Curvy Girls Read online

  Still, I walked right into that one. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not?”

  He’s serious.

  “Come on,” he says, and before I can say anything, he grabs my hand and leads me into the living area. His equipment is by the front door.

  “This is crazy. What, curvy black women are in short supply in your line of work?”

  Already on the floor assembling his camera, he stops what he’s doing long enough to give me a look of pure shock. “You’re black?”

  It takes me all of two seconds to realize he is completely fucking with me. Now I can’t stop laughing.

  “Much better.” The megawatt smile is back. Camera ready, he gets to his feet and begins walking around me in circles. The prankster falls away, making room for the professional photographer instead.

  With the camera aimed in my direction, my nerves hit. “What do you want me to do?” Immediately, I realize it’s a loaded question.

  He lowers the camera. “Lean on the arm of the couch for right now.” He’s staring at me with purely artist’s eyes. Nothing but business. I appreciate the fact that he’s capable of respect—except respect isn’t exactly what I have in mind.

  I sit on the arm of the couch and begin taking his directions: “Sit straight . . . face relaxed . . . right hand up . . . tilt your head.” He moves right and left, like a pugilist in the ring.

  Arousal begins to take hold of me. I like him ordering me around. The camera flashes blind me, making me feel momentarily helpless. My pussy is getting wet. My nerves begin to settle down. I lift my tits and chin up farther. The smile on my face becomes genuine, reaching my eyes.

  He makes a thumbs-up sign. I let him take a few more pictures before I make my move. I grab the bottom of my shirt and lift it over my head. Unlike the lower half of my body, my tits are demure—though still showstoppers when encased in black lace.

  It stops Jonathan in his tracks. He pulls his face away from the camera just long enough to look at me before snapping more pictures. Another pause. He looks me in the eye and asks, “Can you lift your left arm up and bring your hand behind your head?”

  My arm goes up, and I smile.

  The flash keeps going off. My nipples harden in response to the attention. I decide to up the stakes. I stand and undo my jeans. Despite my impatience, I pull them down slowly, like I’m unwrapping a gift for him.

  Again, he stops and stares. He licks his lips. I step out of the jeans, never taking my eyes off him. I’m on display. I own this. I demonstrate my dimensions by taking my hands and running them down the sides of my body. The wide curve of my hips. Wearing nothing but a black-lace bra and panties.

  To my satisfaction, he gives a little sigh. I can see his jeans bulging outward. Good.

  “Turn to the side.”

  It’s not a request. My ass, the subject of many comments and conversations, is now in full relief. I make the decision to stand there in pride. I crane my neck to look at it myself.

  “Stay there! Just like that. Please.” His hand is up, palm out and fingers splayed.

  I look down and smile. A blush spreads across my face. I put my hand across my heart to steady the beating before I arch my head and get back into position.

  The flashes come faster than ever. My panties are soaked, and I want nothing more than for Jonathan to fuck me. I want to feel his cock. Feel him fuck my mouth. I want to sit on his face. I want to know what he can do with that clever tongue of his. A shudder runs through me, and my breathing starts to become uneven.

  The flashes stop.

  “Why don’t you touch yourself?” he asks, eyes roaming my body.

  I hesitate for a moment. It’s dangerous to have pictures of yourself in such a compromising position. But I want to be dangerous with him. I want him to take me to the edge.

  I sit on the arm of the couch so I can face him. My hand starts playing with the edge of black lace. Fingers work their way down. My middle finger finds my clit. Short, light strokes just to start. My shoulders round forward, and my breathing becomes more sporadic.

  A click causes my unfocused eyes to look up. Jonathan is still behind the camera, intent on documenting me fucking myself. The thought sends a pulse through my pussy, and suddenly, I need more. Another finger begins to explore the wet slit. I’m almost panting now.

  The camera no longer has my attention. I only have eyes for the hard-on in his jeans. On the other side of that zipper is something I’ve only been able to fantasize about until now. I lick my lips. “Take it out,” I tell him.

