by LaShayne

When the bus finally started moving, Harry glanced at his watch and sighed in exasperation. He heard a voice: "You don't like waiting either?"

Two seats behind him a woman was smiling fully, holding up a romance novel with shiny covers. He shrugged. "I just get a little impatient, is all."

"Me too. 'Specially after a long day when I just want to put my feet up."

He almost turned away, but her gaze stayed on him. He asked, "You work downtown?"

"Uh huh." She closed her book. "You?"

"No, I'm transferring, from the University."

"What classes you takin'?"

He decided to change seats. As he picked up his backpack he sought a formula to encapsulate his graduate studies to someone who was probably worlds removed from them. When she moved over he said, "Literature, mostly."

"That sounds interesting."

Her deep brown eyes were almost wide, her smile inviting. He felt a little shy. She was not overly attractive, but very pleasant-looking. Her short, bushy hair was brushed mostly straight. A glance downward showed him a bit of intensely dark cleavage, revealed by the line of a blue and white sleeveless dress that was nearly fashionable.

He asked, "Where do you work?"

Matter-of-factly, still smiling: "At a financial services company. I do data entry and spread sheets." She did most of the talking. That was fine with him -- he didn't think he could successfully communicate his interests to her. Her name was Charlotte, she had a twelve-year-old son, had gotten this job by completing a training program.

"Next stop's mine." She picked up her purse.

Harry made a decision: "I don't live far -- why don't I get off here?"

Her smile briefly became an uncertain laugh. "That'd be nice."

He let her into the aisle ahead of him. Her robust, round buttocks showed clearly through her dress, her sheer white stockings complemented the splendid, deep color of her skin and tightly muscled calves.

They crossed Twenty-fourth Street and faced a liquor store. "I'm stoppin' here," said Charlotte. He followed her in, watched her grab a sale-priced twelve-pack.

On the sidewalk again her step was brisk; he kept dropping back half a pace to peek at her appealing ass. She laughed again. "Can't wait to get home, turn on the TV, put my feet up."

He offered to carry the beer.

"You don't have to do that."

He smiled. "Come on, Charlotte, it's hot and you've had a long day."

Another laugh as she handed him the box. "Thanks! Just a couple blocks."

This neighborhood was on the lower-income side, some dive bars and thrift stores, a "No ID Necessary" check cashing business. Often enough he passed through here -- his apartment was less than ten blocks away -- but glances from passersby to whom it was obvious that he and Charlotte were together made him feel conspicuously white.

Should he act? He wasn't too much of a snob to enjoy cheap beer. But it would be a trial to watch soap operas or game shows: the price to pay for her continued attention, which was making him feel attractive -- and, maybe, for that lovely, sinewy flesh. She'd mentioned twice that her son would be at the community center for several more hours.

Down Twenty-sixth, they arrived at Charlotte's building, a converted school still owned by the city, she told him. At the security door she got out her keys, reached for the beer. His arms were shaking a tad -- heat, exertion, aggravated by nervousness. "Would you like company for a while?"

Her eyes again, cautious anticipation. "Yeah, that'd be nice."

They went quietly up four flights of stairs. He complimented her on the view from her living room -- brightly lit rooftops and trees in the direction of his neighborhood. She took two cans of beer out of the box, gave him one, and turned on the TV, an old color set. "There's supposed to be a documentary about Rome on now. Good! It's just started." She turned to him. "I hope you don't mind -- I love finding out about the Romans."

"That's fine." He swallowed some beer and kicked himself for letting his prejudices in earlier. He wondered how much she knew about Rome. In the study of the English and French Renaissance he was working on, ancient Rome came up constantly and he kept realizing how little he knew about it. His eyes happened to fall on her book, on the floor next to her purse, _Romula's Dream of Passion_ -- the illustration depicted a passably ancient scene, a busty woman waiting on lounging aristocrats. He felt relief, imagining that Charlotte's knowledge was on that level. She sipped her beer at the end of the couch; he sat down in the middle, feeling the springs almost collapse under him.

