Bad Men and Wicked Women by Eric Jerome Dickey

Author:Eric Jerome Dickey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-04-17T04:00:00+00:00

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A MOMENT LATER, we were outside, in the open air, hidden in the shadows, cars, buses, and metro trains zooming by in the distance, the glow from the dramatic lights at the Staples Center not far away. We kissed and kissed. She held my stiff cock, rubbed me, masturbated me through my clothes while I nibbled at her neck, sucked on that spot that made her croon. Her knees buckled and her inner thighs shook. She let my cock go, shivered, then exhaled in a way that told me she wanted more. I worked her breasts out of her dress, licked one, then sucked the other nipple. My hand moved between her thighs. I massaged her heat through that red dress. Her legs opened; then I pulled her dress up, moved her panties away, got a finger inside.

She was damp, heat rising like the morning sun over Acapulco.

I was harder than times in 1929.

She moved against my hand. I fingered her, suckled her breasts and massaged that pearl, then looked in her eyes as she wiggled on my digit. She took my finger from inside her, sucked it hard, sucked until the juice was gone, kissed me as she reached for my pants, undid my belt. I hiked up her red dress and we tried to have sex perpendicular. Doing it standing up, between buildings, fully dressed, wearing hard shoes, tipsy, with a drunk Afro-Alaskan, that shit wasn’t as easy as it looked in the movies. I was almost back inside her, then paused when a dozen people walked by. They didn’t see us. I lifted her up, and the horny drunk wrapped her legs around me. She pulled her panties to the side, then cooed when I broke the skin. She said my name like I was her greatest sin. She made sounds like she was drowning, then opened her eyes, looked in my face, smiled, swallowed. I held her, made her bounce up and down, made her jewelry sing, made the change in my pockets join the choir on the break. I looked into her eyes and sang the “Happy Birthday” song to her. Cool desert wind blew across our damp skin.

“Let me down, boo. Let me down.”

She eased down, meandered in a circle, took a lighter out of her little clutch purse, flipped the Zippo open, lit her cigar, made the air smell like we were in Snoop D-o-double-g’s home, put the Zippo back, then puffed. Rachel Redman laughed, happy, then staggered and put her left hand against a wall. She puffed, made smoke rise around her like she was the boss of all bosses.

Rachel came back to me, stroked my erection while she smoked, masturbated me, then got down on her haunches, squatted, inhaled her Kush, then took me in her mouth as she exhaled smoke.

“You like that?”

My vocabulary was reduced to indecipherable sounds and curt moans.

She whispered, “That’s right, baby. I got your ass singing like Peabo Bryson.”

She played me like Coltrane playing his horn.

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