Bryl R. Tyne
T-girls need love too. Sometimes, need outweighs time or place...
Fireworks in Orlando-the crowds, Val's attitude, the unbearable Florida humidity...Can Kendra survive the heat? When public make-up sex inside the prop room of a local art studio turns into an excursion of mind-blowing group sex, Val shows Kendra fireworks like she's never experienced!
Val looked up from thumbing through a rack of vintage suits as I emerged from
the bathroom. "You all right, babe?"
He moved through the rows of props, and on to the shelves, admiring the shoes,
while I admired his ass. His jeans left nothing to the imagination. As if I needed one. I knew every dimple. What I wanted were those arms wrapped around me, holding me flush against that hard body, his cock pressed firm between us.
Save the owner and his lackey, no one else was present in this studio, but we were in public.
I glanced at the door. No lock. Damnit. No, I wasn't all right.
"Yeah. Sure. Fine," I said, as he disappeared behind a rack of Regency-era
"Hey. Take a look at this." Val shoved the remnants of a loose sheet behind a lifesized painting as I neared. Upon the canvas, a couple—him black, her white. I stared. It was the most beautiful erotic nude I'd had the pleasure of viewing in a while.
"Nice, isn't it?"
Moving closer, I recognized the man. "Isn't that Mr. Beles?"
"Beats me. Is it?"
Unobservant as usual, Val was a moron. We'd met the studio's owner only
moments ago, but from the broad shoulders and bubbled ass peeking above the sheets, to that dark-chocolate skin and shiny head protectively tucked over the woman's, I could tell the man in the painting was Beles.
I studied the painting. Nice strokes. The artist managed not only to capture the mood, but also had an eye for lighting and seemed intent on divulging every musculature detail. The woman reminded me of a desert rose with its bold stunning form, a natural beauty.
Though Beles cradled her in his lap, like the delicate flower she was, her profile beckoned an unknown world to hear her cry for understanding. If I
could've reached into that painting and taken her hand, I would have. I'd never seen anyone more alone.
Cocking his head to one side, Val shrugged. "I thought—"
"So did I," I said. Maybe not so much the moron. At least his gaydar was working fine . . . .