Deandra's Secret

Introduction: The past and present converge for an erotic daymare for a Black chick cursed with tasty wet pussy.

My name is Deandra. I have a big black pussy that likes to lick. And I have a fat brown and pink pussy that loves to get licked (and that loves some good dick). This situation is both a blessing and a curse because I have to keep it a secret or else get disowned by all my loved ones. They simply wouldn’t understand. It all began so innocently, the day my civil-servant boyfriend of six years walked out on me. That was three months ago, but I can remember it as if it was yesterday … Shep had been such a great lover and, knowing how much I love oral, never failed to please me. I loved giving and receiving, but apparently I went overboard in the months leading up to our breakup. (I knew I had been watching my favorite hardcore porn DVD, The Blacker the Berry, the Sweeter the Juice, too many times per week. Still, I couldn’t believe my ears when he complained that Sunday morning that he was tired of waking up to find my thick lips wrapped around his morning wood. I turned so embarrassed and totally lost my clitoral erection, which had been throbbing in my wet panties – and in my head – since the night before. Shep didn’t have a problem with me slobbing the knob in the beginning of the relationship, but now he was accusing me of being oversexed. My morning pleasuring was the proverbial straw that had broken the camel’s back, but the underlying reason for his anger or emasculation was a diary entry that he had read after transgressing his way into my nightstand. The entry wasn’t about him but about a friend from long ago, with whom I briefly had reconnected when Shep and I were more off than on. As Shep read from my journal, I stood perfectly still, my clit having retreated so far back beneath its sheath that it was buried beneath my navel. He cleared his throat, shot a glance at me, and began reciting the entry: Dear Diary, Here we are again. Another 7 a.m. wake-up call from within. Often I find my warm, slender hands wandering way down South ... the Deep South ... where the wet is. My favorite time to release my mind is at dawn, when the sun's rays are beginning to peek through the ivory blinds, transforming my torso into a zebra-print avant-garde masterpiece. I love glancing down at my chunky tits, the nipples jutting out like they're begging to be milked in a meadow filled with brawny and scrawny men newly escaped from their imprisoned minds. Sprawled supine on steamy satin sheets, I love pinching the throbbing nipples on my brown and beige tits striped by Father Sun. That my bosom is bare, exposed and vulnerable sends a tingle right down to my sloped belly. There, my sunken navel -- a shriveled lost connection to my cherished placenta -- remembers each ticklish sensation from every thick, slender, broad finger and acrobatic tongue. My mind focuses now on just one face. It zooms in on him, the only one with a mind and body that transcends me far past my bed, to a safe, hallowed ground in the tropics. My eyes, near-orange from the rising sun that's invading my private space, glaze over as they glance up at my real-imagined lover. I have an urge to cry and pee because of his fingers' urgency. I feel my tearducts turning dry with the fear that is mixed with anticipation as my wide eyes follow the movement of his head lowering to my swollen breasts. I try not to blink or else miss the magic of each aroused nipple disappearing between his supple lips, and the slow descent of his body until the five o'clock shadow of his head is caressing my quivering tummy. My eyes dance the samba in counterpoint to his lips kissing the tenderest areas of my thighs while he strokes my tensing hamstrings. And when his rhythmic tongue flicks my button, my eyes roll up faster than a winning row on a loose slot machine. I'm unaware that he has glanced up to see the whites of my eyes, his victory, but I can hear my clit's bell-like clanging in my ears! In a flash he's gone and I'm facing the sun alone again. My body is in torment, longing for release. I wish it would rain in this tropical place. I want this fire put out! Every morning, this fever is so tantalizing but perilous. How I wish I didn't hunger like a fiend for orgasm -- my sordid outdoor table-for-one with mammoth, prehistoric leaves standing in for olive-green, satin Egyptian sheets. Such peril so close to the equator excites me, and I feel my pussy twitch with new life. One anxious finger traces my pouty bottom lip, dabs inside for saliva and slides down my chin and neck to my cleavage. That anxious, wet