About halfway through the meal, the chef, Henri, makes his appearance. He casually visits each table, chatting amiably with the guests, absorbing the heartfelt compliments and expressions of delight with experienced grace. Eventually he makes his way to our table. Visually, he’s a striking man: tall, a face that’s young for his age, a broad smile, shining eyes, and the blackest skin I’ve ever seen. I’ve read that African Americans generally carry a significant amount of European DNA, but Henri is Haitian. According to the bio on the back of the menu, he came to the United States as a child in a refugee boat. I’m sure there’s very little similarity between what we’re eating this evening and any traditional Haitian or Caribbean fare, and Henri does not claim to be a traditionalist. If anything, he’s a culinary adventurer.
Henri reaches out towards Taylor, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other grasping in a firm handshake. Both men have sparkling eyes, and when their glances meet I can almost feel the electricity.
“Good to see you, my man,” Henri intones in his deep, musical voice. “You have excellent taste in your menu picks. That sea bass was unusually good today.”
“It’s beyond good,” Taylor gushes. “Best I ever had!”
“Thank you kindly,” continues Henri. “I’m sure that’s also true for your lovely companion here. Again, sir, you have excellent taste, and you’re a gentleman of discretion and discernment!”
He turns to me, takes my hand, and lifts it to his lips. “My lady,” he says with a slight bow, “my drab little space is so much brighter since you’ve chosen to grace it with your beauty.”
It’s some of the most mawkishly insipid phrasing that I could have imagined, but coming in that voice, from that face, with those bright-dark eyes fixed upon me, it works. My face burns, and my groin gushes. I can feel the moisture spreading into the crotch of my romper, and I suddenly feel genuinely shy. That is not who I am! Henri sees. He knows exactly how I’m reacting. His smile broadens almost imperceptibly, and he winks.
“Enjoy the rest of your meal,” he says as he steps back slightly. “I’m glad you both came. Be sure and call me if there’s anything you need.”
It takes me a few minutes to recover my composure. Taylor is somehow immune to Henri’s charms. He is chatting happily about the delights of the meal, and somehow segues into current events and politics. There’s nothing he says that I disagree with, so I feel comfortable enough with a few approving grunts and expressions of “that’s right” and “exactly”, until my brain starts to kick in again. Once it does, I can focus my entire attention on Taylor, the cheerfulness in his voice, his animated expressions, his enthusiastic gesturing. Taylor is nothing if not enthusiastic – about everything. You rarely meet a more fundamentally happy person than Taylor. It envelops you, makes you feel that all is right with the world. He’s a calming, loving, beautiful man.
I wait for him to pause. “Have I ever told you that you have beautiful eyes?”
He knows I have. But still, coming so unexpectedly now it leaves him flustered. He blushes, and chuckles with embarrassment.
“They’re nothing compared to yours,” he finally stutters. “You are the most beautiful and totally sexy woman I’ve ever known.”
This may be as deep as our conversation gets the rest of the night. I’m not here for profound insights into the human condition. I slip out of my sandal, reach my foot out under the table and stroke his shin.
“I can’t wait to get you alone,” I respond.
The check arrives, and Taylor takes it. I want to pay half.
“No way!” he says firmly. I asked you out tonight, I picked the restaurant, I knew what the prices were before we started. This is my treat.”
“Can I at least get the tip?” I beg.
“Not a hint of Dutch tonight. This isn’t charity, you know. You’ve already made this evening well worth it.”
Yes, Taylor brings home about triple what I do. This is not a major expense for him. But I’m terrified of appearing financially dependent on him, or anyone else. I pay my own bills. Money is tight, of course. But I do get by. I can feed and house and clothe myself, I’ve got my computer and tablet and phone, and I can buy the supplies I need for my art. I’m with Taylor because I choose to be, not because I need to be. I don’t want to appear bought for the night.
He seems to read my mind. “Look, Tethys, I’m not trying to get all male-dominant patriarchal on your ass,” he says. “This was my idea, and I intended to pay from the very beginning. You’ll get your chance to buy me lunch soon enough.”
“Ok,” I sigh. “I just have one other request, then. Can we skip the movie and just go back to your place? I am so horny for you I’m about to explode.”
“Well, it’s a big sacrifice on my part, but I guess I can make it,” Taylor intones. “Just for you, though. Nobody else could talk me into that.”
We had planned on a movie after dinner, the latest blockbuster superhero spectacle. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested. Taylor enjoys the genre, but of course he can watch it anytime. It’s already nearly nine. A two hour movie plus drive time would get us back after midnight, and tonight the last thing I want to be in his bed is tired. Not yet, anyway.
