They only gave me a few minutes to compose myself as they moved around. Still blindfolded, I felt one of them caress my lower back and separate my cheeks. I felt a head insert itself as whoever he was laid me on my side. One was behind me, loving me anally, while the other was in front of me, loving me vaginally. After a few tries, they were both inside me and had found a rhythm. One was in while the other pulled out. We were making beautiful music together.
Gavin moaned. Malcolm whispered obscenities. Suddenly, they both released me, but I assumed Malcolm had more to give. He placed me on top of him and I rode him until his hands bruised my thighs from their tight grip.
All three of us lay in complete ecstasy, panting and moaning. I was nearly asleep when I heard Gavin whisper, “Happy anniversary, baby.” I kissed him and fell asleep with my blindfold still on.
I woke to the stillness of our 1,000-square-foot luxury suite. I waved my hand over the spot where he should’ve been, but found nothing. As I removed the blindfold, I saw that the room was illuminated only by the moon inking through the drapes. Soft hums led me to the living area of the suite. Once my mind finally grasped the image before me, my heart sank.
Was my new lover’s forehead really bobbing up and down on my husband’s abs?
Surely, this was a dream—a nightmare. I want to believe I screamed, but all I heard was a whisper.
“Gavin.”
The men must have heard me because they disconnected. Gavin walked over to me with his aroused manhood bouncing in the air.
He asked, “Who told you to take off your blindfold?”
The Other Side of Midnight
Elissa Gabrielle
“Your walls are imploring me to have my way with them, I just know it. Because no one knows that pussy the way I do. And no one satisfies it the way that I can.”
~Tre’
HER . . .
The bane of my existence once again speaks an all-too-familiar tune to me. Actually, it shouts, sings, and tugs at my heartstrings. I constantly struggle with rhyme and sound reason, knowing that he must know that my love is so much deeper than hers could ever possibly be. I can’t believe the love of my life is married.
“Married,” I whisper, sadly, under my breath, ashamed, I whisper, “he’s married.”
Toasted vanilla votive candles give light to a seductively dim, chic upscale bistro in the heart of New York City on this March night. An unusually windy night for this time of year—where the weather almost kisses spring, but keeps one foot planted in the dead of winter—it is confused; just like me.
I’ve loved this man for what appears to be centuries. He says we’re married in eternity, throughout galaxies, and former lifetimes. I believe him. My heart and body won’t allow me to believe otherwise.
As clichéd as the term soul mate may be to some, I know with no uncertainty that Tre’ is mine. My soul mate. My man. My king in this lifetime, the next, the one prior—throughout eternity.
He’s married. But not to me.
And my love is so much sweeter than hers. Lucky bitch.
My eyes follow his chiseled jawline, around his sweetheart chocolate lips, and I take a voyage to his perfectly
trimmed goatee. Tre’s luscious lips part to reveal a majestic set of piano keys, pure white, pristine, like ivory straight from the Congo—the motherland. Yes, he was born of royal seed. Brought in my existence from Ghana, this man, amazingly splendid in physical beauty, adeptly regal in physical supremacy, commands all attention when he enters a room. His swagger is undeniable.
“What are you staring at?” he questions as he takes a sip of his Crown Royal.
“You,” I reply, as I take a sip of the chilled drink in front of me, in hopes of slowing down our time together. Stammering over my thoughts, trying to find something to say that won’t make me sound like either a complete fool or a slut. Whatever comes out of my mouth will only reveal the truth; I’m his forever, a faithful concubine.
“It’s almost midnight. Getting late,” he tells me as he takes a spoonful of his dessert; white chocolate bread pudding.
Leaning into the center of our quaint table, the votive candle illuminating my face, I whisper, “Then, we should get going.”
He grabs my hand. “I’m not ready.” His voice is seductive as he draws circles in the palm of my hand with his fingertip. Although he’s not ready, the words he really wants to utter are, “Please don’t leave me.”
Staring into his eyes, I reveal, “We eventually have to go home, Tre’.”
“I am home.” He smiles. His fingertip slowly runs up the side of my arm.