finger circles one pinkish-brown bottlecap nipple and areola -- pressing, pinching, stimulating. With my other trembling hand, I stroke my fleshy vulva, so cute with its landing strip. I'd shave off all my pubic hair, but the one who captivates me in and out of my dreams prefers a minimal reminder of my curly bush -- a textural link to inextinguishable Africanness. The more that my left hand strokes nearer to my clit, the more my other hand squeezes my D-cup tits. Plump, caramel-brown tits soon jiggle, my uterus lifts and deep inside I scream, "Fuck me! Yeah, daddy, fuck me!" as if my man's still hovering over me. I explode into my striped, silent world, feeling as soaking-wet as the moment when I was born. But the sun remains. "Don't touch," I whisper, my breathing shallow. "Just look ... salivate ... desire me." Its private eyes lurk behind every morning, awaiting, wanting my wet place. My celestial voyeur catches every quiver as I'm taxiing the runway toward climax. My sea-fresh aroma fills the room directly from the erotic commotion of blurry digits in pussy foam. My cries as if I'm lost at sea are climbing, climbing, climbing, until I die a little death of ecstasy. Le petit mort, indeed. I sink beneath the waves and the scene goes black. Every morning I feel a stirring in nerve, flesh and bone. Every morning, the sun peeks in at me, and I spread my legs, ready for another hot shot ... where the wet is. – Lonely and (still) horny on the morning of Saturday, August 9, 2008 “A nympho?!” I repeated after Shep as he struggled to pull on a pair of cargo pants over tented cotton boxers in baby blue. Then I thought to myself (else risk getting slapped a bigger pair of lips): The brother doesn’t even know how to spell nympho. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ ‘bout you, Deandra. You one nasty bitch!” he retorted before I could insult him introspectively. “Shep, you watch your damn mouth!” I returned. “You didn’t have any problem with me sinking to my knees on the side of a dirt road when we were dating less than a week, so what’s up? Or how about – “ “I was plannin’ to jump dat broom witchu, Dee,” he said, almost wimpering, “but now I see you got yo sights set gutter-low, like some two-bit ho.” “When had my legs spread like Olympic gymnast Nadia Comaneci, who was the ho then, tell me?” I shouted, trying not to laugh at his unintentional rhyming. I always knew my man had a rap sheet, but not the lyrical kind. I made no apologies for liking my men roughneck in those times, but Shep had turned uppity on me. “Nodding into a coma – what?” he asked. “Oh, you dumbass. Fuck you, Shep!” I said. “That’s one thang you won’t be doin’ to me no mo. Now that’s what’s UP!” he screamed, slamming the steel door behind him. After my tears soaked the bed sheets, I went into the kitchen and looked around. I thanked God that it had been my apartment, or else I would have been headed for the gutter that morning. Sucking on a tart nectarine moments later, I felt the misery seep into my skin and dampen my bones. After all, I was living in the projects, and my dating prospects immediately would take a nosedive once the men discovered that. I couldn’t blame them. Who wanted to take the risk of getting mugged or murdered on the elevator, just to get some thirtysomething coochie. That reality slammed into my mind like the concrete of the prisonlike housing complex. I wiped away the nectarine juice from my dimpled chin and licked the rest off lips that were puffy like Kerry Washington. Just then, I heard a meow out in the hallway. I dashed into my corridor, just off the kitchen, fueled to the max from my glucose rush. Pressing one eye to the peephole, I watched a small cat with white-splotched black fur stretch its back against the wall opposite my apartment door. I was accustomed to hearing cats around the complex, if not in the hallway, then out in that poor excuse for a courtyard. When the pussies caught my attention from outside my window, that was only for one reason: mating season. All the yelping by the rutting female would drive me insane! I was feeling lonely, though. This could be the only reason that I opened my door to let in the stray but domesticated kitty. As my eyes followed the cat’s path into the brightly lit kitchen, my eyes couldn’t help but spot his grayish, furry balls. “I guess you’re a boy, hunh?” I asked, hoping the rascal wouldn’t answer me back. I named him Buddy because I couldn’t come up with anything else that seemed to fit. Buddy would be like the son I never had, or so I thought. Training Buddy the cat, who looked to be a young adult, was no piece of cake. He