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  ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

  ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

  NOVELLAS BY ZANE

  RIQUE JOHNSON

  JANICE N. ADAMS

  SHAWAN LEWIS

  DYWANE D. BIRCH

  Strebor Books

  P.O. Box 6505

  Largo, MD 20792

  http://www.streborbooks.com

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Mirrored Lives © 2008 by Rique Johnson

  For the Good Times © 2008 by Shawan Lewis

  The Goddess of Desire © 2008 by Dywane D. Birch

  A Twisted State of Mind © 2008 by Janice N. Adams

  Another Time, Another Place © 2008 by Zane

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.

  ISBN-13 978-1-59309-058-6

  ISBN-10 1-59309-058-7

  LCCN 2008925309

  eISBN-13 978-1-43910-041-7

  First Strebor Books trade paperback edition June 2008

  Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com

  1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798

  or [email protected]

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  MIRRORED LIVES

  RIQUE JOHNSON

  FOR THE GOOD TIMES

  SHAWAN LEWIS

  THE GODDESS OF DESIRE

  DYWANE D. BIRCH

  A TWISTED STATE OF MIND

  JANICE N. ADAMS

  ANOTHER TIME, ANOTHER PLACE

  ZANE

  INTRODUCTION

  Love can be invigorating. Love can be full of surprises. Love can be frustrating. Love can be real. Join myself and four other writers as we take you on a journey of love, lust, and everything in between. Another Time, Another Place is a concept that first took flight many years ago. I am glad to finally see it come to fruition. While my time of doing anthologies is slowly coming to an end, I still feel it is important to showcase the works of others. Soon I will limit that to publishing the works of others as I miss being a full-time novelist—my first love.

  Rique Johnson is a wonderful author. You all better stop sleeping on him. The man can work magic with a pen. Make sure that you check out his novels: Love & Justice, Whispers from a Troubled Heart, Every Woman’s Man, and A Dangerous Return. Dywane D. Birch is the man who makes words flow like poetry and keeps the drama flowing from page to page as readers get drawn into his characters. Please check out his novels: Shattered Souls, From My Soul to Yours, and Beneath the Bruises. I publish both of these outstanding men and I look forward to seeing their careers flourish in the near future.

  Shawan Lewis and Janice N. Adams are newer writers who are both gifted in their own right. Their novellas contained within are powerful and engaging. I would like to sincerely thank all four contributors for allowing me to share their talent with the world and for seeing my vision for this project: Another Time, Another Place.

  Have you ever come across someone who seemed like the perfect person for you, yet they were already with another? Have circumstances ever prevented you from pursuing the possible love of your life? If you could go back in time, would you do things differently? Make other choices? Fight for what you believe in?

  My story, the title story in the collection, has a lot of meaning to me. Throughout my life there have been men that I allowed to get away, only to wonder years—sometimes decades—later what could have happened if things had been different. Most of the time when one person is free to love, the other is not. Sure, a lot of people leave the one they are with to see if the grass is greener on the other side but then karma kicks in and leaves them in total despair. Sometimes we have to wait and see what happens. Always we need to pray. Love comes to us when it is supposed to, not when we want it to. We cannot force it. We cannot invent it. We must try to recognize it and cherish it when it crosses our paths, though.

  I hope that you enjoy this book as much as we have enjoyed compiling it. Please feel free to email me your thoughts to [email protected]. Make sure you join my email list by sending a blank email to [email protected] and you can visit me on the Internet at www.eroticanoir.com.

  Blessings,

  Zane

  MIRRORED LIVES

  RIQUE JOHNSON

  ONE

  April Jonston sat in the seating area of her bedroom’s bow window and watched the heavy rain pour down the windowpanes. She was lost, entranced by the varying water formations traveling down the glass. Flashes of light dancing at a distance indicated that a lightning storm was nearing.

