Fissure

I surrendered to him physically just as he wanted me too and, no doubt, believed he could easily make me do.

I was open to it, needing it, begging for it, as he slid inside me and, hovering over me, his forehead touching mine, his eyes capturing mine, began to pump me. If he noticed how easily I opened, he didn't mark it. It was a good fuck, a very nice fuck. I went with it, moving my pelvis with his strokes, gasping and groaning when he quickened the pace, filled out more, thrust deeper and harder. When we became frenzied, I flipped him, coming up off my back and putting him on his back—all without dislodging his cock. And then I was riding him hard, gyrating on his shaft, taking him to the root and rocking and revolving on the cock until, with a cry, we both came, simultaneous.

He wasn't getting all of my attention, though. From time to time I'd look up at the ceiling, at the dangling brass light fixture. It remained solidly in place, not shimmering, not swaying, and swinging . . . nothing. No swinging on the chandelier.

We lay there, me stretched out on top of him.

"That was fantastic," he whispered.

"It was good," I responded.

"Do you think . . . maybe?"

"I think you'd best get up. There's time for a short shower, but then you'd best be on your way. It was fine . . . for old time's sake. Nothing more, though. My boyfriend's practice should be over soon. He'll come straight home, I imagine."

"Your boyfriend?" he said, instantly dejected.

"He's a real bruiser. I don't think you want to be here when he comes home." I had surrendered to him physically—I was weak that way. But I had not given in to him emotionally.

I stood at the window and watched Collin leave the building. He passed Terrence Jackson, a fullback with the New York Jets pro football team as Terrence entered the building. I went back in the bedroom, pulled open the nightstand drawer, and took out the velvet-cuffed wrist restraints. Terrence was a 240-pound, all-muscle black bull. He had come to America from Jamaica. He had ten thick inches. When he fucked me the brass lighting fixture in the ceiling over the bed swayed, shimmered, and swung.

"Yoh, Mon. Mi home yuh miss me?—I'm home. You missed me?" he asked with a big, white-toothed smile?

"Yes, I missed you something fierce."

"Lie dung. Open yuh legs. Mi wa sum sugar—Lay down. Open your legs. I want some sugar."

"Yes, sir."