  After a few more clicks, he lowers the camera until it’s almost hanging from the strap around his neck. His face still has that serious look, though one eyebrow is slightly raised. “You want to see my cock?”

  Hearing him say that causes a shudder to run through me. I gather enough focus to make coherent sentences, though I refuse to stop fingering myself. “I want to see you work yourself over. Jerk it.” I let myself smile wickedly.

  The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. Letting the weight of the camera rest against the top of his stomach, he brings a hand to the zipper. He lowers it. Slowly.

  Bastard.

  Now I have a finger deep inside of me, caressing the walls of my pussy. The heel of my hand is applying pressure to my clit. I want to come so bad, but I want to see more of him first.

  Finally, he reaches inside his pants and pulls his cock out. I’m staring at the light purple head, and it’s all I can do to keep myself from closing the last few feet between the two of us and putting my lips around it. My fingers continue working instead, though I can’t keep myself from giving a small moan.

  He smiles at that and starts sliding his hand along the shaft. Putting on a show for me. I slide a second finger into my hole and continue massaging my insides. I’m entranced by his beautiful hand running up and down his dick. He’s putting a bit more force into it; I can see the muscles in his arm working. He’s still holding back a bit, probably intent on driving me to the edge of insanity.

  My self-control isn’t up for it. Fuck this. Turnabout is fair play. And with that, I let the last of my modesty fall away. I lift my right leg up so my foot is resting near my ass and my knee is level with my chest, giving him an unobstructed view of my glistening fingers deep inside.

  It works.

  Two big steps is all it takes for him to close the distance and grab me. Those long fingers wrap around my upper arms, pulling my face toward his. His lips press into mine, the taste of orange juice filling my mouth.

  I have to put my leg down to keep myself from falling. My wet hand is holding onto his arm for support. He pulls me to my feet, pushes me in front of the couch, and turns me around.

  Arm around my waist, he plants his lips on my neck. He smells like soap, with a bit of sage. My eyes close, and my back arches, pressing my ass right into his crotch. His dick feels hot against the side of my ass cheek. I let my hand wander behind me so I can feel him. Suddenly, a hard shove forward. Now off balance, I have no choice but to put my hands along the headrest. My back arches, raising my ass farther in the air. My vision is limited to the seat of the couch. I have no idea what he’s doing.

  He takes the opportunity to run a hand along the side of my body. A hand reaches under my bra and begins to knead my breast. Fingers pinch my nipple. My body is on fire. I push the lower half of my body in his direction. Please fuck me. Please.

  The hand moves away from my tits. I start to twist my head around to make sure everything is all right, and then I feel the tips of those incredible fingers lightly stroke my hips. They trail to the back of my thighs, tickling me, before sliding up my backside. He proceeds to grab either cheek. Not difficult. There’s more than a handful there.

  “This is just . . . lovely.” A light smack emphasizes his point. I arch my back farther. I’m beginning to lose my mind. I’m about to tell him as much, but then my panties are slid down to my knees. My pussy is nearly dripping now, and I can feel the heat of hi
s cock near my thigh. A moan escapes my lips. It turns into a cry when I feel the head of his dick play at the wet heat of my entrance. I push back in an attempt to envelop him, to swallow that rigid flesh and fill the aching void inside of me. He backs away.

  God damn you.

  I hear him chuckle softly. I am on the verge of being pissed. I reach back blindly, attempting to grab him. One of his hands rests firmly on the center of my back. The other grabs my wandering fingers. He holds my hand gently.

  “You don’t handle teasing well, do you?” he asks in that humorous purr of his—the one I found so endearing all of twenty minutes ago.

  I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but then his hand falls away, and the head of his cock begins to massage my seeping hole once again. Nothing leaves my mouth except for a loud hiss.

  “Yeah, I like that, too,” he says. He’s smiling right now; I just know it.

  “Please,” I whisper. My knees are starting to shake.

  “What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

  I’m finally willing to ask for it. “Please fuck me.”

  His hand softly trails the line of my back before coming away and smacking my considerable ass, hard this time.

