Dynamite Boudoir Tales Collection Two

 

Scary, sexy stories for late night inspiration

 

The Leopard’s Spots

A Kiss Before We Part

 

 

Millie Dynamite

 

© Copyright 2023/22 by Millie Dynamite

 

This is a work of fiction and not intended to promote a lifestyle. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.

 

Table of Contents

 

The Leopard’s Spots

A Kiss Before We Part

 

The Leopard’s Spots

 

An erotic tale of eternal yearning and hunger.

 

Millie Dynamite

 

 

 

© Copyright 2022 by Millie Dynamite

 

NOTE: This work contains material not suitable for anyone under eighteen (18) or those of a delicate nature. This is a story and contains descriptive scenes of a graphic sexual nature. This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously—any resemblance to actual persons, whether living, deceased, actual events, or locales, are entirely coincidental.

 

The Leopard’s Spots

 

This story is based on African superstitions, some of which traveled with them to the new world.

 

This wonderful creature has existed for millennia. So long, in fact, she cannot remember her beginning.

 

One vivid memory she clings to was the rough, rocky voyage from Africa to America. The terrible deaths of the captain and first officer, the blood they forced her to clean after the fatalities of the two highest-ranking sailors on the ship. How easily she slipped from the chains intended to bind her. The other Africans and how their fear, thick and sweet, filled the air. The slaves reeked of terror, more of the horror of her than a fear of their slavery.

 

This dread of the slaves engendered a spirit of mirth in her. They had no reason to fear her on their trek to America. For the voyage, she fed on the whites, so two more Englander sailors died, torn limb from limb in the dark of night without uttering a word, a screech, or a whimper. The Limey seafarers’ immeasurable, papabile terrors sweetened their soul’s flavor.

 

The sailors reported seeing a black leopard, with spots of a darker shade, roaming free on the Guineamen cargo vessel when the ship made port. Finding no cat, the officials thought the sailors mad.

 

Of course, Shenzi never spotted the leopard. How could she?

 

While the whites didn’t know what had happened on the voyage, the Nigerian slaves realized what she was, a kubadilisha umbo, a shapeshifter. A powerful witch who’d transcended to something more than human or mortal.

 

More centuries passed.

 

This Nubian goddess cherished her former lovers, remembering them often through the centuries. The sweet lovemaking, the long, languorous kisses as passion built, the frantic, rough fucking as each participant neared the brink. The taking of everything a lover might possibly give to her. Every last drop of semen, every sigh and moan, all the way until they gave her their last breath, to her, in lovemaking.

 

In early October 1988, Shenzi roamed through the streets of the southern town. After twenty-five years in this community, she grew anxious and hungered for more. The night’s air chilled after sunset, and she strutted down one street after another avenue. The need took root, and Shenzi prowled for the perfect lover. Hiding in a tree near a house far from the road, she saw him.

 

A stout, hard-bodied, ruggedly handsome white man, a tasty morsel indeed.

 

Driving down the wooded road, moving into town, Eric Banner kept catching sight of something hulking and cat-like, moving from one tree to another. This cat creature seemed to follow him. Stalking the unnerved driver, leaping from the branches on one side of the highway to those on the other.

 

Pulling into the bar’s graveled parking lot, he thought the cat thing hid in the tall grass of the field next to the lot.

 

“I ain’t scared of you,” he shouted into the darkness.

 

Making his way into the bar, Eric planted his ass on his favorite stool. Gazing around at the other patrons, nodding to friends, and saying hello to a few new women. And so Eric began his Saturday night ritual. Expecting to leave before inebriation prevented his safe driving.

 

He would mark this as a successful Saturday night if he shared a drink and some conversation with or danced with one lovely woman. Not being greedy, he’d hope for someone who’d look beyond his station in life, the car he drove, or his under-education, and they treated him friendly.

 

****

From Eric Banner’s Private Journal

Sunday, October 2nd, 1988, 9:00 AM

 

When I think about this, the entire event seems like a dream in the bright light of day. If I can be honest, especially with myself, this kind of thing never happened to me. One-night stands aren’t something I want. No woman seeks my companionship in a darkened bar and comes to my home to make love to me.

 

In fact, had she not just said, “See you soon,” when she left shortly after the dawn this morning, I might have believed the night’s adventure nothing more than my imagination.

 

The thing started last night; I went to Charly’s Place following my usual routine. Making my way to my stool, well, the place at the bar where I like to sit, I ordered my first beer.

 

“Jumping tonight,” the bartender said. “And so far, none of the darker crowd has shown up.”

 

“Listen, Charly, I understand you own the joint, but black people’s money spends.”

 

“I take their money. Don’t mean I got to like them,” Charley said and mopped up an area of the bar, moving away from me, muttering racist crap.

 

Glancing toward the door, I spotted her when she sashayed into the bar, moving with the grace of a dancer. Might be a cat, yeah, like the one I’d seen outside. An African cat, which my mind settled on the notion, had been a leopard. This woman moved so gracefully, like a leopard stalking its prey.

 

“Goddamnit,” Charley said. “First coon of the night. Gutsy, nigger bitch, with no bucks in the place to protect her.”

 

“Hey man, don’t be so fucking racist,” I snapped at him. Didn’t even turn my head his way.

 

“Pussy,” Charley moved back to serve someone else.

 

After I called Charley a racist, and before he responded, she turned in my direction.

 

The woman’s face held a dignified appearance. Her high arched eyebrows set above almond eyes, the pupils of which were golden. Framing her bewitching face, hair black as night, shiny, silken smooth, and straight, hung to her shoulders. The woman meandered through the crowded bar in my general direction. The dark woman wore a red dress, showing her well-formed breasts’ cleavage.

 

Sitting next to me, this stunning girl pursed her lips into a kiss like expression. She said, “Oh, Mister Barkeep, absolute and soda water, please.” She turned to me and lowered her voice. “Thank you for setting him straight.”

 

“You heard us?”

 

“Oh, yes, I have excellent hearing,” she said, licking her lips. “I’m parched. Once I’ve quenched my thirst, might we dance?”

That was a preview of Dynamite Boudoir Tales Collection Two. To read the rest purchase the book.

Add «Dynamite Boudoir Tales Collection Two» to Cart