I'll Have a Black Christmasbyrobertreams©
"Hey, Alec," I say, close to weeping, "I'll have another please."
"Here ya are, straight Chivas, for the lady, water back. Uh, ma'am . . .?"
"Do me a favor, don't call me ma'am, what do I look like, your mother?"
"If you don't want to be called ma'am, I guess you will have to tell me your name."
"Name's Iris. And I am sorry to act like such a bitch. I shouldn't be taking it out on you. It's not you I am angry with."
"Iris, eh, a very beautiful name. I grow Siberian Iris' in my garden. Double blossoms, the Siberian kind have, one above, one right below. Beautiful flower, much like yourself. It's okay, you can bitch all you want, that's part of what I get paid for." Alec leans forward on one elbow, chin on his fist, dark eyes shining, boring into mine. He has plenty of time to chat with me. The bar is empty, save we two. Who would be out at a bar on Christmas Eve if they didn't have to be?
"So tell me," he says, his thick lips turned up in one corner by a seductive smile that lights up his face and ignites a spark deep in me, "what's a very beautiful Iris like you doin' out alone on Christmas Eve?" I am intrigued by the color of those lips, a sort of earthy umber very like the reddish soil of a Georgia farm. He stands well over six feet, six four at least, is broad of shoulder and short of neck, well muscled and dark, dark as eggplant.
"It's a long story, Alec."
"I got nutthin' but time, Iris."
"And thank you for the compliment." I am always having to say that. People, especially men, have been complimenting me ever since my tits grew their first two inches. It's a blessing and a curse. I have both law and medical degrees, pull in 300 k a year, and have wowed crowds with my stand-up comedy; but it isn't my brilliant mind or my sparkling wit that draw the attention of men. I stand five three and weigh one hundred seven on a good day. My breasts are firm and shapely and just the right size to cup in two avid hands. The rest of the package is similarly attractive, as is my shining blonde hair and fair, freckled visage. I sigh deeply and begin my sad tale.
"Well, Alec, it's like this: I just spent about ten grand to put together the best possible Christmas I could for my man, my husband, and me, including a two thousand dollar diamond and garnet ring for his lying-ass finger. I come home tonight early from work to surprise him, but it's me that gets the big surprise. Same old story, Alec. A girl should never cum, and I do mean cum, between her boss and her boss' husband."
"No? You're kiddin'? On Christmas? With your employee?"
"Worse, Alec. On the floor, right in front of the sparkling Christmas tree. The finger I was going to put that gorgeous ring on later tonight, he has stuffed up my secretary's, uh, well, you get the picture."
"Ouch," Alec said, "that hurts!"
"Huh, the understatement of the century."
"I'm sorry, Iris. Let me buy you a drink."
"You coming on to me?"
"Could be. You want me to?"
"Could be," I answered in kind, joking, flirting a bit to keep back the tears.
We share a good laugh while Alec pours another Chivas. His talented black hands pour the shot over the rim of the glass, surface tension bonding the excess, not spilling a drop. Nonetheless, I have to lean and slurp so as not to spill. I catch the bartender at a fleeting glance down my blouse.
"Like what you see?"
"Very much! Can't blame me for lookin' though."
"That's what they all say."
We laugh together, flirting with each other. His ebony hand reaches out to softly touch mine, like coal on snow. I start to pull away, but let it go. His fingers linger a moment, then are gone. He turns away to attend to his bar tending duties. But for several minutes, the heat from his touch remains.
Mysteriously, the gleaming amber liquid has vanished from the shot glass before me. In contemplating this tragedy, the tears begin again. I stuff them down with a surge of white hot anger. Just in time I prevent my arm from flinging the shot glass against the far wall. What stops me is: I really don't want to make more work for Alec. So far he has been good to me. "Alec," I shout, but not too loud. I watch him amble over with natural athletic grace. He is muscular all over, but not muscle bound. His hair is short, cut to the same length all over his head, and dark, like tightly wound coils of black wire. His dress shirt is pink, silk I think, maybe Armani, with collar stays and cufflinks, but no tie. His trousers might be cotton blend, but expensive and cut to fit, probably tailored. As my eyes scan his front, I wonder about the rumors about black men, but can discern nothing through his slacks. He touts a neatly trimmed goatee, mustache and tickler of the same black wire as his head.
I wonder how sharp the hair is in that triangle under his lip. As he speaks, I watch it move transfixed, imagining places where it might tickle me.
"Huh? Wha. . .?"