At each of her reactions of "Wow" and "That's amazing," he glanced toward her, moved an inch closer. She handed him a second beer and he made a mental note to give her some money before he left.

The TV caught his attention with the phrase, " . . . the infamous processions of Dionysus, or Bacchanalia," accompanied by the image of a chipped mural painting of women and some men, mostly or entirely naked, standing, sitting, prone, having sex. To her quiet "Oh!" he responded by looking at her, maintaining his gaze. She faced the screen. He kept looking. Then she turned, eyes on him, the rest of her face mostly blank. He moved, she sat still. He leaned; when their lips made contact she responded by practically sucking his in, running her tongue over his teeth, into his mouth, a lingual orgy that echoed the painting.

He wrapped his arms around her, kissed her cheek, her ear. When he got to her neck she breathed in hard. His hand found the zipper of her dress. She eagerly helped him ease her arms out. As he folded the top part of the dress onto her lap, she reached back to unclip her white bra. Her breasts were the size of ripe oranges and as firm, in keeping with the rest of her body. He pounced on her large, onyx nipples, sucking them deep into his mouth; her breathing became raspy and even quicker. He caught a slight, pleasant aroma of sweat from her armpits. Squeezing her boobs around his face, he kissed the skin between them. Then down her flat belly, with a tongue-dip into her navel; she raised herself just enough for him to remove the dress, then hose and panties. He kissed the crease between her hip and thigh. She lay back on the couch, displaying her vulva, its multiform folds like an amaryllis after light summer rain. Mouth wide open, he kissed it; her pelvis began moving, gyrating. Her clitoris was so enlarged, almost hard, that he could suck on it.

Her gasps were throaty and vocal; he could almost feel her breath descend through her body as far as her crotch to make contact with his lips and tongue. Her dense, stiff hair tickled his nostrils; he took a long breath through his nose to complement her irresistibly pungent flavor. He inserted two fingers into her cunt; riding her out-of-control motion he made an effort to stay in place. His penis was painfully trying to bust out of his pants.

She squeezed his temples tightly between her thighs; he was engrossed in her, thinking she would come any second. But he couldn't wait. As soon as he had undone his belt he moved gently to stand up, and she let him. He was naked in seconds, standing before her. She lay still, gazing up at him, looking worn out and overwhelmed. She raised her legs to let him kneel on the couch just below her ass, her knees went toward her chest; she reached to pull him down, tenderly, affectionately.

He kissed her, whispered, "Are you protected?"

She nodded, managed, "Yeah -- you clean?"

"Clean as can be."

When her hand put pressure on his ass he quickly looked down to watch his pink dick disappear into her ebony flesh. His ear to her lips, he heard "Harry!" Spontaneously they found a rhythm; he plunged with his entire body, each time feeling her sturdy breasts push into his chest.

She seemed to come immediately, rapidly shaking her head back and forth, shouting each breath, her strong arms working at cementing him to her body, her legs gripping him. And she continued as he shoved his cock all the way up her soaked, palpitating snatch. His orgasm arrived with no warning, he found himself screaming along with her, felt his high-pressure stream pouring into her.

When he could see straight, they lay close, their stomachs rubbing, sliding a little in sweat. Her limbs were still wrapped around him, his hands were on her shoulders, he remained inside her, shrunken, feeling her little pulses.

He said quietly, "You are simply amazing -- you're a wonderful woman."

Her laugh: "You're some man -- you *really* know how to make love to a woman."

He shrugged, smiled. "You on the pill?"

"No." Her eyes drifted. "As soon as I turned eighteen I had my tubes tied -- Joey was one already."

Concern: "So you can't -- "

"No, and I don't want to. I got my hands full with this life." Softly, she nudged him, he pushed himself up and sat next to her. She took out two beers, handed him one. Holding hers up she smiled broadly: "To sharing."

