Chocolate Flava Read online

  Also by Zane

  Addicted

  The Heat Seekers

  The Sex Chronicles: Shattering the Myth

  Gettin’ Buck Wild: Sex Chronicles II

  Shame on It All

  The Sisters of APF: The Indoctrination of Soror Ride Dick

  Nervous

  Skyscraper

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  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.

  Copyright © 2004 by Zane

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-7434-9263-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-9263-8

  First Atria Books trade paperback edition January 2004

  ATRIABOOKS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Copyright Notices

  “The Reunion” by Ife Ayodele © 2003

  “Grocery Gettin’ ” by Eileen M. Johnson © 2003

  “White Heat” by Marilyn Lee © 2003

  “What If?” by reese williams © 2003

  “Discovery” by Sharon Best © 2003

  “The Fourth of July” by Jackiy Thomas © 2003

  “Copland” by Ms. B. Haven © 2003

  “1-800-HOT-TALK” by Shonell Bacon © 2000

  “Midnight Letter to Fran” by Tenille Brown © 2003

  “There’s Always Hope for the Ride Home” by Joy Best © 2003

  “The Merry Widow” by Rosalyn Davis © 2003

  “The Hot Maid” by blk_man4u © 2001

  “At Peace” by Michael Sio © 2003

  “I’ll Be Invisible” by V. Anthony Rivers © 2003

  “The Shower” by Reginald Harris © 2003

  “What’s Real” by James L. Abernathy © 2003

  “Selena the Sexual Healer” by Victor DeVanardo © 2003

  “Rendezvous” by RA Concepts © 2000

  “My Friend, the Pornographer” by Robert Edison Sandiford © 2003

  “Josey’s Puddy Cat” by Jonathan Luckett © 2003

  “Bon Appétit” by James E. Cherry © 2003

  “First Time Blues: A Real-Life Tale of Lost Virginity” by Frederick V. Sellers © 2003

  “The Party” by Dr. Bootyjuice Publications © 2002

  This book is dedicated to Pamela Crockett and Destiny Wood.

  Thanks for always being there.

  This book is also dedicated to all the people in the world

  who believe in sexual freedom.

  Live life to the fullest

  while you still have a life to live.

  Contents

  Introduction by Zane

  Ladies First

  The Reunion by Ife Ayodele

  Grocery Gettin’ by Eileen M. Johnson

  White Heat by Marilyn Lee

  What If? by reese williams

  Discovery by Sha’ron

  The Fourth of July by Jai

  Copland by Ms. B. Haven

  1-800-HOT-TALK by Shonell Bacon

  Midnight Letter to Fran by Tenille Brown

  There’s Always Hope for the Ride Home by Geneva Barnes

  The Merry Widow by Rosalyn Davis

  Gentlemen Next

  The Hot Maid by blk_man4u

  At Peace by Tatu

  I’ll Be Invisible by V. Anthony Rivers

  The Shower by Reginald Harris

  What’s Real by Bootney Farnsworth

  Selena the Sexual Healer by Victor DeVanardo

  Rendezvous by rukiya akua

  My Friend, the Pornographer by Robert Edison Sandiford

  Josey’s Puddy Cat by Jonathan Luckett

  Bon Appétit by James E. Cherry

  First Time Blues: A Real-Life Tale of Lost Virginity by Fredric Sellers

  The Party by Robert Scott Adams

  Zane Last

  I Have Treats for You Tonight

  The Flood—Part One: Stranger Things Have Happened

  The Flood—Part Two: Not Me, No Way, Oh Maybe

  Introduction

  I first decided to edit this collection several years ago, when I established Eroticanoir.com. Since then, writing, publishing, and living life in general have delayed the process but I was determined to bring it to fruition. A lot of other erotica anthologies, particularly African American ones, have come onto the scene since I first started writing erotica underground in late 1997. I am glad to see that people are finally embracing their sexuality.

  With this book, I was not searching for big-name authors to participate because I don’t believe everyone can write erotica. It is a special niche. So I went to those people who I knew could write it. Most of the people in this book write only erotica. It is their passion. I will admit there are a ton of pseudonyms in this book, including my own. We do this for the love of the craft and not for the attention.

  Erotica has been defined in many different ways. Some believe it is borderline pornographic, and some of the stuff that comes out probably is just that. To me, erotica is mentally stimulating. It deals with more than just sex but also circumstances, passion, and feelings. It is true that some stories are just meant to make people horny. You can’t knock that hustle. However, I reached for something much deeper when I made the selections for this book.

  I wanted stories that took risks, that explored unique situations, that were creative beyond compare. I had hundreds of submissions and narrowed it down to the ones contained within these pages. Why? Because they all turned me on. It is as simple as that. I write erotic books for a living so I figure that if a story turns me on, and I am practically immune to them, then the story will more than likely turn other people on also. I also wanted to show that men and women can equally express themselves when it comes to erotic fiction. There are no limitations to the mind.

  I could sit here and go on and on about what this book is about and why I decided to edit it, but that would be criminal. You should be getting turned on. So get to it already. I hope you enjoy.

