A fictional account of a real woman.
*
Carol walked gingerly from the adult products store to the taxi.
"That plug in your bum still bothering you?" Blaine asked when they were ensconced inside.
"Blaine!" she blurted, shifting her eyes toward the driver and punching him in the chest. Her tiny fist bounced off like a pebble against a tank.
The taxi driver was a cute redhead. She'd given them a knowing stare when they'd entered. Blaine decided to have a little fun with both women.
"I love ponytails," he told the driver, reaching forward and batting her hair.
"The rules, sir," the redhead said joining in good-naturedly. He could see how her eyes sparkled hungrily in the rear view mirror. "You mustn't touch the driver's 'air."
"Even though I love ponytails?" he groaned facetiously. "Christ, what else am I not permitted to touch.
"Pretty much everything. It's the rules, sir."
"What about her?" he asked, watching the driver in the mirror while he slid his hand up under Carol's skirt. "Can I touch her at least? She's my slut after all."
Carol's nipples were practically punching a hole in her thin top and the driver ogled them and the big cum stain still drying there. Before she could answer, they'd arrived.
"Care to join us?" Blaine asked the redhead with the ponytail while Carol paid the fare. "Ever been with another woman? We could have a lot fun."
"Another time," she answered. "My old man would kill me if I came 'ome with 'alf a day's receipts."
"Call me sometime," he said, handing her his card.
"You can count on that," she answered. Carol's eyes flashed jealously as the driver's fingers lingered on the young black's as she took his number.
"It's so easy for you isn't it Blaine?" Carol asked clutching his arm as they walked into the plush hotel lobby.
"What is?"
"Charming the pants off pretty white women."
"Her pants were off?" he teased.
"God you make me want you so badly," she groaned as they entered the lift. "I'll do it right here if you want," she said stroking his cock.
"Maybe later," he replied, pushing her hand away, making her want him all the more.
The room was sizeable yet cozy. Six fine looking black men about Blaine's age were already there, gathered around a well-stocked bar set off to the side. Carol clutched his arm even tighter. As his date, she felt safe but, being the only woman, a white woman, in a room with so many black gentlemen, she felt a little intimidated.
In the center of the room was a rounded, rectangular table covered in green felt. There were eight chairs and a stack of chips at each seat.
"A poker game?" she whispered.
"Laphroaig, neat," he told her and turned toward his friends leaving her to tend bar. It didn't take long for the others to take advantage of her.
"As long as you're up..." a very dark man said quickly, "another one of these: Jack and Coke," he said handing her his glass.
"Who's this then, Yank?" one of the men asked as Carol handed Blaine a glass with golden liquor and the man she soon learned was called Congo his darker one.
"I'm..." she started to say before Blaine put his finger to her lips.
"This is Blondie, everyone." She smiled shyly.
Blaine didn't bother introducing them to her but she quickly gathered that they referred to each other by geographical appellations: Jamaica; Bahama; Sudan; Congo...
There was a knock on the door and a couple were permitted entry. He was a true physical specimen yet his presence was overshadowed by hers.
Her skin was like dark caramel, so smooth, so inviting. The sequins on her red dress glittered like the diamond exchange. It hugged her body more closely than her own skin. Her breasts were enormous. Probably fake but impressive nonetheless. The neckline was cut so low it appeared as if an arc of darkened areola peeked out.
Her trim waistline made her tits stand out even more. Her hemline was nearly as short as Carol's. Her legs were bare and creamy, muscled yet feminine. That rounded arse was so fine, so "bubbled," every eye in the room was drawn to it, including Carol's.
Yet it was her face that had Carol slack jawed. That beautiful, smooth skin, more the colour of a deep tan than an African's. Her nose was flared in a subtle, sensuous fashion. Her eyes were the colour of her skin with liberal sprinklings of flashing gold flecks that could mesmerize a man...or a woman.
Then there were those lips. Large and full, puffy like a firm pillow, painted a shiny, startling red. Inviting lips that commanded one's attention the way an overwrought button struggling to constrain a heaving bosom does.
Those lips...those luscious, luscious lips...Carol was envious of those alluring lips with their ability to draw men's attention to her mouth.
What would it feel like to kiss those lips?
Carol wondered and shivered at her own lewd, almost unacknowledged thoughts.
Carol wasn't bisexual yet she enjoyed looking at the female form. On more than one drink filled occasion, she and her close friend Sarah had joked about giving up men and taking up with a woman. Then both of them had backed off wondering if the other thought they were being hit upon...wondering if they were. Now Carol was imagining kissing the most beautiful, sensual, sexual mouth she'd ever seen and it excited her.
"Who's that?!?!" Carol gasped.
"That's Pronghorn," Blaine teased. A member of the South African rugby squad, he had originally been called Springbok at their game, but somewhere along the line they had started calling him Pronghorn because...well...they just did.