He laughed. "That's good. To sharing."

Before he could take a sip she wrapped her forearm around his. "Like the Romans." With elbows hooked, they drank, kissing quickly between swigs.

She spoke: "I'd love for you to stay longer, but I'd also love to lay down before Joey gets home. Beer's makin' me sleepy."

Her abruptness surprised him. She picked up her dress, folded it roughly. He picked up her underwear and hose, following her into the bedroom, getting his first glimpse of her naked, gloriously rounded behind. Its deep cleft sent a powerful jolt through him. About to speak when she turned, her eyes went downward -- she shook her head, that smile broke out. "Man, you got some bad ideas in your head -- and you know which head I mean!"

He approached her quickly. "Come on." He grabbed her, brushed his cock against her lower back. She whirled, threw her arms around him, kissed him viciously. They fell onto the bed; he was on his back, she threw a leg over him, bracing herself on her elbows as she moved her hips up and down at high speed. She arched her back and thrust her boobs forward, he licked and suckled with extreme energy. He kept one hand on her ass, fingers creeping into the crack; the other arm embraced her lean shoulders. Her breathing was calmer this time, her writhing and noise less intense, her orgasm built in an even crescendo. For just a moment she collapsed on him; her eye movements indicated her discovery that he was still solid inside her, and she began pounding again. He was incredulous at her stamina when he dropped into dizziness. She slowed as she saw he was getting there. They screamed at length together, finished on their sides facing each other.

Her eyes were closed, she lay perfectly still. He went to the living room and quickly dressed. Picking up his backpack he saw the beer, remembered to leave some money. Back in the bedroom, he kissed her on the cheek. Her breaths were long and deep; he nudged her -- not the slightest stir. He took out his wallet, found only the twenty he had just withdrawn from a cash machine, which he had intended to last until Friday. He felt he had no choice but to leave something. But would she misinterpret the twenty as payment for service? He was about to write a note, but then thought her son might find it, if she was still asleep. As he weighted the bill with the lamp, he noticed on the nightstand two dog-eared romances and a Bible. He pulled the sheet to her shoulder and left.

As he walked down the sidewalk back to Twenty-sixth, a boy came the other way. Harry turned to see him enter the building.

*****************************

All week, during days at the library, Charlotte's disarming smile, wonderfully toned skin, and astounding body would not leave his mind. At home he had intense masturbation sessions. On Friday he took the same bus from downtown but didn't see her. That night he went to a party with some rock musician friends. A woman flirted with him, but he didn't return the interest. Saturday he read, listlessly, jerked off twice, Sunday three times.

He had to see her, make her a part of his life. What would it be like, socializing with her? What would other graduate students think? Would she feel comfortable with educated people? If she did, he would do everything to help her overcome it.

On Monday afternoon he walked the seven blocks to her building, hoping she had come straight home. He rang, the buzzer responded. His heart leapt. His erection grew as he practically ran up the four flights. When he knocked, she opened immediately. She smiled, reservedly, invited him in. No one else appeared to be there.

"Thanks," he said. "It's really nice to see you."

She was silent; no words came to him. After a few awkward moments he stepped forward, moved to hug her. "My, you're affectionate," was her response, indicating she wasn't.

He stood there, looking at her. There was little warmth on her face, but patent firmness in her voice: "I don't think you should stay."

"No?"

She shook her head.

On the slow walk home, he chided himself for assuming she would just grant him the right to her body. What had put her off? Had he been too aggressive? Did she feel embarrassed for jumping into bed? Was she concerned about her son's living environment? Was she seeing someone else? Did she simply not feel right about him? Was it because he wasn't black? Had the twenty dollars been an insult? He was frustrated at having no idea.

But he found himself admiring her resolve. He took pleasure in his impression that she was an exceptional woman who would give her son a good life and, if she chose to do so, make a man happy. He hoped that after a while, once the initial frenzy was in the past, he would run into Charlotte again and convey his appreciation.