Chapter 6

Beneath each of my heavy trudging footfalls, the polished wooden stairs creaked. And as I climbed, that creaking grew louder while my mind continued to spin. When I’d left their pool, Mrs. Jenkin’s expression from the window? Even after everything we’d already done, it remained pure desire—unfulfilled, pure desire. And then there was Coach’s silence. Also, the fact he’d sent me inside. As I stepped into a crimson-carpeted hallway, I glanced at the frosty can in my fist. Sure, he’d said to grab a beer, but the expression he’d given me ... As my heart hammered, I turned to scan the darkened stairwell.

There was no sign of him. How long would it take for him to pack away the camera gear, anyway? Especially since he must’ve noticed by then that I hadn’t returned to the patio.

“What the heck are you doing, Hiram?” I murmured while facing the distant sound of the shower.

As I paused there, the can in one hand, my crumpled clothes and Mrs. Jenkins’ tiny bikini in the other, tremors rippled through me. When I tried to lift my foot, it froze. Instead, I roamed my gaze over several landscape paintings lining the cream-hued walls. Rural. Pastoral. They should’ve been calming, but they weren’t.

If I went any further, whatever fantasy of theirs I’d entered would again transform. In the woods, it had been her “rape.” Sure, Coach had watched, but everything had been focused on satisfying his wife’s craving. Well, until the car, when it became something more. Then...

As I gulped, I again scoured the dark staircase. Still nothing of her husband. No movement. Not a sound. Nothing.

Then, on the pool deck, in front of their cameras, and eventually Coach, she’d devoured me. That’d been like the woods, but ... Another rippling shiver tore along my spine.

“Oh,” slipped from my quivering lips.

After speaking with her husband, she’d come to me in the pool. The way she’d obeyed, simply mounting me. That wasn’t play-acting. If there’d been roles we were supposed to play, I hadn’t noticed any script. The way she moved. No, she hadn’t fucked me like the “little white whore” from her “rape” fantasy. Oh, Coach may have thought that, but her eyes told me something different.

And afterwards ... At the image of her leaving me to return to her husband, my body shuddered in the dark hall. After that sensuous walk. The devilish look over her shoulder at me. And then the way they’d kissed, mixing my seed and his essence ... A moan escaped me. That’d both been hot as heck, and also obvious they’d done that before.

But right then, at the top of the stairs...

Again, I glanced into the darkness. No sign of Coach. With my pulse racing, I shifted to gaze at a partially opened, white door at the end of the hall. From beyond it came the muffled sound of the shower’s spray.

If I went further, there’d be no cameras. Nor would Coach be watching. It’d be only his wife and me.

Was any of this still somebody’s fantasy? I mean, Coach knew I was up there. And the twinkle in her eyes from the window said his wife realized I’d be coming for her. So, no surprises. Alright, then what was holding me back?

Well, for starters, there was the whole large black man getting caught “raping” a small white woman and hanging from a tree image. Sure, at eighteen, I was just barely a man, but that made little difference. Nor would her consent if I was seen with her. This was the Deep South. Nobody’d believe anything I said. Also, I couldn’t help but think that Coach had a lot to lose if anyone discovered what we’d been doing.

Since he’d recorded what his wife and I had done in the woods, maybe I’d be sorta safe. He’d even captured her agreement on tape beforehand. Likewise, out on the pool deck, if not in the pool. But at least he’d watched us the whole time.

However, up there, in the dark hallway. Me, a large young black man in nothing but a towel, standing in their house. With him downstairs and her in the shower. There were no witnesses. And no cameras. Had Coach set a trap for me? Perhaps he’d snapped. Maybe he’d only appeared calm to use whatever might happen if I stepped into their bathroom against me.

Like I said, my mind was whirling with every possible explanation for why I was standing in the middle of the Jenkins’ home. At last, my brain slowed. No, Coach could’ve just ordered me to leave. So, not a trap. Maybe I’d get caught, but the silken warmth of Mrs. Jenkin’s body riding me pulled a moan from my lips.

“She’s worth it.” I whispered.

If I was going to be lynched, Mrs. Jenkins was worth it. After a lengthy exhale, I shoved my foot forward and continued my march towards the open door.

Yeah, I made it another half dozen paces before stopping.

“No, really.” I mumbled. “What’re you doing, Hiram?”

Look, black or not, Alabama or not, I was only an eighteen-year-old kid. Coach was in his thirties? Forties? Mrs. Jenkins? She looked younger than him, but still, where was this leading? Were we gonna date? I’d take Mrs. Jenkins to the movies? Invite her to the school dance? Bring her home for dinner with momma? And...

“Oh,” left my lips before I downed a large gulp of air.

Yeah, precisely. What would my momma say? With my feet shuffling in the thick carpeting, I glanced between the open door ahead and the darkened stairwell behind me. At my side, my fist clenched into a tight, shaking ball around the damp clothing. The tiny black triangles of her bikini intertwined with my sweaty gray cotton shorts and t-shirt. In my other hand, the beer can crackled under my tightening fingers.

We’d never date. Mrs. Jenkins was married. Not to me. She was older. Than me. What did we have in common? There was no prospect in anything we did. For her or me. Us together, I mean. This would only ever be a fleeting—something.

And yet.

As I stood there, I trembled. Sensations and images tumbled in my spiraling mind. Her small, sleek body, so warm and alive, gliding over me. The forceful squeezing of her insides milking me as pulse after pulse flooded her slippery tightness. And through every image was the unquenchable desire promised by those shimmering green eyes.

“I don’t care,” left my shaking lips in a faint whisper. “I don’t know the future. I only want...”

With a groan, I took the last two steps and shoved the door wide. While I gave a very pink master bedroom a quick scan, my heartbeat thundered. As I transited plush pink carpeting past a fuchsia comforter-covered, king-size bed, I inhaled. Mixed with Mrs. Jenkins’ alluring perfume were the equally enticing scents of suntan lotion, her dripping sweet sex, and my potent cum. As my nostrils flared, the mélange drove my pulse ever faster.

After easing open the door to her snowy-tiled bathroom, the air hissed from my lips. When the room spun, I sagged against the frame. Under a gentle spray that sent clouds of vapor swirling around her, Mrs. Jenkins’ gleaming toned muscles rippled beneath streaming suds. With her glistening back to me, she hummed while sweeping a soapy pink sponge over her curves.

To this day, I’m not sure how long I leaned against that doorframe, watching her body slide under the foamy water. Each glimmering muscle gliding under her slick, tanned skin. The way her sodden blonde tresses formed a sudsy stripe over her spine. The shifting of her buttocks as she moved to the tune she hummed.

Mesmerizing doesn’t capture the feeling that raced through me in that fog-filled bathroom as I sipped.

At long last, with blood roaring in my ears, every part of me surged. After draining the final cold drops, I placed the empty can on a pearl-colored countertop. When I peered into the steam-coated large, framed mirror over twin sinks, I couldn’t determine my expression.

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