  Peace and Blessings,

  Zane

  Ladies First

  The Reunion

  Ife Ayodele

  It was nearly night in the city they both loved. He stood at the window of the luxurious hotel room she’d arranged for in celebration of his return, the curtains drawn back, open to the sight of the lighted Capitol dome.

  Over two years had passed since they last made love. I can’t believe that I’m home and that she waited for me, he thought. He was so lost in his thoughts of deep joy and anticipation that he was unaware the woman he had loved for so long stood silently behind him. Two years ago he would have bet any amount of money that this day would never come.

  In 1995, Carrie had no time in her life for a relationship. Work—designing her line of hand-painted scarves—and small business development classes occupied most of her time. There was little energy left, even for her love of reading. On many nights, a book would slide from her hand to the floor with a thud, startling her awake with just enough energy to turn off the light and pull the covers closer.

  “How you doing this morning?” Nasir smiled. He was a recent regular passenger at the Metrobus stop on Fourteenth and Missouri avenues in Northwest Washington, D.C.

  Smiling back, she returned his greeting. “Freezing, and waiting for June.”

  It was a cold, cloudy morning in late January and the streets were dotted with mounds of dirt-flecked slush, remnants of a huge snowfall that had
unexpectedly hit the city. D.C. had been virtually shut down for nearly a week and was finally getting back to a semblance of its normal workday routine. Carrie and Nasir traveled the same route daily: up Connecticut Avenue, around Chevy Chase Circle, and then on to Bethesda. They often exchanged small talk that was part of the camaraderie of the daily commute.

  “Man, I’ll be glad when I don’t have to work for anyone but myself. Nothing beats owning a business and doing it for yourself. I know it’ll be harder than clocking in and clocking out, but there’s nothing like it. At least, not for me.” Nasir spoke with great feeling and expressed the same thoughts that ran through her mind each day. In her opinion, too many of the attorneys in the firm where she worked as a legal assistant invoked the law of “divine right of kings” when it came to dealing with anyone whose office wall was not decorated with a framed law school diploma.

  “I know what you mean. One day I’m going to work and tell them all ‘Massah day done! Beulah done lef’ de buildin’.’ Nasir laughed out loud in surprise at her perfectly exaggerated mammy imitation. That was the beginning of their friendship, and they made sure to share a seat on the fifteen-minute ride to work each day. On some mornings, they took an earlier bus and shared breakfast at Bethesda’s Metro Center, enjoying its early morning quiet. The realization that there was a mutual attraction both pleased and frightened her.

  He was witty and curious, both articulate and streetwise. Handsome and intensely masculine, his features were an unusual combination of smooth dark skin and curly, wavy hair that was completely natural. Long lashes graced his brown eyes and the shadow of a beard enhanced his good looks. It amused her greatly to see the reaction his looks caused in both men and women.

  “Ooh, girl, he looks like Rick Fox, only darker,” stage-whispered one of two young women who slowed and stared on their way out through the glass doors leading to the subway near the Uno’s where they were having lunch.

  “He must be some kind of foreigner. Ain’t too many homegrown brothers looking like that!” exclaimed her friend.

  Laughing at his obvious embarrassment, Carrie spoke. “You must be used to it by now. I’ll bet it started when you were about eleven years old.”

  Ducking his head in embarrassment, he told her, “Yeah, but I get tired of it; especially that ‘good hair’ shit. A woman damn near rubbed her ass on me yesterday on the bus, talking ’bout ‘Where you from? Can you take me wit’ you?’ I ain’t got time for that bullshit. I’m on a mission.”

  “And what might that be?” she asked in amusement.

  “One part of my mission is to open my own business. I took classes in gemology from a school in Georgetown and I want to explore what I can do with that knowledge. The other is finding out when I can take you to dinner. And the third is to tell you some more information about myself that may or may not affect how you feel about me.”

  “Go on, I’m listening,” she replied. There was no anxiety in her tone. She’d been in a lot of places and originating from the country, had seen more than she ever expected to see. Thus, she felt no real apprehension concerning what Nasir was about to reveal.

  “You know where I work but what you don’t know is that I live on North Capitol Street in a halfway house. I was released from Lorton earlier this month where I did time, more for harming myself than anyone else. I’m a recovering crack addict and got my ass in trouble trying to feed that habit. I wasn’t violent, though, just very, very stupid.” He hesitated, waiting to see if she would offer him the standard “Be strong, brother, you can do it,” while making a very hasty retreat.

  “I don’t know anybody who doesn’t know somebody who went to jail for one reason or another. If they say it’s not true, they’re lying. I’ve even got some relatives who I think prefer to be guests of the state than free men at home. My godfather was convicted, rightly so, I might add, for armed robbery. He did it all but gave up that life after doing his time. So I don’t hold that against you. You know that old saying ‘There but for the grace of God…I know you know the rest.”

  He grinned and sighed with relief, returning the conversation to part two of his mission. “Now, when can I take you to dinner?”