"Penny for your thoughts."
"Oh no you don't, no way."
He laughs out loud. Does he know, did he somehow sense, I am thinking about him? About his, tickler thing? My entire body is suffused with heat. I cannot see it, but I know I am blushing bright scarlet, my freckles a lighter shade, shine like decorative pink lights.
"I asked if you wanted the same, more Chivas."
"Oh, I don't know. You think I should?"
"You want me to tell you what to do?"
"Not a bad idea. I haven't been making very wise decisions lately," I say, half in humor.
Alec turns those dark deep eyes on me. The blush continues, darkens. His eyes bore into me, hold me transfixed for a full five count. Almost with out looking, he pours another over shot. He cocks his head, a bit like a puppy anticipating a treat, takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says, finally making up his mind. "Here's what I think you should do. I'll give you two options. Number one: drink that down," he points to the shot, "I'll call you a taxi, you can go home, sleep it off, deal with asshole and his ring tomorrow."
"And my second option?" I inquire.
"Sit here and sip that shot for about twenty minutes, give me time to finish up here, then spend the next couple hours crying on a broad black shoulder. A perfect remedy for the asshole blues."
Shit! I have been flirting. Now it is time to put up or shut up.
"Well," he says, pretending to be impatient, encouraged by my silence.
"Okay," I say, "option two, with amendments."
The smile on his lips broadens; his eyes sparkle with mischief. His broad tongue looks startlingly pink as it flicks out to moisten those umber lips. "And they are?"
"I get immediate veto power. At any time I say, you call me a cab, I'm outta there."
"Done! Anything else?"
"No funny stuff. The broad shoulder and that's it."
"So lemme ask you. Why are you doin' this if you don't want 'funny stuff''? Wait. . . I mean, I'm not arguing, I really want to know. Seriously, why?"
"Oh Alec. I don't know. You could even be dangerous for all I know. I am pretty drunk and feeling sorry for myself." A tear starts, but once again I force it down. "I just don't feel like. . . like going back to that apartment, all gaily decorated for the holidays, past the spot where he, he, fucked her, and fucked me over -- and into that bedroom to our, uh I guess now, my bed again. Oh jeez, I just couldn't. I'd feel . . . dirty."
"I could call and book you a hotel room."
A tiny wave of disappointment slips over me. "Is he rejecting me?"
Alec senses my disappointment. "Am I wearing my heart on my sleeve tonight?"
"Okay, let me finish up here, then it is broad shoulder time."
"Thanks, Alec, I think."
The thought of going anywhere with this complete stranger. This, this. . . black stranger, scares the shit out of me. (Okay so I am liberal and liberated, that doesn't mean there are no primitive racial memories sliding around inside me, causing that old goose bump reaction.) There it is. I am afraid. Afraid to be alone with a black man in his house. I have to admit. If he were white, I might be a bit apprehensive, I might be reluctant, but would I be frightened?
But then, how frightened can I be? Am I fleeing? I think I might be enjoying being afraid. My head starts to droop from the effects of --- three, four, well, OK, several -- shots of fine Scotch. In my minds eye I see my head resting on the broad expanse of his black chest, my blonde hair spread among the tight curly springs of his chest hair.
"About five more minutes, then we can go?"
"No roosh, uh, er, rosh. Hoo boy." The Scotch has temporarily removed most of the sensation from my lips and tongue, speech is becoming increasingly difficult. "No rush, take your time," I am finally able to mumble out. In a few minutes, Alec returns. He offers his hand, I grasp it, pull myself to my feet, weave, almost fall.
He guides me to his car, helps me in. "What kind of car is this? It's kind of old isn't it?"
Alec laughs heartily. "It's a '65 Mustang convertible."
"I knew it. Very old, huh?"
"So you are seriously trying to tell me that you don't know the value of a '65 Mustang?"
"A car is just a car to me. Something to get me from one place to another."
"Well, this car, my fair lady, and I do mean fair, is what is generally called a classic. It's like the car of cars, the car all the other cars bow down to as it passes. This was my grandfather's car. He was 20 years old and had a great union job when he bought the car brand new. The next year he got into some trouble with the law. The judge said go to prison or go in the army. He chose the army, got sent to Viet Nam. He was in-country only eight days, two days after his twenty-first birthday, when he was killed in an ambush on a seek and destroy mission."