sprayed every piece of furniture in my one-bedroom apartment. I realized right then that my Buddy wasn’t a boy but a man. At least I don’t have to walk the sonofabitch, I reasoned. His territorial tactics landed him an appointment at the veterinarian’s office a long bus ride away from the projects. I had heard it said that neutering male cats and spaying the females as “the humane thing to do.” While I was happy I had done the right thing by the ASPCA and the Humane Society of the U.S. I was none too thrilled about Buddy’s post-surgical behavior: the constant licking of his penis. It was funny how Buddy’s habit annoyed me so much. It was illogical really. I hadn’t had a problem with Shep licking my pussy, when he wanted to in the early days. How could I have been so stupid? He said he only wanted to be friends with benefits, and when I corrected him by saying, “Don’t you mean ‘fuck buddies’?” he would get unraveled. After several months, I tolerated Buddy’s incessant, almost neurotic, lapping. I would try to distract myself by increasing the volume on the television, talking loudly on the telephone or, if he had a sudden need to clean himself vigorously at night. There really was no difference in the sounds of Buddy’s tongue and Shep’s. One was a real cat; the other was a slick cat. One night, I was particularly missing Shep’s massages. That was the one erotic behavior of which he didn’t deprive me towards our breakup. He used to create magic with his fingertips on my earlobes and gently massage inside each ear with only his index finger, except for the special times that he used his meaty tongue. A long peppermint and rosemary bath, always left my clit highly stimulated. I shuffled in my slippers into my bedroom past Buddy, who seemed to be filled with anxiety. If he was human, I would have to say he was pacing. Pulling aside the curtains and peeping through the blinds, I saw the source of my cat’s nervousness. Some of his friends were in the courtyard three stories below, getting some primal action. The lone female’s yelps were bouncing off the fire escapes. By this point, my entire body was pulsating with erotic yearning, but my mind seemed poised to dive into raunchy territory. It took all the strength I had not to pull out my double-A lithium batteries and rev up my royal-blue Butterfly. How I loved that sex toy, but it really wasn’t a toy at all. It was a sex aid that Shep had ordered on-line back when he cared about me. I had been left frigid due to an emotion-starved boyfriend who locked himself in the bathroom with Penthouse Forum and followed that class act with using my body to masturbate. Shep seemed to make up for what I had been missing in the preceding relationship. In addition to showing me love, he taught me how to have mature sex. He was the one that put the “f” in “foreplay” for me. For the first of several sexy birthdays, he took me to a swanky hotel two states away – so that we wouldn’t run into our respective relatives, friends and- co-workers. We began with a Champagne toast and chocolate-dipped strawberries each with the girth of his dickhead and ended with a full American breakfast in bed … and between my tits, his thighs and my thighs. It would take decades for me to eat a plate of bacon and eggs, hash browns and toast without feeling the first pangs of orgasm. If Buddy had not brushed his body past my glistening gams, I would have been caught in the time warp between Shep’s heartfelt caring and my newfound regret. I peered down at my cat to show him that I had the ability, like him, to be fully absorbed in the present. I also wanted to ease his anxiety, so I hunkered down and poked out my lips to do my best Eartha Kitt imitation, almost purring out my assurance with “There, there, Buddy.” He characteristically licked my face, from my jawline to one corner of my mouth, then across my lips. I mockingly chided my cat, and when he stepped forward and raised his wide forehead up toward the bottom of my plush mauve towel, I wondered if I was exuding a musky sexual smell. He nosed aside a flap of towel and deeply purred, staring straight up into my eyes with his green ones. I shucked off my towel and sat on the duvet. It was September, so I rarely needed covers in early autumn anyway. Usually, Buddy remained in his comfy bed which I thoughtfully had positioned in a corner near a rear window, but not this night. Other than being slightly startled upon realizing Buddy had leaped onto my platform bed, I didn’t mind him wanting to be near me. Although I was his caretaker literally, he was mine as far as emotional preservation was concerned. In fact, he