  “You know, you’re really beautiful, Maya.”

  Before I can say anything, his cock sinks in. He puts it in to the hilt on the first thrust, forcing a yell out of me. I feel him start to slide out and then come back in again. Out again, to the head, only to come back in. The pleasure is so deep, I can’t keep myself from bucking against him.

  The hand keeping my upper body in place moves; both hands are now on my hips. He’s controlling me, invading my cunt with well-timed strokes. I push back, attempting to match each of his thrusts. He gives a loud, shaky exhale before increasing his speed. I can’t keep up with the little bit of leverage I have. Instead, I close my eyes and give in to the sensation of being thoroughly fucked.

  His hips pound against me at full force. Each time his body slams into mine, my flesh reverberates. I rock my hips and ass, altering the placement and depth of his cock. I hear him groan loudly, almost loud enough to drown out my unladylike grunts. His balls slap against me, and it feels absolutely delicious.

  Adjusting my balance, I rest my upper body against the seat so I don’t have to hold myself up. My ass is completely in the air, getting ridden hard. I bring a hand to my swollen clit. I rub furiously. My nerve endings fire and pop. I can’t think, I’m so close now.

  His grunts are matching each thrust. We’re both close. Suddenly, I feel a finger probing my asshole. Massaging. It’s a completely new sensation. Between my clit, the thick pressure in the walls of my pussy, and feeling yet another hole being filled, I start to come—fucking hard. My body spasms, and I buck. I want him to fuck all the way through me. I don’t exist anymore. I’m only an ass and a pussy, radiating pleasure and heat.

  His last few thrusts are so hard, it almost hurts, making it even more wonderful. Somewhere in the middle of my frenzy, he came as well. Our bodies are still while regular breathing is reestablished. I feel him exit, leaving my body. I mourn the loss of him.

  There’s a quiet thump. I raise myself and turn a bit. My back protests, and I know I’m going to be sore in the morning. Inside and out. I look down to find Jonathan laying on the floor, still panting from his exertion. One hand is resting dramatically over his forehead.

  “You dead?” I ask, as I begin to crawl down to join him.

  “Very much so.” His breathing is getting softer.

  I rest my body against the line of his, feeling his heartbeat regulate. The smell of sex seems to be everywhere. All body fluids and desire. I place my hand on his chest, brown skin on white. My eyelids begin to feel heavy, and then I come to a sudden realization. I sit up.

  “Jon?”

  “Mmh?” he asks, raising his head slightly.

  “Those pictures of me—particularly the ones of me, you know—those aren’t going to see the light of day, right?” My voice is nonchalant.

  He snorts and lays his head back down, a Cheshire Cat smile plain on his face.

  “Right?” I hear the register of my voice go up.

  “Darlin’, I ran out of film long before then. No worries.” He chuckles before placing both hands behind his head, looking too confident by half.

  “Bastard.” I lay my head on his chest. I don’t want him to see my smile.

  “You just needed an excuse, and I just so happened to have one.”

  I lightly slap his arm. He slaps my ass in return.

  “Yep, an excuse. A reason to fuck me silly. The camera was just convenient.” Even though I can’t see his face, I know he’s still wearing that damn smile. I give an exasperated sigh.

  “Well, don’t worry,” I tell him. “I won’t need one in the future.”

  Recognition

  BY SALOME WILDE AND TALON RIHAI

  Molly Bauer—call her Moll—shifted with a groan in the cramped seat beside Gate A76 at the Detroit Metro Airport. The seats weren’t exactly skimpy, but what was the point of the armrests? If people were sitting next to her (and no one was right now, because it was nearly ten o’clock at night, and all but two of the flights had taken off), they wouldn’t use the armrest, and she wouldn’t use the armrest, and so the armrests would just act as separators that made sure everyone knew they had personal space. But unless you were scrawny, there was no personal space.

  And Moll wasn’t scrawny. She was ample. An ample woman who liked being ample. She liked the way her ass filled a chair (when it wasn’t an uncomfortable airport seat), and she liked the way it filled a pair of jeans. She liked her big lap, and the way it was perfectly filled by her small, but not scrawny, lover, Michelle (call her Shell—except don’t, because it was over, for good this time).

