Passion Fruit #2 : story

We did it in her car and it was awesome. Her name is Catherine with a C, she's a chain sm_ker.

"You shouldn't sleep with people so easily," she says slowly. "You don't want them to think you're easy, baby."

I snickered. "Baby? Is that my new name?"

We look up as the high stars seem a little down tonight, as we sit on panoramic roof and chatter. Post hookup chatters are hard. "It can be, if you learn to take one g_ddamn thing seriously in your life."

I sighed. Cathy, Cathy, Catherine knew my differences and accepted me anyway.

—

I saw her admiring Mona Lisa with such cold visage that I had to say something. "I-It's closing time."

I've seen many pretty black women — she'd be one.

She plucks the airpods off. And turns to me. "I said it's closing time. The guard, um, he said. . ."

"He told me the same thing." She bit her lip, a silent teardrop falling. Okay. Strong reaction. "I can ask him for ten minutes. You carry on, girl."

And I try to step out of the area, crying people are no good, but she grabs onto me like anchor and this woman in sable dress finally gives me trouble. "Do I look like sh_t?"

"No." I said. "But good work on the nose contours." She's mildly confused. "It.. it's hot. You're hot." And I bolt.

—

"Do you know that woman, ma'am?" The art museum staff poses.

I don't know what good comes out of knowing people. So I fix my blouse and skirt and the hanging-by-shoulders blazer and exit. Not another word.

Outside, the parking spaces are hollow. The streets as well. Barren moon. "Hey!" She waves, "Come on in!" I hear the revving of engine before I see the car lights flash.

"I'm Catherine."

"Your spelling begins with a C?" I mumble foolishly.

"It does, baby."

When I get in, she straps my seatbelt. The closeness feels... Divine, if that's a real word. But I can't say.

—

I couldn't stand the stench of cancer sticks burning. Catherine did open the window for a bit, but it didn't help much. How could it? — When I keep gazing her plump mouth. "What ya looking at, baby?"

She throws the cigarette and my heart races. "You wasted half of it, " I begin to protest, and it dawns on me she did it for me. I'm responsible. She leans close, I do too, she undoes my seatbelt with efficiency and parks the car, roughly kissing me on the lips.

She has a hint of citrus and tobacco, but the movement of her initiative tongue is gentle, fragile. I stroke her back, causing more friction and a moan to erupt. I can't tell whose side is it from, does it matter?

—

Eventually, we move to the backseat. A very spacious option. She li_cks my inner thighs. A particular s_ucker for my buds, and here I thought only men loved those.

"Can I do you too?"

"Maybe later."

She's quite slim, skinny in fact. But God, her hips. Makes me feel bad for not being a man.

She holds my leg up in the air, trying to fit her four fingers inside, and the air is filled with my screams.

Next up — und_ies off — we do something I never thought I could derive pleasure from. Hers is warm and she kisses me shush when I protest that I didn't shave properly. It's okay, baby.

She's been there. She knows.

—

"Wrap it up. I have to be back before nine."

"Why? You have a toddler?"

She glares at me. Oh. "How old?"

"It's nunya business, so cut it."

"But I never got the chance to-"

"Would you just cut it?" Her voice rose. "My sister is scared of the darkness. I have to get her. So fu_cking just move it, okay?"

I act amazed. "What? No baby?"

And I think she'll cry again.

***

Passion Fruit #2 : story

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