Page 32 of Ms. V's Hot Girl Summer

“So, what are your guilty pleasures?” I asked him after my belly had allowed me to take a break.

“I love me some bun and cheese; I don’t care if it’s Easter or not, get in my belly.” He chuckled, those thick lips of his glistening with the revoltillo juices. Bendito, when had eating become such an erotic endeavor? “And I love me some cassava pone, shit hits every time.”

“Cassava pone? I don’t know that I’ve ever had that.”

“Never had Belizean cassava pudding? I think some countries call it yuca pone…it’s cassava flower and coconut and condensed milk, and…it’s like pumpkin pie texture. The best way I can describe it.” Orlando blew a kiss in the air, his gaze softening in a dreamy far, long stare.

“Oh…that sounds delicious, so you got a sweet tooth, huh?” I teased, forking some eggs and slipping them in my mouth. I took my time savoring the seasoning and the eggs. He’d managed to make them creamy and had gotten really close to the flavors of my childhood, and on the first try.

In my less wholesome days I used to say if I met a man that could cook me my food, the food of my people, I’d never let him go. He’d get the royal treatment over here. All orifices would be fair game for a man like that. Of course, I met him once I was a wholesome woman—horrible timing.

“I do have a sweet tooth, and I am a good boy. I always eat it all…cake, dessert, and other varieties…” Orlando said in a voice so raspy, I felt it in that other variety. His choosing this particular time to chase a minuscule piece of eggs from the corner of his lip with his tongue seemed premeditated and downright cruel. I was trying to be a good woman, but he was making it so difficult.

“Oh, so you’re an eater. Is that what you’re saying?” No overthinking. All in.

“The best of them. I pride in my capacity to…please.” Orlando winked. Our plates were both empty at this point. The comfortable air of intimacy had another quality—a charged, dangerous scent—the scent of risky decisions and untold ecstasy.

Looking to make a swift retreat, I hopped off the stool and carried my plate to the sink. Orlando turned and did the exact same thing. Now close to me, I could smell his musky sandalwood scent—one of my favorites. Of course it was one of my favorites.

“I can clean up,” I offered, hoping he would show the usual traits of the man in my life.

“Nah, I want to do the cleaning after I eat. Are you okay with that, Ms. V?”

The warmth of his skin kissed my arm as we stared at each other. His lips were parted just like in my fantasy, but more tempting than ever. My breath escaped choppy and irregular, probably why my brain took a break and let my hormones take the wheel.

“We haven’t even… I…fuck it.” Pure adrenaline guided me. That and unadulterated desire. My lips crashed into his, and the fantasies did me a disservice because his mouth on mine felt as heavenly as Ofele on a cloudy day. Pure comfort and magic. A sense of belonging. A homecoming.

He took over the kiss, his command and ease calming me and accelerating my pulse simultaneously. It should not work. How could I be calm when blood pumped three times as fast everywhere in my body? But was; I opened up to him, our tongues entangling and finding their rhythm. He pressed all that lean goodness against me, enclosing me with his arms against the kitchen counter, and I reveled in how well we fit together.

The kiss grew incendiary as I sucked his tongue in mine. Soon, we were grasping at each other’s clothes, so desperate for more contact that we did nothing but frustrate each other with lust. Finally, my sweatpants ended up on the floor with my panties.

Leanness was not a deterrent for Orlando and my grown woman’s weight. I sailed in the air for the second time today, but this time, my behind ended up cradled by the cold marble underneath.

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of that kiss, of your lips, of holding you,” Orlando confessed between ragged breaths.

Confessing my own fantasies felt a step too far down the road to perdition. Instead, I nodded and ran my tongue over my lower lip.

“Argh, woman. You’re beautiful, you know? Inside out, your light…that’s what drew me in, but damn, the looks didn’t hurt.”

Was that a giggle that escaped me? I could not remember the last time I had giggled. This man was going to have me giggling all the way to an orgasm. And I wanted that so bad.

“Boy, if you don’t…”

“You don’t have to tell me twice, Ms. V. Let me show you my eating abilities.”

* * *

Wetness is to be expected if things are going right. Wetness is desired and required for things to go right. But this was not just wetness. This was dirty, filthy, drenched goodness. This was masterful flicks and swipes, a rhythm perfected by my moans and screams. This was mind reading business, a soul-sucking enchantment. This was not fair. He began slow, savoring every spot between my legs, from my knees, traversing my thighs, ending right where I needed him the most. He took his time, building up the suspense and tension, making me ask for it, beg for it even. Little direction was required.

“There…oh, do that again,” I pleaded, and Orlando dragged his tongue right on my clitoris. Pressure, the right pressure, no shyness, no hesitation, he went for it. He understood the mission and applied himself deliciously. Warm shivers raced up and down my legs until they started trembling around his head. I grasped anything I could find; the hard brim of his fitted did the trick, but my desperation for an orgasm was so elevated I ended up knocking his fitted off his head. Even better, his soft coils served as my emotional support companions, my fingers and nails nestling in them, never to leave. At least not until he made me come.

“You like that, Ms. V? Huh? Is this what you need? To get my mouth all glistening with your goodness?” His rasped words vibrated against my pussy lips, making me even wetter. This wasn’t a man-child; this was a sorcerer. My entire body replied to his question, gushing and shivering. The butterflies were doing an intricate choreography, an ode to Orlando, they called it. And my heart? It decided to show me the potential signs of sex-induced cardiac episodes.

“Sí, Orlando, por favor!” I was begging, but I didn’t even know what I was asking for; I just needed so much from this, from him. All my troubles were outside of this room waiting, but here in the kitchen with the filthy slurp Orlando created and my desperate breathing, here I was just Trinidad. Ms. V, if I wanted to be extra nasty. And I wanted to be so nasty with this man. The scent of my arousal mixed with his sandalwood and my body wash had me wondering how my room would smell after a full session with him. It would smell like citrus, sandalwood, temptation, and bad decisions.

Eau of Risky Frisky Man Child. I would buy three bottles.

The heat of the outside seeped into the kitchen, and beads of sweat gathered on my brow. My legs ached as if I recently finished a two-hour yoga session, and all sensations coalesced right where Orlando’s tongue met my throbbing pussy. His tongue went into turbo mode and kept the luscious pressure. Perfectly precise, exactly how I needed it. My senses dulled, the kitchen becoming a blur, sounds amplifying until a burst of light and liquid went through me, hot, immediate, and encompassing. All the tension popped, and I became a loud, sobbing, wet mess. Never in my life had I orgasmed like this. Orlando pushed back in the nick of time, the wetness arching out of me hitting his chest.

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