was the man of the house, and I could imagine that future suitors would have to meet with Buddy’s approval. As long as he wasn’t interfering with the bedroom’s feng shui – now that I was trying to get spiritual in a centuries-old kind of manner – I couldn’t care less about his bed’s location in the room. “Awww, Buddy’s such a sweet man,” I purred back at my darling beastie. He squinted his approval, then lay a heavy forearm in my lap. When I reached behind me for a pillow, Buddy took that opportunity to nudge the bottom of my towel upward. It happened so quickly that I hadn’t realized what was really occurring until I felt the tomcat’s hot tongue scrape the top of a thigh. I was poised for sprinkling by the Sandman when I heard Buddy’s purring growing louder. I let my kitty nestle against my tummy while I got as comfortable as possible in the fetal position. I shut off the lamp on my nearest nightstand, figuring that Buddy, like I, had had enough for one night. Out of the past I had a disturbing dream: I was still living at my childhood home in Staten Island, but somehow I was my current age, and my toy dog was still alive. My parents were absent, for some reason, so I boldly walked into their bedroom with the dog trailing me. I began opening drawers and closets, then sifting through magazines and books. One paperback novel that stood out to me featured on its cover a slender a woman in a French maid’s uniform . (With what I know now about erotica and porn, the woman closely resembled Sylvia Kristel of the Emmanuelle film series, though, of course, Kristel was Dutch.) With the tiny dog still at my heels, I brought the novel into my pastel-colored bedroom and shut the door. Sunlight was pouring into my room and shedding light on possible reasons that adults attended parties, other than socializing innocently. In my parents’ novel, the main thrust of the party was sex. In my dream, I had a child’s inquisitiveness but I definitely had plump breasts, flared hips and a lot of junk in my trunk. So away went any guilt complex, and I sped-read to a scene in which the French housekeeper was being spread-eagled and tickled with one of her own dusting feathers by the master of the house and his equally lecherous friends and colleagues. It was hard to discern if the maid was experiencing pleasure or pain, judging by the grimacing and jerky movements that the author described too gleefully. They say curiosity kills the cat, but I had a dog. As she was on the bed with me as I lay reading the naughty novel, I made her sit on the carpet. There was a thrill to not knowing when my parents would return home, and nothing would stop them from opening the door to my bedroom, but I stripped down to my undies anyway. As my small dog looked on, I slid under the bedspread backward and lay on my back, holding the book above the covers. I was perplexed because I didn’t know what would happen. As if my left hand possessed a mind of its own, it slipped beneath the bedspread and wandered into my flimsy nylon panties. My right hand held the dirty book steadily while I read how the French maid’s employer was exploring her nether parts. I traced the curves of my vulva with finger in exactly the same way the housekeeper’s boss’s was caressing her vulva. The more I circled and glided, the slicker my finger became, and my eyesight grew sharper with every digital revolution. As the maid moaned, I did; when she gasped, so did I. This was a lucid dream partially based on reality. In real life, I was in the thick of puberty and getting touched in places my parents had told me boys shouldn’t dare. To encourage a sense of responsibility in me, they gifted me with a puppy. One summer day, I had the house to myself, and after rummaging around in my parents’ bedroom, I came across a sex novel that, looking back, was like a hardcore porn version of the main soiree in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It was confusing that the party guests and homeowner were, after some drinking, prancing about in their birthday suits. When they stripped the maid, who had been going about her job, I was repulsed and as close to turned on as I could remember at that age. Unlike in my lucid dream, in real life I was afraid to remove any significant amount of clothes because I wanted to be prepared to return the paperback erotica to its proper – or improper – place. So I left on my blouse, kicked off my sneakers, unbuckled my belt and unzipped my jeans. Through my fly, if girls are allowed to have one of those, I reached down into my clean, white, cotton panties to diddle my little clit stroke for stroke with the grown