• thejsingraham

SNEAK PEEK | "Say What You Mean"

Have you read Hey Auntie? If so, you may be curious about what happened after the whirlwind weekend that David Marcus and Ms. Liza shared. Well...

 

What…the…fuck? I thought, easing my arm across my naked body and down between my thighs. My mind screamed at me to get a hold of itself, but fuck me, this shit felt amazing. So, I just wanted to do my part and lend a hand.


Four fingers slid down as a group…


Two circled against one clit…


Then between two lips before I split them wide, and opened myself up for him…


Just…a little…more.


And he dove right the fuck back in.


Mmmph!


David Marcus and I made it a solid week without speaking after he went back to school. Then one morning he sent me a direct message on Instagram to see how I was doing and three days later we were in a hotel room in Charlotte—making up for lost time.


After that first relapse, in the middle of the week, I drove four hours back home early the next morning. I mean the man was amazing with how he made my body feel, but I had a meeting I absolutely could not miss.


So logically, I did the next best thing.


I turned right around and went back down to North Carolina that weekend.


Then again, the weekend after.


This man had me at an almost embarrassing level of sprung, which is a major reason why I called it quits back in November. I just knew this was a very likely possibility. But allowing myself to get another taste, then another, shit he had my body craving him. And that was before…


“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”


That tongue. Those lips.


Over the course of the initial whirlwind weekend we spent together, that man signed his name inside of my walls in the most delicious of ways imaginable. And the very first time he made me hit notes I didn’t know my voice could reach was at the mercy of his fingers. He had me writhing in moonlit ecstasy on his lap.


Despite the dizzying array of memories we conjured in a short window of time, there was one thing I never got to experience. Just how good he was with those wonderfully made lips of his in all of the ways that mattered. That is until we reconnected.


And bitch!


If I didn’t know any better, I would think his ass had been practicing.


Right now, this man had my knees bent and thighs wide while his durag-covered head moved like a cobra hypnotizing its eventual victim. He used the tip of his tongue to massage my clit from side to side at dizzying speeds, then rolled my pearl around between those sinful jewels of his. The ebb and flow sensations were intoxicating. The cacophony of pleasing kissing and sucking sounds being made had me lightheaded, and I had to brace myself for my eventual end.


Again.


“Baby, right there, right there, shit!”


I came, so hard. And when I did my spirit went right out of my body and floated up to its new favorite place, a random hotel ceiling. Looking down on me in all of my post-orgasmic glory. Judging me for filth.


Fuck you bitch! Fuck you! You felt that shit.


“How was that?” he asked.


The evidence of my overly satisfied essence caused those lips that had to have been made by the African God, Gu, to glisten. He flashed that wicked grin of his when he saw me staring at him wildly with a pillow between my teeth. My chest heaved up and down while my lungs expanded greedily reacquainting themselves with oxygen. The image of him on his knees between my thighs sent my mind tumbling backward…


 

The Sunday morning of that first weekend trip to NC, we were feeding each other fruit while David Marcus laid his head in my lap. And in true who in the fuck is this man fashion, this overly communicative gorgeous manchild asked me what he could do better to satisfy me. My initial thought was, to be honest, and say nothing. I mean the boy is six-feet-three inches of dark chocolate, with a body that is almost as amazing, as the intensity, and passion he seemed to do everything with.


But I’d be damned if I was going to be responsible for creating another egomaniac, even if the shit was true.


So in a moment of honesty and genuine interest, I asked what his opinion on going down on a woman was. He told me he didn’t have one, because he had never done it before. All I remember saying was, “oh.”


What happened after, I should absolutely not be surprised by but I was. He threw back the covers, rolled over on his stomach, then sat on his knees in front of me. This beautiful Black man looked at me with the same intensity he always held, and naked as the day he was born, said, “show me.”


I was speechless at first, but then he leaned over on all fours and crawled up my body, leaned in, and kissed me softly on the lips.


“Show me,” he repeated more firmly in a lust-tinged baritone that put me in a trance.


The entire scene was a lot to take in, but the sheer beauty of it, seeing our skin tones together in that sea of white sheets, pillows, and a thick duvet felt like a cinematic moment not to be missed. So I simply mouthed, “okay.”


He crawled back down my body, I parted my legs and used my fingers to show him how I touch myself when I’m by myself. When I saw him get hard from watching me, I could feel my body moving on auto-pilot, readying itself for him as he continued to watch.


Then instead of pushing deep inside of me as he had so deliciously many times prior, he lowered himself and kissed my fingers before sucking them and my clit inside of his mouth.


 

To this day, that was the fastest I think I had ever cum before in my life. And that man went down on me every single time that he saw me after. Each time being better than the last.


Because his basketball season was in full swing now, we spent some variation of every weekend in the month of December together. A couple of times for just a day due to the team’s schedule, but I didn’t care. That man made me feel things I never had before.


He turned me into a goddamn fiend.


When I say I needed it, I NEEDED it, in only the way David Marcus Collins could provide.


And that shit became a problem because, during moments when I couldn’t have him, like on Christmas because he was with his family or New Year’s because he had a game in the middle of the country, it was sobering.


Last Thanksgiving when we first met was perfect. It was a random, taboo tryst that was electric, and amazing. But I knew it couldn’t be more.


Then we made it more and he gave me more, and once it hit my bloodstream the high was phenomenal.


The withdrawal symptoms, however, were the absolute worst. It had begun to get to a point where I could feel my mood shift on occasion.


Sex in all of its forms with that man should have its own Wikipedia page. However, the last hours we spent together before we had to split company each time, had become equally as enjoyable and desired. Which was an even bigger problem because it showed just how much I was beginning to also crave just being in his presence.


I don’t do well with problems. I never have honestly.


Thirteen-year age difference aside, there was also the other very big, unavoidable reality that existed between us. His favorite aunt is my coworker. We hadn’t even bothered to discuss this issue in a roundabout way because we had a routine that worked—until it didn’t.


Just thinking about that frustrated me even more. Doubts, the potential for drama, and unsolicited opinions chased those fears from the back of my mind where I had tried to push them, to my frontal lobe.


This was becoming a lot as I knew deep down it would.


So I did what came naturally.


I ran, again.


“David Marcus, I…”


The minute his name fell from my lips, every ounce of confidence that normally lived in his handsome features melted away. He recognized that tone. We had the discussion that was burning in the back of my throat like bile more than once. I never planned or summoned this, this feeling, to try and keep him at bay. It just seemed to randomly bubble to the surface when I was at my most vulnerable around him, like now.


Maybe it was the growing need for more. The wanting of what I felt I couldn’t or wasn’t supposed to have. Maybe it was guilt or something different. Who in the hell knew? But one thing was for certain, I couldn’t allow him to calm my nerves with his words and push long, hard inches of pleasureful reassurance into me to squelch the rest. It worked before, but how much longer would it?


When I moved my legs from under the mass of white linen and stood to my feet, pulling the top sheet with me, I think he knew this time was different. It may have even been him that experienced a need for this awkward back & forth to end. I don’t know.


But those broad shoulders of his did something I didn’t think were possible. They fell. And he could not or would not meet my gaze.


Fuck me!


 

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