  She was in her mid-forties, or thirty-nine and holding, as she often stated when asked her age. She had shoulder-length black hair, dark sultry eyes and a smile as bright as the heavens. April remained high school skinny, a perfect size six, thanks to the personal trainer that worked her hard three times a week. Even though she was a college graduate, in a word she was a kept woman. She had never worked a single day; despite a degree in advertising. As fate dictated her future, she met her husband, Virgil Jonston, during her one and only job interview. He was the owner and CEO of the interviewing firm, Innovative Solutions. Virgil was captivated by her beauty and charm. He risked his entire fortune when he stopped the interview to tell her that he couldn’t go any further because he’d be hiring her for the wrong reason.

  “Sue me, but I’ve been looking for someone like you my entire life,” were the bold words Virgil said to her that day. They still resonate in her mind today.

  Shortly after that, April Miller became April Jonston and has lived a fairytale-like life since the first after-work drink on the interview day.

  She looked down at the massive yard and saw an Olympicsized pool, tennis courts and a putting green all being reflected by the flashing lights. She had everything she’d imagined; a large house, a huge yard, the picketed fence as well as a good man in Virgil. Virgil lifted his head from the pillow, wiped the crust from his eyes, and watched his woman gaze out of the bow window.

  “Are you okay, honey?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I just couldn’t sleep,” April lied.

  “You’ve had a lot of that lately. Is there anything you’d like to discuss?”

  “Truly, I’m fine. I’m drawn to storms. I’ve always been this way. I think they’re sexy.”

  Virgil was two years younger than his wife. This fact didn’t bother him, nor did their height difference of two inches. Virgil was the shorter of the two. The one shortcoming that always weighed heavily on his mind was the size of his manhood. He carried plenty of mental anxiety because he possessed neither size, length, nor girth.

  Throughout the years, upon meeting a potential mate, he used his wealth to buy gifts; all in an attempt to let his kindness outweigh his inadequacy. If the relationship turned physical, he used various creams, toys and things to please the woman. His size made intimacy a job instead of a pleasurable act.

  Even though storm-gazing was pleasing to April, she was troubled and found it increasingly difficult to hide her sexual frustration.

  “I’ve always known you to enjoy storms,” Virgil said. “The more violent the better, but hearing that they are sexy is something new. Still, two nights in a row makes me wonder. Come on, can I en
tice you with some thunder from down under?”

  April’s head turned toward him; she boasted a bright smile. Virgil was pleased with her apparent acceptance of the invitation, but concealed behind her wondrous smile was an underlying agony of performing the act. She felt obligated to fulfill the duties as his spouse; even though neither her heart nor mind was into it. Eight years into the marriage, her husband hadn’t changed. He remained affectionate, caring, loving and attentive. However, his penis-size compensation efforts had lessened. The tongue and the toys were few and far between. Lately, the use of these items lacked the passion and precision they once had.

  TWO

  Ariel Johnson turned away from watching the rain dance on the window panes to respond to her husband’s sexual suggestion. The bright smile she returned to him accepted his invitation. She greeted the devilish smile from Steven with enthusiasm. Ariel was a woman two years younger than her forty-seven-year-old mate. Her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Her skin was flawless except for a scar just above her left eyebrow. Ariel took one step toward her husband and paused as a sense of déjà vu overcame her.

  The flickering light coming through the window from behind, her husband’s gaze, everything right down to the waterfall-like pattern on the comforter that flowed from the bed to the floor felt as though she had lived through it before. She shook off the feeling and skipped toward the bed. After all, Steven Johnson was a master at pleasing a woman. He was the artist; she was his canvas. This was what she believed. This was how he made her feel. The thunder roared, Ariel screamed, and jumped into the arms of her man. Ariel and Steven’s sex life worked like a finetuned machine; much like other aspects of their lives together. They both were working middle-class that pooled the household’s resources together. This being the case, they could well afford the four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath and three-car garage home that had a yard large enough for the planned in-ground pool and tennis court. So, when Ariel lowered the silk robe off of her shoulders, Steven’s mouth closed around her nipple like a dance rehearsed a thousand times. Her body responded as if she had said, “You had me at hello.”