He pauses in his narrative to start the engine, put the top down on this balmy Los Angeles Christms Eve, check to make sure I have my seat belt on, pull out into traffic and ease it up to third. He expertly works the 'classic' through all five gears, pushing it to seventy, and merges onto the freeway. The wind whipping through my face and hair helps to clear the fog in my head. I settle back comfortably in the cushioned seat.
"He was so proud of this car," Alec continues, "my dad showed me the letter my grandpa wrote when he first got in-country. If anything happened to him, he said, he wanted his car kept as good as possible for his son. That would be my dad. He was three at the time. There was no way my grandma could have kept the car pristine, she needed to drive to work to survive. The local VFW heard about the letter and the car. They bought my grams a workable car and paid to store the Mustang properly until my dad was sixteen. Then they presented him with the car at a big ceremony. It was like -- if my dad didn't take care of the car he had the whole town to answer to. It was a good thing, made my dad a safe driver. When I turned sixteen and got my license, dad gave it to me, sort'a to keep the family tradition. In all the years since, I have not had a single ticket or accident, so you see, it made a safe driver out of me, too. also, to hear my mom tell it, there is some possibility I was conceived in the back seat of this very car. "
"You are a good man, Alec, I can feel it. Are you gonna take me home and, well, er, fuck the hell out of me?"
"No, I am not."
"Huh, well, uh, I mean. . . why not?"
"What kind of bartender would I be if I took home every drunk and fucked them?"
"I give up. Bi sexual?" I quip, laughing hard. This large gentle man soon puts me in my place.
"As a bartender I am trained to know when a person is too drunk to make rational decisions. I can tell by the way you said 'fuck', a lady like you, that you have drunk too much to make a rational decision."
"But I want you to..."
"I am very flattered, but I am not sure you would feel the same tomorrow. Let's get you sobered up, let you cry on that shoulder a bit, then see if you still feel the same way. I'd rather have you make a rational decision to come to me, than have you react, out of drunkenness or even revenge."
"How about if I react out of pure lust? Don't forget, I was expecting to get laid under the Christmas tree tonight."
"Laid under the tree, like a present. Interesting image. There's a present I'd like to unwrap."
"Yes please. Oh, you must think I am the most terrible slut."
"No, I think you are a lady who got drunk because someone did you wrong. And now you want someone to hold you and tell you that you are all right. That you are still wonderful and beautiful and everything is going to be okay. And guess what? I'm the guy."
I cannot help but wonder again if what everyone says about black men having bigger penises is true. I keep trying to sneak a glimpse, but can't make out anything. When surety fails, imagination reigns. In this case, what I imagine makes my knees go weak.
We arrive at his condo without further ado. He lets us in and shows me to a seat. "I'll be back in a few minutes, make yourself comfortable." I feel apprehensive and vulnerable, sitting in the middle of a snow white sofa, in the living room of a coal black man I scarcely know. Looking around at the décor: mostly things of African origin; ceremonial masks; lances like the ones I had seen in Shaka Zulu, crossed over a large hand-woven shield; totems and fertility dolls; a four-foot phallus exquisitely carved from black ebony. I wonder how a mere bartender can afford such elaborate and expensive furnishings. My mind creates a black version of Gary Grant in To Catch a Thief. I laugh at myself. I guess I am not yet completely sober. I get more and more uncomfortable as I wait. My imagination keeps conjuring up fantastic scenes of rape and murder.
"Here you go, black co. . . "
I jump a foot and scream at the top of my lungs, startled by Alec's quiet approach from the rear. Startled in his turn by my screams, he promptly spills both cups of black coffee on the off-white carpet.
"Oh my god," I begin, moving down toward the mess I have inadvertently caused.
Alec and I bend to retrieve the cups and saucers at exactly the same moment. Our heads connect sharply and I am sprawled to my butt, legs akimbo. Alec stands over me, rubbing the broad black expanse of his forehead with his palm. He bends to one knee beside me. "Are you okay?" he says, reaching out his hand to me. I place my small ivory hand in his huge dusky paw, like a wounded dove in a catcher's mitt. We look down at our joined hands, then up into one another's eyes. Without releasing my hand, he moves to both knees, pushes me back onto the carpet and covers my mouth with his.