men who were pleasuring the moaning maid. I was aware of one thing; the maid was helpless but I was in control of my body. I was having good feelings. My good feelings were similar to the pleasurable way my lower tummy felt when my older brother tickled me past my threshold. The good feelings made my tummy buckle as I would shout at him, “Stop it! STOP it!” That would make him tickle me harder, especially in the ribs, my most sensitive area. He didn’t know that he was causing me to experience the fringes of sexual pleasure, no different than the exciting feelings I got from dry-humping my largest stuffed animal. In fact, my brother thought it was funny whenever his tickling resulted in pee soaking through my pants. To this day I believe that if I hadn’t taught myself how to masturbate with the aid of that erotic paperback aid – and a few others I was able to sneak away in later months – I might have developed climaxing issues. As I fastened my mind to the debauched story line and wiggled my slender finger above my swelling clit to twist it in my soft, curly black pubes, I sensed stronger waves coming on. This intense sensation was similar to the pleasurable throbbing that I got just before urinating. I decided to rest, and I set the book down on the bed. At this point, my neglected dog hopped up on the bed and watched me with her head cocked. I didn’t think that it was evil or just plain wrong for the dog to witness my self-discovery, so I ignored her and focused on the novel. Taking a deep breath, I moved my hand down to my white, cotton panties and noticed that there was a small bulge in the soaked crotch. Panties that had been crisp and clean only forty-five minutes earlier were clinging to my butt with perspiration and teen cum. I didn’t want to hurt myself, so I gently caressed the outline of the bulge through the damp cotton until I realized the crotch becoming squishy. I followed my natural, sexual cues and dug into my panties, slowly joining my ringer finger and middle finger to my index finger. With the other hand, I put down the book briefly so that I could pull my blue jeans down a bit, so that they wouldn’t get wet and slimy. Before long, my fingers were busy making my panties messier by the minute. I was smiling as I rubbed, circled around and tugged on the sensitive swelling of flesh until my digits were wet enough to make smacking sounds against the exposed pinkness of my labia. It made sense to roll my panties down so that I could freely masturbate. What already felt good now felt exhilarating because my hand could move up and down, side to side, around and around. I was moaning slightly, like the servant at the party in the book, gyrating my hips and booty. Because I was a virgin, I didn’t dare try to insert any fingers in my pussy, but I was curious enough to get a whiff of my new womanliness from my fingers. Before I could go back to stroking my clit and the outside of my pussy, my dog began licking my wet fingers as if they were slathered with Gravy Train. I told the dog, “No, no” and returned to masturbating, this time in a frenzy. To my surprise, the pooch’s soft, warm tongue began competing with my diddling fingers and I seized, arching my back and shrieking what I had just read the maid shout: “I’m coming! I’m coming!” My dog continued licking my vulva up and down while my back and butt were buckling. I kept gasping and got scared because I thought I was going to die. My body was racked with another orgasm that made cream drip down my thighs to my knees, as well as from my pussy to my buttcrack and onto the bed. I couldn’t get the dog to stop lapping the juice and cream from my vulva and out of my pubes. Deep into my erotic dream, I was caught up in a paroxysm of pleasure. After my dream self began to recover, I sensed a familiar warmth and wetness far away. I gradually floated to the surface of my dream and found Buddy licking a lukewarm wetness in my left ear. It uncannily reminded me of Shep’s talented tongue, but it was smaller. I was tongue-tied in my own mind as to why I didn’t pull myself away, turn on the lamp light – anything! No, I just lay still as if I was pretending that I wasn’t me, and Buddy wasn’t pleasuring my ear. My soft moans betrayed me, and I no longer could play innocent caretaker. And when I felt a creamy wetness ooze from my pussy onto the cotton bed sheet beneath my freshly washed brown ass, I was going nowhere. Buddy, on the other hand –or paw, as it were – was taking me places. His nimble pink tongue dipped into crannies I didn’t know existed in my ear canal. He nearly put me in a trance with all the baritone purring