  Ariel was on her knees, head tilted toward the bow window that mimicked a strobe light. Steven was on his knees facing her; one arm held her closely around the waist. With the other hand, he pinched the opposing nipple from his mouth. Even with her eyes closed, Ariel could sense the lightning flashes. She was hot with a passion that burned deep inside of her. There was a plethora of ways that lighted her fire, but her nipples carried the most fuel for her eroticism. Steven held a nipple between his thumb and pointer finger with ample pressure. The oversized electrode flattened like a marshmallow and the part that escaped the pressure formed an umbrella. He used the tip of his tongue to stroke back and forth along the exposed area beyond his fingertips.

  Ariel’s womanhood had already moistened from the initial teasing with his mouth, but when he nibbled on the pressurized area, all bets were off.

  “Fuck me now,” Ariel panted out of desire.

  The instruction was not a demand. It was a need. Steven gazed intently into her eyes. He slowly removed the robe from her shoulders and pushed her backward, with the palm of his hand placed between her breasts. Ariel willingly lowered to her back and positioned her knees up with the legs spread apart, waiting for whatever her mate had in store for her. Steven attacked her with his hungry, eager tongue. It dove deep inside her haven with determination and purpose. He shaped his tongue like a scoop, glided it through the natural juices and swallowed the tasty treat after each time. He placed a hand behind each knee, raised her legs upward and licked her rectum as if he was trying to determine how many strokes were needed to get to the center of a lollipop. Ariel moaned when his tongue penetrated the entrance. His stroke was slow, deliberate and precise. Ariel’s passionate moans filled the air and seemed to drown out the periodic clap of thunder. His tongue moved up between her lower lips and danced artistically around her clitoris. Ariel screamed, uncontrolled and uninhibited, loud with vibrations that accompanied trembling legs.

  His index finger slowly entered the lower passionate wormhole in conjunction with a thumb sliding through the womanhood’s wetness. Steven heard, “Oh shit” when he closed his lips around her clit. He repeatedly pressed both fingers together while he sucked her man-in-a-boat as if he was trying to detach it from her body. For most women, his actions on such a delicate part of the body would be too hard and rough, but for Ariel, the rougher the better. Ariel screamed uncontrollably, electrified by all senses. Her hips jerked to a sporadic rhythm only she and the universe understood.

  THREE

  April screamed when Virgil pressed his lips together; her clitoris was between them. The pressure was too great. It would have been one thing if he’d let his naturally soft lips tantalize her jewel, but he sucked his lips back like he had no teeth and gummed down reminiscent of crushing a cherry. She pushed his head backward; the sexual mood vanished completely like a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick. April slowly pulled an electric cord and freed the electronic device from her ass. A vibrant hum filed the air.

  “Enough of this for tonight,” April said.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Don’t be upset. I won’t be so rough,” Virgil pleaded.

  “I’ve no idea of what’s gotten into you lately. All you seem to be interested in is causing me pain. If it isn’t squeezing me too hard, an overzealous roughness or the improper use of the toys, it must be a lack of interest. Maybe you no longer care about my needs,” April guessed. “You got yours,” April said emotionally.

  She took a moment to reflect on how she sucked him off prior to him getting started on her. She recalled how she worked up an erection with her soft hands. It was Virgil’s favorite thing to have done to him, her hand fondling his penis and her mouth sucking on his nipple. His reaction was always the same. He rose to a stronger, younger-feeling erection. April sat on him for no other reason than to let him feel her wetness. That was her thing; any type of foreplay got her jewel as wet as an ocean stream. The downside was, she felt no friction, little penetration because of his size and her extreme wetness. Virgil, on the other hand, had a different story; all aspects of April’s womanhood felt like a warm cushiony gelatin.