  Moll’s hands were big and strong as she dug through her backpack for the apple she knew was there, somewhere in its messy depths. At last she found the juicy red prize, rescued it from between the little stuffed cheetah she never traveled without and the wrinkled copy of Popular Science she’d bought for the fossil cover story but would likely never read. She held the apple up in the fluorescent light. It shone encouragingly. She began to toss it, gently. There was something reassuring about tossing an apple and catching it. And, as she waited for the plane that would take her back to Atlanta and the apartment where Shell would most assuredly not be waiting, reassurance was a good thing. That she tossed it only three times before it dropped to roll across the aisle and between the feet of a fellow traveler, however, was not reassuring.

  While pulling her carry-on behind her with one hand, and smoothing her unruly hair with the other, Rhiamon Adabelle Davis (no, not Rhiannon; yes, she’s sure) mentally replayed the highlights of the judo tournament that afternoon. She’d taken a hard-won second place, and she had enjoyed preparing for the event, wearing her lucky gi and the belt that was given to her by a fairly famous judge, back when she was just beginning. She could still remember how proud she’d felt when she’d been gifted the special belt after she’d worked so hard to earn her rank.

  Rhiamon liked to work hard. And she liked being big, capable. She liked the way her body did what she told it to do—whether it was on the tatami or in the bedroom—and she smiled to herself as she wondered if Amy missed her.

  Though she liked her body, her hair was another matter. She wished she had the guts to just shave it all off. The kinky mess was disobedient, even in the tight braids she often forced it into. That day, she’d braided her hair for the tournament, but now that it was over, she’d taken the braids out, letting her scalp relax. To keep her hair from her face, she wore a brightly colored headband. She shrugged off the knowledge that her grandmother would give her an earful (Rhiamon’s ear gripped tight in that strong, black hand) about going out in public looking like that.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when a big, bright apple rolled to her feet. She’d almost bent to pick it up, but before she could it was being retrieved b
y a large hand and a muttered “Excuse me.”

  In that instant, Moll’s eyes met Rhiamon’s, and the power of recognition struck them both like a blow to the chest. It was not the stuff of romance, for Moll liked her women on the femme side (which the traitor Shell was), and Rhiamon preferred hers of the petite, sporty variety (which described her new girlfriend, Amy, perfectly). Rhiamon took in the ample Moll as Moll took in the capable Rhiamon. Both new and yet familiar, each saw a reflection of herself. And it was good.

  Certainly, there were as many differences as similarities between the two, from skin tone to coiffure. Where Moll was as pale as her distant German ancestors, Rhiamon was a rich, mixed-heritage tan. As Moll peered up at the mass of golden-brown curls and matching eyes, Rhiamon took in a startled hazel gaze beneath a short, spiky crop of sandy blond.

  But this was surface difference. The real truth was in the twin bodies—in big ass and small chest, in broad shoulders and big hands, in thick legs and strong arms.

  And if Rhiamon was looking forward to Amy’s touch and Moll was nursing her wounds and waiting for her next girly-girl, you wouldn’t have known it by the way Rhiamon extended her hand to pull Moll up from her knees, or by the way Moll took it. With a firm grip and the fruit of temptation between them, how could they not wait out their layover together?

  “Atlanta,” Moll answered when asked, polishing the already shiny apple on her jeans.

  “New York,” Rhiamon replied, confirming that they were indeed headed in opposite directions.

  “Judo tournament” met “visit to an aging aunt.” Tales of overpriced apartments flowed. A toast was made to the inevitability of unsatisfying jobs. Names were shared, but not those of Shell and Amy.

  When Moll at last bit into her apple, she found it as sweet and crunchy as its gleaming exterior promised. Then, unthinking, she held it out. As she watched Rhiamon unself-consciously turn the fruit and take a bite just beside hers, she knew the exchange of pleasantries had become something else altogether.