#LyricalFictionFriday: What You Do to Me…

He was only supposed to help me move my bed.

Move it.

We didn’t get that far. The bed frame is scattered in parts on the Master floor, the box spring propped up against the hallway wall outside the bedroom. The mattress, where I lie on my back, knees drawn to the ceiling, blocks the front door.

I squeeze the back of my thighs to still my legs from shaking, but it’s no use. I can feel his tongue down there, and the memory of it sends me over the edge. Philip’s tongue has the strength of an ox, the prehensility of that of a giraffe. His mouth reaches places Levon can’t even dream of, and Levon loves to boast about how big he his, how far he extends when he’s hard.

I hear the shower turn on down the hall. He must want me to join him. What other need would he have to wash? We haven’t gotten dirty . . . not yet . . . and we kind of have this thing with showers.

But I hesitate when I remember Levon, and the reason why we broke up. Truly it was because he can’t stop fucking his ex, but my and Philip’s curiosity of each other didn’t help the situation. Although he had no proof—there was nothing to prove, we didn’t do anything . . . until tonight.

And I can’t ignore that Philip is Levon’s best friend. His roommate, no less! I’d be stupid to think they won’t talk. Get him high enough, and Philip is subject to say anything. We’re both dead if he lets this one slip. Ex-boyfriend or not, Levon will still have a problem with us hooking up, even if it is just oral. And I refuse to give him any chance to justify all the things he did to hurt me for revenge.

But am I really going to lie here in the middle of this mattress, soaking it through, touching myself, trying to finish what only Philip can?

Hell no.

I let my legs drop. They jiggle like Jell-O. The challenge will be getting up to my feet, walking to the bathroom without having the floor slip from under me. Can I even get up? My body feels weighted on this mattress, like I’m being held down by cinder blocks. When was the last time I’d ever cum like that? And did I really want it again?

Yes. It’s like a drug. One hit, and you would kill for that high again. And I need to know that this wasn’t a fluke, that I didn’t just imagine the eruption of ecstasy that gushed out of me just a few minutes ago under the prickle of Philip’s taste buds.

I roll over, reach out my hands, grab firmly onto the fibers of the carpet and drag myself out. How bad is this, that I’m actually crawling to him? That I can barely move, can barely handle his potency, and yet I still want more?

When I get to the end of the hallway, the bathroom door opens. Steam rushes out, and behind it, Philip, fully naked. It’s like the beginning of a concert, when just before the smoke clears, the singer springs onto the stage from a trapdoor underneath, and all the girls in the crowd go wild with delight.

I watch him as he approaches in what feels like slow motion, the mist surrounding him. Anticipation makes me drip. He’s fully erect—there’s no denying what he wants. My jaw drops, but I quickly shut it, not quite willing to return the favor from earlier, despite being on my knees.

“I figured you might need help,” he says with a half smirk. He scoops me up off the floor, glides me across the tip of him as he pulls me up. Who is he teasing, me or himself?

“What you do to me . . .” I can’t even finish my thought. All I want is his wet lips on mine.

Girl, you better have your hair weave strapped on tight, ’cause I’m just getting started.”

I feel like butter in his arms. I can spread from end to end. I let him whisk me off into the bathroom, where the steam from the shower creates a tension that pushes us even closer together, as if we aren’t already like the skin that clings to our bones. I can’t get enough of him. I pull and dig, desperate to have him inside me again, filling all the cracks and crevices Levon could never reach.

And this time, I’m not talking about his tongue.


I never intended to make it a serial, but every once in a while I come across a prompt that brings my White Jesus characters back to life, and the resulting story tends to get quite . . . raunchy. Are you as hot and bothered as I am?

Written for Marquessa’s #FictionFriday song lyric challenge. Today’s prompt is: Girl, you better have your hair weave strapped on tight… And speaking of holding onto your hair for a wild ride, Marquessa and I are teaming up in November every Monday and Friday to bring you our respective flash fiction challenges, #MarquessaChallenge and #1MinFiction. Are you ready? Then buckle up, because the fun starts next Friday!

One Night Stand

[Stop. As the title suggests, what follows is a piece of erotic fiction. Don’t read if you’re not old enough. You’ve been warned. 😉 ]

She sits on the other end of the couch, stiff as a board, pretending to watch the Good Times rerun on the TV. The night began when a guy she’d met on Tinder gave her the wrong phone number. She texted how excited she was to see him again, remembering how much fun they had the night before. Apparently the feeling wasn’t mutual, because she got me instead.