  As she rode his tool in the reverse cowboy position, different degrees of eroticism filled him. He was just that sensitive and neared a climactic state quickly. He never had real stamina, fully hardened or semi-hard. He could easily wear the three-minute man badge and could be the poster child for the organization, but not today. April recalled falling to the side and licked her juices from his joystick. Her tongue moved up his shaft and made slow circles around Virgil’s head. She had always enjoyed her taste. Years of fingering herself to pick up where her husband lacked had turned her into a pussy juice addict. She would always have two fingers basking in her juices while masturbating and thought of them as sponges. She would let them soak in her haven before she placed them into her mouth.

  The toys replaced the real thing for only a few short years. After that, she faked orgasms to prevent damage to Virgil’s fragile ego. What allowed April to satisfy her needs without her husband’s knowledge was the fact that a climax for Virgil produced an identical result as an electrical switch being turned off. Soon after he exploded and rolled over, he would sleep hard, out like a light. Snoring was his cigarette and often April would masturbate to the rhythm of his sound.

  “It isn’t like that,” Virgil responded. “I do care about your feelings and your needs. You haven’t been into it these days; I thought roughing it up a bit would bring you back to where you used to be.”

  “I’d be more into it if you were the same,” April responded. “Something about you has changed.”

  “I am the same,” Virgil responded defensively.

  “No, you used to be caring and sensitive to what my body needs were, but now your caress feels like a chore. I sense pleasing me has become a job that you hate to do, but you toil your way throu
gh it.”

  Virgil watched the tears begin to fall from April’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

  He hugged his wife and gave serious thought to getting a penis extension. April jumped from the bed as a thunder rumble sounded. She looked back at her man who had already started descending to Neverland even as he watched her back away to the bow window. She sat in the bow window for a short moment with her head resting on tucked knees. Her head turned toward Virgil’s snore sound, a sound that tonight disgusted her.

  Heavy raindrops danced and sounded on the windowpanes as they splashed into a million molecules. April watched the hypnotic act for a brief moment before entering the bathroom. She threw a face cloth into the sink, turned on the hot water, and then ran a finger through her wetness.

  I taste good, she thought, after removing the finger from her mouth.

  She grabbed the hot face cloth and wrung it out bravely. The steamy water that fell from her fingers was too hot for an average bath, yet she endured the burning sensation. She then folded the cloth in half, took a long wiping stroke through her haven’s juices. She sucked the nectar from the cloth as if she was extracting microfibers from the item. April dropped the cloth into the sink, closed her eyes as one hand caressed her breast while the other massaged her womanhood until she created more tasty treats to taste. She repeated the heated-cloth, pussy-juice maneuver until the taste of her secretion had dissipated. She looked at herself in the mirror, and ran a thumb across the flesh mole under her right eye.

  “Damn, the storm is getting closer,” she said aloud upon hearing perfume bottles rattle because of the thunder.

  Virgil continued to call hogs. He was unaffected by the noise that could wake the dead. It was a good thing. April wasn’t satisfied. Her needs had to be satisfied and she knew exactly what had to be done. She straddled the pedestal sink and felt blessed that it could hold her weight. The reflection back was sensual, aided by the dark grayish moonlight rays shining through the window that flickered with each flash of lightning. She danced two fingers in a circular waltz inside her haven until sounds of wetness invaded her ears. She put the fingers into her mouth as if the fingers were the spoon that stirred the stew. The same two fingers then separated her lower lips, spread them as far as her fingers allowed. She pulled her fingers upward and her clitoris moved forward as if it was attached to a pendulum. She shoved the other hand’s middle finger into her wetness, and then caressed the exposed cherry with the lubricated finger. April’s sensations rose in little time. Her hips moved to the self-induced stroke as she touched the clitoris softly at first, then plucked it like a musician on a bass guitar string. She gazed at the intense look in the mirror. With each strum of the solo instrument her expressions intensified. The varying sensuous looks became hypnotic. She watched herself watch back. The area between her eyebrows wrinkled with the increasing circular motions her two fingers made on her jewel. April’s breathing became thick and heavy. She leaned forward, her head less than a foot from the mirrored glass. The reflection in the mirror slowly vanished as if she performed a magic act because of the condensation from the heavy breathing in her excited state.