  His words and the tone with which he spoke were both a question and an acknowledgment of their growing mutual attraction. She hadn’t missed his genuine smile of pleasure as he greeted her each morning and the way his eyes sometimes swept her from head to toe with a slow, simmering gaze.

  Carrie was also keenly aware of whose image came to mind during the times when “the sap would rise” as she referred to the desire that often flooded her body. At those times, she would stand at the mirror and stroke her nipples; first through the fabric of her blouse, watching them harden under the brush of her thumbs, completely immersed in the exquisite sensation. Next to her clitoris, they were the most sexually sensitive part of her body and even the thought of how good it felt would arouse her. Opening each button slowly in anticipation, she would then drop the garment and marvel at the soft sheen of her skin and the sexually charged sight of her full breasts with their erect nipples centered in their large brown areolae. Not bad for over forty, she often thought as she cupped each naked breast, her palms making circles around each nipple. “Ohhh,” she would breathe softly. “Oh, damn, that feels good!”

  The sweet sensation traveled like live wires down to her center, already wet with the excitement she’d created. Leaning against the sink, legs spread apart, she’d slide her forefinger slowly through the damp hair and then in and out of herself, enjoying the slick, wet sound. “Oh, yeah—I guess everything’s still working ’cause I’m wet like the rainy season.” She often laughed as she talked to herself. Imagining her finger to be the tongue of her lover, she would roll her hips against it, feeling the pleasure build and tighten. Looking down, she was even more aroused at the instinctive motion that existed from memory, and thrust faster and faster until sweet release broke over her like a tidal wave. “Mm, mm, mm! Every time I explore myself, I’m creating a pleasure map for the man who’s going to become my lover.” And lately the face that came to her mind’s eye at the height of that pleasure was that of Nasir.

  “Is there a special place you would like to eat?” he asked. The Friday lunchtime line was long for pizza at Uno’s on Wisconsin Avenue and they stood talking, making plans for the much-anticipated first date that was to take place later that evening. They were finally seated, and over seafood pizza, the planning continued.

  “I guess it depends on what time you have to be back on North Capitol,” she replied with concern, realizing that he probably had a curfew at the halfway house. “Do you think we should just find a place close by and go directly from work? You know we’re right near Bethesda’s Restaurant Row.”

  “I pulled a rabbit out of the hat and arranged to be back by ten, so that we wouldn’t end up at McDonald’s.” He laughed. “I also saved up a good piece of change just for tonight, so don’t hold back.”

  “Well, then, how about F. Scott’s? I had dinner there years ago and loved the place!” That it was elegant and romantic was something she wanted him to find out for himself.

  Too quickly, lunch was over, and as they passed through the still-crowded restaurant, she caught a glimpse of some of her female co-workers craning their necks. They had rarely seen her with a man, and never with one so handsome and attentive.

  Because it was Friday, time seemed to pass as slowly as molasses in January. At five on the dot, Carrie rushed out onto Georgetown Road to catch the subway back into the District. The Bethesda station was a couple of blocks from her office and was never crowded. She arrived home filled with sweet anticipation of the night ahead of them. Instinctively, she knew that they would make love and prepared herself accordingly.

  Filling the tub, she added bath oil scented with vanilla and sandalwood and sipped a glass of white zinfandel. The CD was loaded with the mood-enhancing music of Al Jarreau, Dakota Staton, and Etta James. In excited anticipation, she laid si
lky sheer stockings and undergarments on the bed. Carrie was tall, brown-skinned, and curvy. She had a head full of light-brown, shoulder-length locs, and full lips. Her “big pretty legs” were one of her best features and she intended for him to notice them immediately. A deep-rose knit dress hung outside her mirrored closet door. One day, when she wore a pink sweater, he told her that the color was beautiful against her skin. It reminded her of Janie in Zora Neale Hurston’s book Their Eyes Were Watching God. Janie tells a woman why she is wearing blue. “Tea Cake love me in blue, so Ah wears it.” Carrie was certain Nasir would be aware of why she chose pink for tonight.

  While enjoying her luxurious, fragrant bath, a tiny ache began to nag at her right temple. Blaming it on the wine she’d drunk too quickly, she eased her body farther into the warm, oil-silkened water, hoping for relief. When it did not come, she left the tub and took two Excedrin washed down with Coke, hoping for relief from the extra boost of caffeine. Intending to lie down for just a few minutes, she awoke to a knock on the door.

  “Oh, shit!” she exclaimed, looking at the clock. “It’s seven fuckin’ o’clock and I was supposed to be dressed and ready to step out of the door!” She grabbed her robe, ran her fingers through her locs, and ran to pull open the door.

  “Oh, my God, I’m sorry.” An apology rushed and stumbled from her lips. Nasir stood smiling at the fact that she was obviously flustered, then he stepped inside.

  “Don’t be—actually you look and smell beautiful.” The scents of vanilla and sandalwood still filled the apartment and the oil’s fragrance clung to her body, as did the satin robe she wore. Oh, shit again, she thought. I went and grabbed the wrong robe. If this doesn’t look like a come-on, I don’t know what the fuck else does.