Revolution Makes Me Horny

Revolution makes me horny. Since the days of the military take-over by that asshole son of a president, we've been running, hiding, meeting up in secret, sleeping in close quarters to stay safe, to keep warm. Last night was the last straw. We were cold, sleeping on a basement floor. It was my turn to be in the middle - lying on my side, Isaac spooned behind me, breathing against my neck, beard-whiskers scratching at my ear, making me vibrate. Danette's tight locks wafted her musty, three-weeks-since-a-shower, scent into my nose, my mouth. I was breathing her in on that cold floor, pressed like an apple.

I felt like squirming. It had been a crazy day. Every day feels crazy lately. Staying out of sight, but constantly trying to make our presence known, find new allies. Danette and I met last night. Isaac brought her to me. I am surprised she hadn't gotten thrown in jail already. That fire in her eyes, the defiance. I couldn't imagine her keeping her mouth shut. She looked me up and down and said, "Where do you need me?" Of course she meant in the Movement, but the way her lips parted when she stared at me made me think she meant more. She could sense how hungry I was.

Isaac was hungry for her too. A wife knows these things. Isaac and I don't like to compete for a woman's affection. Since the revolution, my sex drive had been erratic. Isaac had kept me more than satisfied, and I didn't mind if he found someone new to play with now and then. We had been swingers before things went cuckoo. We were soul mates and partners in crime. I never doubted the fidelity of his heart. Perhaps we could share her.

In that cold room, I smiled in spite of my self. Moments of joy in these dark times were rare. Perhaps I could extend that moment into a few hours. A good leader has to attend to the morale of her team after all. My fingers found their way to the small of Danette's back. I arched my back, pressing my ass into Isaac's groin. He wasn't sleeping. Danette tangled her leg around mine and I knew she was awake too. I felt Isaac swell behind me. A husband knows when his wife is turned on. His fingers pulled down my sweat pants, found there way in between my legs, began stroking my clit.

He whispered in my ear, "She wants you too, you know. She told me she thought you were hot, that she was jealous of me. I told her she was just your type. Go ahead baby. Take a night off from being good. Remember the years before all this, when we used to love to be with other couples? Remember how it felt to lick a pussy while I fucked you from behind?"

That got me. I put my arms around Danette's waist. She was thick but tall and shapely. She rolled over to face me. "I can hear you, you know. He's right. Fuck the revolution! Let's be bad tonight. Let's grab the fun while we still can." You do remember how to have fun, don't you? Maybe tonight, I should be the leader."

Her fingers brushed my cheek and moved down to my chin. She tilted my head back and pressed her lips to mine softly, opened them slightly, pulled gently at my lower lip and giggled to herself. There was no danger of me deciding to be good any longer. My brain could think of nothing more than the pleasure of my husband's fingers on my clit and Danette's full lips sucking on mine.

I moved my hands under her layers of warm clothing, searching for her tits. I had caught a glimpse of them the night before. Big brown tits topping her full dark breasts. I couldn't see them now, but I wanted to touch them. She was darker than I was -- her African roots showed through, and, earlier, I couldn't help but stare at the variation in shades. I imagined my South Indian skin - brown with golden undertones - falling into her almost charcoal abyss of pleasure...

Dark Browns and Blacks were not tolerated under the new regime and so we found each other, kept each other safe, hid in the homes of White allies. And now, I was grateful for this space, to moan and breathe in the pleasures of a Black woman's nipples and my loving White husband's laser accurate clitoral caress.

A slow wrap of knuckles on the basement door, twice, then three in quick succession brought me back to the unfortunate realities. We three untangled ourselves. Anne and Jason, our hosts for the evening, came in with a tray of fruits, thinly sliced meats, cheeses and bread. This meal, it occurred to me, was not so different from those the four of us would share during one of our summer afternoon "play" dates. Before the children, before Isaac and I moved to Philadelphia, before the revolution.

The memory of it almost made me swoon. Riding Jason's long, lean biker's body, my fingers running through my husband's hair as he lazily savored Anne's beautiful swollen clit -- tugging at it gently with his lips. That had been long ago. But the sight of Anne's freckled creamy skin reminded me of Jason's nickname for her, which also happened to be my favorite flavor of ice cream -- Cinnamon. My mouth began to water...