in my ear, and I was nearly oblivious to his pinning me down with a white-socked black paw. I could’ve sworn I heard myself huskily whisper, “Fuck me, Buddy.” I tossed that thought out of my mind as I felt my thick legs splay on the dampening sheets and my big butt bucking to the male cat’s rhythmic licking. I was so stimulated, moaning, whispering, moaning, gasping, and downright purring like I was Buddy’s bitch when he switched up the strokes in my ear to sharp dips. When Shep would flick the outside of my ear, as my cat was doing to my right ear, I would feel fluttering across my clit and around my ankles. Well, I had no proof that Shep’s spirit was inside of Buddy, but after the cat walked down the length of my naked body, he turned around and stopped in the “V” of my thighs, lowered his wide face for a whiff of my slick cunt and then got to flicking the bean of my clit. I heard myself groaning and catching enough breath to shout, “Good lord, Buddy. That’s – oh, God! Your tongue feels so – oh, oh, God!!!” It was like the Gospel Night-Hour , and my horny (or hungry) tom kept on licking my creamy, flushed red-pink girlmeat like it was freshly caught conch. “Awww, awww, AWWWW, Buddyyyyy!” I cried, spasming out a orgasm that had my sloppy-wet jerking up into the feline’s face, which got me sandpaper tongue deep in my quivering pussy. I was so used to Shep, in the old days, exclaiming how my cunt juice would be splashing out as he fucked me, but Buddy was so quick and thorough in giving head that he was swallowing my cum triple-time. Still, I had much more juice and cream to feed my kitty. Holding up my left leg and cocking it a bit, I gave Buddy an easier angle to see and lick his caretaker’s pussy. I had always been flexible, thanks to yoga and dance classes since adolescence, and so I was able to watch my tomcat really get into his trademark rhythm. My head moved forward mirroring his and I goaded Buddy with, “Lick it good, boy. Yeah, just like that. Un-hunh, lap up every bit of cream. Oooooh … Ooooohhh … ooo-ooo-oooooh, boy! Oh-my-God, Buddy boy … Awww, shit. Awwwwww.” While I was carrying on from getting so excited , the fur on his paw was pinning one thigh down to the bed. I suddenly felt hyperstimulated by my cat’s hot, purring, black furry body streaked with my white gobs of cum among his white furry splotches. I accidentally twisted too much to one side because Buddy’s tongue slipped into my asshole again and tasted the cum that slid into it from the deep crevice of my brown cheeks. I was just conscious enough to sense that Buddy was eating my cum, and I could hear him lap up the juicy run-off. He turned his attention back to my musky pussy, which put a wide, twisted grin on my face to match a glazed-over pair of eyes. My pussy lube was flowing, Buddy was purring hard and his tongue was making loud lapping sounds going back and forth from my hard rubbery clit to my cunthole. I couldn’t be quiet. “Oh … Oh … Shit, oh, Buddy! Ooooh … oooooohhhh. OOOHHHH!!!” I was shrieking When I tried to rub my clitty, my kitty slapped away my hand with his big paw. With that, he leaped up on my tummy and softly licked my nubbin while I had the bizarre image of his gaping butthole before. He was very aroused, as well as he could be for a neutered cat, and so his tail was bent upward and his fur stood up all over. I was frightened to move or else he might scratch me back into submission. But I didn’t want to stare into his bunghole anymore. As if he could read my mind, he spun around, looked me deep into the eyes and crept slowly up to my chest. Then he backed up just enough to position himself to suck my nipples, which thanks to my diddling were as hard as diamonds. I let out soft moans – music to accompany his pleasuring. When I heard Buddy gulp as he swallowed a gob of cum, I lost it. “Oh, yeah! Unnn-hunnnh … unnn-hunnnh … Oh, oh, OHHH, YEEEEAAAH!!! … Ungh-ungh-ungh-UNGH! … … Ungh-ungh-ungh-UNGH!” My shiny wet ass shook and caved in, and my brain froze as bolts of hot pleasure ping-ponged up and down my body. I probably resembled that possessed Linda Blair character in The Exorcist just prior to levitating, but I wasn’t cursed. I felt as exuberant as Debra Winger riding the mechanical bull in Urban Cowboy. Spent and hoarse, I lay splayed like a turkey wishbone just before it pops. I sensed my normal breath returning and couldn’t wait to fall asleep to Buddy’s contented purring. My body tinged as I kept on stroking the fur on Buddy’s back while he made sure to lick my pussy clean. When he was done, he licked his claws as I had seen him do after finishing a bowl of chunky pink tuna.