But I’m not the type of guy to let a girl whose night suddenly opened up spend it alone. So I invited her over to have a real good time. In five minutes she was knocking at my door. I guess that should’ve been my clue the broad was desperate, to show up at some random nigga’s house for sex. But it couldn’t be no worse than my last three nights spent high as a kite, sleeping on Phillip’s couch while he’s out fucking my girl.

Ex-girl, she reminds me.

And he’s just helping her move into her new apartment, so they say. Lyndra left Wednesday, and Phillip with her, because he could fit her bed in his truck. Neither have been back since, and now Phillip’s phone goes straight to voicemail, which basically confirms what I always knew—that they got something going on, probably since the shower incident, though they still flat out deny it.

She acts like I’m not sitting right next to her, like I didn’t just take off my sweats, like she doesn’t see me holding it in my hand. I’ll never understand why females act so pretentious. She knows why she’s here—I didn’t force her come, but now that she’s here…

I lean over and kiss her neck. She softens a little, tilts her head, allowing me to go lower. I stick my tongue out and lick her collarbone, bite on her skin. She lets out a low moan and lies back as I push my weight on top of her. I lift up her skirt, pull her panties down to her ankles, and slip my fingers inside her.

Shit, it’s like a juicy suction cup. I bite harder, move further down to her breasts and gather the whole left one in my mouth, twirl my tongue around  the nipple. She moans louder. Damn, I can hardly contain myself. I take her left leg and bring it back on the couch with me, spread her thighs wider. She inhales sharply.

“Don’t tense up on me, baby,” I whisper.

“You have a condom, right?”

This bitch waits till I’m this close, bout to nut all over the fucking couch to talk about a fucking condom? Nah, I ain’t got no damn condom. Didn’t have one with Onisha either. Now she’s pregnant— been tryna trap a nigga since high school, and she finally got her wish. The baby’s due in October. With my luck, she’ll give birth on Halloween. A fucking nightmare.

No more wasting time. I go right in without answering, kiss her on the mouth so I don’t have to hear her voice again unless she’s screaming my name. She probably doesn’t know it—I didn’t bother to ask for hers. But we don’t need names to fuck. And we don’t need to get to know each other after we finish either. But I’m feeling generous tonight since she got stood up and all, so I’ll eat her out before I kick her out. As long as she smells fresh down there.

I go deeper, driven by the slapping of our thighs. She wraps her legs around my waist and digs her fingernails into my back. She opens her mouth and exhales like she’s just popped open a can of Sprite. I lift her other leg off the floor and throw it over my shoulder. I lick my thumb and press it on her clit, massaging back and forth. She likes this; she bites her bottom lip. She moves her hips in a circular motion— I like this. I fall on top of her, hold onto the arm of the couch as I put all my force in my stroke. She bounces under me, making quick little yelps each time I go in. She’s so wet I want to fucking live in her. Hell, maybe I’ll call her back sometime, if she’s still getting dumped by Tinder niggas.

She arches her back, rolls her eyes to back of her head, and releases a loud howl I’m not expecting. It’s all I need. I know I ain’t gon’ pull out in time—might as well just ride with it and hope she’s at least on birth control. I hunch my shoulders, clamp my hands down on her smooth waist, and slam all my weight inside her.

“Oh my g—” she starts, but I put my finger to her lips and then into her mouth. She takes it in, sucks it hard. Fine. I’ll go down on her. She’s earned. Maybe Phillip and Lyndra will show up right when my face is between her thighs.

I’m not jealous. I don’t care that they’re together. Tonight proves I can get pussy without even leaving this couch. Fuck Lyndra. And Onisha? I ain’t giving her a dime until I see DNA results. Nope, I’m good. Yea, I’ll even let this chick spend the night. As long as she doesn’t talk, and remembers why she’s here.


It is Short Story A Day May, and today I’ve brought back some characters from a story I wrote in 2015 (which actually should be titled “White Jesus“—you’ll understand when you read it) for this prompt from Tony Conaway, “Misapprehension.” I was a bit loose with the prompt today, but I think there was a little misapprehension with these characters…for those of you who were old enough to stick around. 😉