No sooner do we get seated in the car than I unzip his pants and pull out his cock. It’s completely cooperative, and Taylor is all sighs and smiles the entire way home. I don’t think he’s too upset about not seeing the movie. At a couple of stoplights I manage to lean over and give it a couple of full strokes with my mouth. Taylor gasps, and I giggle. There’s no reason to put it back in his pants, and it’s still throbbing eagerly when we pull into his garage and lower the door behind us. My hand is back on his cock, squeezing firmly, once he unlocks the door, and I lead him confidently into the bathroom. I let go only long enough to drop my romper and my sandals, place my jewelry into my purse, and for him to dispense with his clothes.
Showering with Taylor becomes a tug-of-war. Usually we take turns leisurely washing each other, but tonight neither one of us wants to wait. I desperately need to feel his skin sliding under my fingers, to feel the curves and angles of his body, and to examine and manipulate that wonderful cock. It’s not just wonderful, it’s striking, and unique. Flaccid, it’s handsome enough: large and thick, proportional, not too much of a lean to one side. Erect, though, it’s remarkable. His corpus cavernosum expands outward to the sides more than it does upward, giving the upper surface a broad and nearly flat expanse, curving along the sides like a very thick tongue, with a cylindrical bottom acting like a deep keel. The entire shaft curves smoothly upward, tapering below an expanded glans that protrudes mushroom-like towards the sky. I’ve occasionally had him pose while I sketch studies of it, and I’ve taken quite a few photos of it from different angles. I’ve taken to calling it “my aircraft carrier,” or “the flight deck.” It also sometimes reminds me of a thick tongue. Taylor used to be a bit embarrassed and insecure about it, but I think I’ve corrected that misunderstanding. I love it. I love the way it looks, and I love the way it feels inside me. It’s instantly recognizable, if I were blindfolded and fucked by a group of men, I’d know by feel whether any of them were Taylor.
I can’t ignore the rest of him either. Slender, but not too skinny. Nice round ass, tight waist, strong legs. Body hair not too thick, pubic hair soft, not too bristly. I soap him up and scrub him down, getting all the good parts and of course paying extra attention to his cock and balls. I’m ready to pull him out of the shower, but he won’t go until he washes me just as thoroughly. I hate waiting. I was too impatient for the movie, I want my own action.
It’s not always like this. I’m with Taylor nearly every Friday night, and have been for more than a year and a half. Sometimes it’s a movie, sometimes dancing, sometimes karaoke (Taylor has a great singing voice; I can’t carry a tune in a bucket), sometimes just hanging out at a pub with him and his friends. He’s got fun friends. He’s a great guy, I love his wit and his laugh. And oh, did I mention his eyes? But not tonight. I’ve been desperate to fuck him all day, I’ve thought of little else. It even interfered with the design of my current painting project. I need him now!
Finally we’re both clean. A quick dry with the towels, and we’re off, still a little damp – me VERY damp! – to the bedroom. I pause for a moment to pull a USB stick out of my bag and plug it into his computer monitor, which conveniently faces the bed. I quickly find and *********** the picnic orgy video. Taylor loves porn almost as much as I do, and the right subject matter can get him intensely aroused. This one works, despite the cliche’ theme, it’s languid, sensuous, full of sighs, caresses, kisses, not the simple fuck and suck quickies that we too often see.
Taylor’s eyes light up – those eyes! He pushes me down onto the bed and spreads my legs. For a moment, I close my eyes, awaiting the delight of that big puffy glans and that odd-shaped shaft to slide in. I’m completely ready, I need no foreplay at the moment. I want to fuck, to be fucked, to be fucked hard. It’s almost a letdown when instead I feel his tongue, his real tongue this time, dipping into my sloppy cunt, and his lips and chin and nose all sliding around my labia. His fingers crawl up my body and find my hard nipples. Ok, I guess I can wait! It’s exquisite torture, the gentle pinching, the wet clitoral nibbling, the sucking, the licking, the dipping.
But I want that cock! I protest, but all I can garble is “I want it! Fuck! Ahhhh! Don’t… stop… fuck!” It takes only a few minutes, and the growing tightness in my belly both focuses and explodes simultaneously, it feels like every cell of my body orgasms as one. I’m dizzy, gasping, collapsing while already prone. Taylor laughs. He always laughs at my orgasms, and it’s a beautiful, rumbling laugh that comes from a face soaked in my juices. Once I’ve caught my breath a little, I start laughing too. Taylor is so joyfully passionate in his lovemaking, I can’t help but share the joy myself.
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