My first impulse is to fight. His large body is heavy on me, stifling. I make a feeble attempt, struggling to free my body from his grip, then pushing hard against his chest with both hands. He grasps each of my hands strongly in his, forces them back on the carpet on either side of my head and kisses me again. His wide fleshy lips cover mine completely, I shake my head from side to side, but he bears down, the inside of my lips chafe against my teeth. Alec shifts position, moves between my legs, one knee hard against my groin. A stifled cry escapes my lips. I struggle against his huge black hands pinning me to the floor, against his lips hard on mine, against his knee, planted hard into the vee of my legs. I open my mouth to scream and his broad red tongue invades my mouth, swirling and flicking against and around my tongue, my lips, my teeth. Despite, or maybe because of my struggles, my panties against his trousers get very moist. I feel a deep yearning to be filled, taken on this lovelorn Christmas Eve. He has ignited a spark. I relax my mouth, cease my struggles against him, except my panties still thrust against his knee.
Suddenly Alec releases my hands, pulls his mouth from mine, and rises upright on his knees, relieving the pressure on my pussy. He looks deep in my eyes, panting. "I, I, I am so sorry, . . . I," he begins. But his spark has started a fire deep within my belly that threatens to consume us both. I place my hands behind his muscled neck, raising my body slightly off the floor, and draw his face back down to me, parting my lips to receive his tongue and unconsciously parting my legs in invitation.
The kiss goes on and on; his broad lips, hot and dry against mine, his tongue insistent, its wide pink mass sweeping gently over and around my lips, then plunging into my mouth to entwine with mine. I respond with ardor, working my tongue against and with his. My hands stay behind his head, fingers entwined in the tight curly mass of his dusky hair. But his hands begin to roam over me, now roughly grasping at my dampening panties, now gently teasing my nipples through my satin blouse.
Alec rises slightly to slide one hand under my blouse. Suddenly I am in a great hurry. I release his head, reaching down between our bodies to grasp his manhood through his pants, I gasp at the heft of him in my palm. I fumble with his belt and zipper, panting with need. He rises again, kneeling up between my legs to afford me access. I reach inside his underwear, grasp his firm penis in one hand and push down his undershorts with the other; I have finally manage to free his heavy cock.
He spreads my legs with his knees, bunches up my skirt around my waist. Holding his massive cock in my hand, I guide him into me. Pushing back his wrinkled foreskin with my fist, I insert the very tip of his cocoa colored cock head between my wet outer lips, though I can feel my inner lips reaching to draw him in. Even only the head of him feels very large in me and I squirm around, trying to accommodate his girth. He grasps my hips, pulling me to him, forcing his full length deep in me. No man, no toy, has ever filled me so completely. The full mass of him feels heavy in me and hot, so hot. His presence casts a huge shadow over me, nearly darkening the brightly lit room.
I spread myself for him, opening, offering. Wasting no time, he drills into me, hard and fast and deep. I cry from the depths of me, throw my legs around him and lock my feet behind his back. He grabs my buttocks then, fingers digging into my firm flesh, and lifts me to meet him. I throw my arms around his neck and hang dangling beneath him. His first long thrust slides from way back near my ass all along the length of me, between my lips, touches my swelling clitoris, and slips deep, so deep within me. He starts a pulsing rhythm. Harder and faster he drives into me as I swing helpless beneath him. His thrusts swing my body toward his head. Once I start swinging, he pulls his length mostly from me, then slashes forward, meeting me on the back swing. My body shudders from the impact. His energy seems boundless as he impales me over and over. At each shattering impact, the large hard head of his cock bangs against the entrance to my womb.
The blessed torture goes on and on. I want relief, release, but I never want him to stop. He shows no sign of slowing, stopping, or cumming, but keeps up the assault. He begins to speak to me in his deep resonant voice. "Give it to me Iris. Give it up. Cumon baby, cum for me." He times his words to his actions, adjusting his position slightly each time I swing back against him. In addition to the repeated collisions of his cock with my cervix, his pubic bone strikes a blow to my clitoris. At that exact moment, his voice calls to me as if from far away; repeating, "cum, cum for me! Cum for me! Cum for me!" his deep hypnotic voice reverberating in my skull. I feel the the storm approaching. I try to hold off, try to fight it, long to prolong the ecstasy, but it is not to be. The first waves of orgasm strike, wipe out all trace of thought and need and desire. My orgasm sweeps over me in wave after wave of mind numbing pleasure, until I think I will lose myself entirely. I climb and climb, finally reaching a plateau. And Alec knows exactly what to do, altering his movements to maintain me there. His commanding voice changes to soft sibilant whispers of encouragement as he murmured, " Oh yes baby. Sweet, so sweet, yes baby, yes that's it darlin' sweet so sweet," directly in my ear like rustling silk.