking ball. Once he took his T-shirt off, exposing his smooth chest, abs, and pecs, my pussy was aching for some attention. I don’t know what stopped me from reaching over and laying my hands on this delicious specimen of a man. I would be lying if I said I’ve never thought about Brandon’s dick size.

“I don’t remember you looking this tight,” I said.

“I started getting more in shape a few months back, doing crunches, sit-ups, liftin’ weights. I lost weight when I started playing football. I don’t eat fast food or fried food. I don’t drink sodas and if I drink juice, I get somethin’ with not a lot of sugar and shit.”

“That’s what I’ve started doin’. My problem is snacks and eating late at night when I can’t burn it off.”

“I’ve always liked big girls.” Brandon chose his words carefully so I wouldn’t take offense.

He took the bottle of beer and began rolling it against his chest. Did he know what he was doing to me?

“You want another beer?” He got up to head for the fridge. I was still nursing on the first one he gave me, which had turned warm.

“Don’t try to get me drunk,” I teased.

“I’m not, just tryin’ to loosen you up. I know there’s a wild girl in there somewhere.”

Brandon plucked two more beers out of the fridge, popped off the tops, and handed one to me. His skinny, pussy-fucking fingers grazed against mine in the handoff.

“If I get drunk, work is the last place my ass is going.”

Brandon smiled like he had gotten the best of me. “That’s the idea.”

I could see a little pup tent in his shorts. I played it off like I wasn’t interested. “I need to get going. It’s really getting late.”

I took a long final drink and sat the empty bottle on the desk.

“So you just going to leave me here with blue balls?” Brandon started tugging at his dick again. The tips of my fingers tingled. I watched him as he rubbed his hard-on through his shorts. “Don’t even act like you don’t want this, girl.”

I didn’t say a word, but smiled, dropped to my knees between his legs, unzipped those baggy shorts, reached through the slit of his red and white boxers, and pulled out Brandon’s dick. The thing was like a baby’s arm. I mean, he was hung like a stallion. The head of his dick was a nice cashew nut–brown while the shaft was of a nice ebony hue. I pulled his shorts and boxers down to his ankles. His balls, which weren’t as big, sat in his lap like a dime bag. I brought the head of his meaty dick to my mouth and eased it past my lips, making them tight around the dick head and shaft. This was it; the thing I had fantasized about during morning masturbation sessions. Here he was, sprawled out on his bed like a birthday gift. I looked up at Brandon as I sucked. I wanted him to see how I looked with his dick in my mouth. Guys like that kinda shit.

“Damn, girl!”

I slid down until his whole dick was in my mouth. His pubes itched my nose. I started to feel Brandon’s hands creeping behind the back of my neck, then up behind my head, pressing it down on his pole.

“LaDarien told me you could suck a mean dick.”

What? That muthafucka told?
I don’t know why I was surprised. Those two are thick as thieves. Brandon was not forceful like most brothers I’ve been with who just want to hold my head down on their dicks, trying to choke me or some shit. It’s like they forget there’s a person attached to the mouth that’s blowing them. I acted like I was making love to Brandon’s dick. When I reached up and started playing with his balls, he went bananas. I could feel his dick ballooning in my mouth. I hugged it hard with lips and tongue.

“Oh, damn!”

As I blew him, I heard the door creak. My eyes met the sound. Brandon continued to lie there, so obviously he heard nothing. He had forgotten to lock the door. I couldn’t make out who was standing there, but I liked that one of his frat brothers was watching me. I’m sure had Brandon known, he would have gone ape-shit. I put on a show by starting to moan. I pulled off Brandon’s shoes, slipped his shorts and boxers off to the floor from his socked feet. The covers bunched beneath him as he slid up into the bed, his dick wet from my mouth.

“You got some condoms?” I asked.

Brandon got out of bed, walked to his desk, and got a couple of rubbers. I could feel the stranger’s eyes on me, watching me get undressed, my titties exposed, my pussy in his vision. Brandon tore open the cellophane, took out the lubricated latex, and rolled it slowly onto the head of his dick, down his hard shaft. Brandon’s dick jutted out from his lithe, molasses-brown physique.
The tips of his fingers were greasy from the lubricant. I lay on my back.