as he thrust himself into her, his hands gripping her voluptuous ass.
He wanted nothing more than to stay inside her indefinitely, but as sweat trickled down his chest, he wondered how muchlonger he could last. He leaned over her, planting kisses along her back, as she rotated her hips in small circles.
“No, don’t do that,” he whispered breathlessly. “It feels too good.”
“I want you to cum for me, baby.”
He lifted himself so that his body was fully erect, and as she shifted, he withdrew, releasing himself onto her lower back while she moaned, her ass still moving, sliding lazily beneath his spent erection.
Barely able to feel his legs, Grant said, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He struggled to his feet and walked into the bathroom, returning with a few squares of paper towel. Kneeling down beside Kamara, he began to gently wipe her skin. When he finished, she lay down on her side, facing him while he reclined, propping himself up on his elbows.
“So what now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I wish I could take you with me.”
She smiled. “You know what? You’re a sweet guy. You’re gonna make some woman very lucky.”
Grant’s brow furrowed as he watched her begin to dress. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“I was hoping you’d stay the night.”
“Close your eyes,” Kamara said, kissing him gently on the lips. “Dream of me.”
Grant followed her to the door, the air conditioner beginning to cool his nude body. He watched her leave as quietly as she had come, and as her car backed out of the parking lot, he realized that of all the things he’d miss about Atlanta, he would miss her most.
After Dark
Niyah Moore
Pigalle Palace was a notorious hot spot, an epicenter of sizzling sex shops, erotic peep shows, and dazzling strip clubs. It was an adults-only, X-rated, pleasurable adventure for the more risqué crowd and home to one of Paris’s most famous cabarets, Moulin Rouge. After my first few weeks of studying abroad, I was ready to find out what really happened there after dark.
My roommate and I squeezed into the backseat of a tiny taxi to go bar-hopping one Friday night.
Once the door was closed, I asked, “Have you ever been to the red light district?”
She responded in her thick, French accent, “Pig Alley?”
“Pig Alley?” I repeated with a confused look on my face. “I’m talking about where all the freaky things happen. You know, topless bars? Nude strip clubs . . .”
“ Oui. Pig Alley,” she said, and laughed in her cute, girlish manner.
“Why do you call it Pig Alley?” I asked with a scowl.
“A lot of pigs tend to wallow in all the filthy diversions.”
The fire inside of my curiosity grew wilder. “Let’s go. How far is it from here?”
“Not too far.” She shrugged while lighting a cigarette. “Are you sure you want to go?” She rolled down the small window to blow out a lungful of smoke.
“Positive. I won’t rest until I know.”
“What will you do once there?” She raised her eyebrow with a sleek grin appearing on her face.
I thought about that and, honestly, I had no idea what I would do.
“I don’t know what to expect. I’m just going as a tourist.”
Colette nodded and then smiled before taking another drag from her cancer stick. “Take us to the infamous club on the Boulevard de Clichy,” she said to the taxi driver. “I have a spot in mind first and then, from there, we’ll explore.”
A sly, naughty grin appeared on the driver’s pale face. With rose-colored cheeks, he knew exactly what spot she had in mind and had a hard time trying to conceal his discomfort, but he didn’t say a word or yield a warning. Pulling away from the curb, the taxi drove through the wet streets toward the north side of a town called Montmartre.
Once in the red light district, I wiggled in my seat like a five-year-old kid going to McDonald’s. From the taxi window, I stared out at all the
He wanted nothing more than to stay inside her indefinitely, but as sweat trickled down his chest, he wondered how muchlonger he could last. He leaned over her, planting kisses along her back, as she rotated her hips in small circles.
“No, don’t do that,” he whispered breathlessly. “It feels too good.”
“I want you to cum for me, baby.”
He lifted himself so that his body was fully erect, and as she shifted, he withdrew, releasing himself onto her lower back while she moaned, her ass still moving, sliding lazily beneath his spent erection.
Barely able to feel his legs, Grant said, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” He struggled to his feet and walked into the bathroom, returning with a few squares of paper towel. Kneeling down beside Kamara, he began to gently wipe her skin. When he finished, she lay down on her side, facing him while he reclined, propping himself up on his elbows.
“So what now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I wish I could take you with me.”
She smiled. “You know what? You’re a sweet guy. You’re gonna make some woman very lucky.”
Grant’s brow furrowed as he watched her begin to dress. “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“I was hoping you’d stay the night.”
“Close your eyes,” Kamara said, kissing him gently on the lips. “Dream of me.”
Grant followed her to the door, the air conditioner beginning to cool his nude body. He watched her leave as quietly as she had come, and as her car backed out of the parking lot, he realized that of all the things he’d miss about Atlanta, he would miss her most.
After Dark
Niyah Moore
Pigalle Palace was a notorious hot spot, an epicenter of sizzling sex shops, erotic peep shows, and dazzling strip clubs. It was an adults-only, X-rated, pleasurable adventure for the more risqué crowd and home to one of Paris’s most famous cabarets, Moulin Rouge. After my first few weeks of studying abroad, I was ready to find out what really happened there after dark.
My roommate and I squeezed into the backseat of a tiny taxi to go bar-hopping one Friday night.
Once the door was closed, I asked, “Have you ever been to the red light district?”
She responded in her thick, French accent, “Pig Alley?”
“Pig Alley?” I repeated with a confused look on my face. “I’m talking about where all the freaky things happen. You know, topless bars? Nude strip clubs . . .”
“ Oui. Pig Alley,” she said, and laughed in her cute, girlish manner.
“Why do you call it Pig Alley?” I asked with a scowl.
“A lot of pigs tend to wallow in all the filthy diversions.”
The fire inside of my curiosity grew wilder. “Let’s go. How far is it from here?”
“Not too far.” She shrugged while lighting a cigarette. “Are you sure you want to go?” She rolled down the small window to blow out a lungful of smoke.
“Positive. I won’t rest until I know.”
“What will you do once there?” She raised her eyebrow with a sleek grin appearing on her face.
I thought about that and, honestly, I had no idea what I would do.
“I don’t know what to expect. I’m just going as a tourist.”
Colette nodded and then smiled before taking another drag from her cancer stick. “Take us to the infamous club on the Boulevard de Clichy,” she said to the taxi driver. “I have a spot in mind first and then, from there, we’ll explore.”
A sly, naughty grin appeared on the driver’s pale face. With rose-colored cheeks, he knew exactly what spot she had in mind and had a hard time trying to conceal his discomfort, but he didn’t say a word or yield a warning. Pulling away from the curb, the taxi drove through the wet streets toward the north side of a town called Montmartre.
Once in the red light district, I wiggled in my seat like a five-year-old kid going to McDonald’s. From the taxi window, I stared out at all the
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