I didn’t know her name or where she lived, but still, I knew her. Every day I’d hunker down on my milk crate outside the Graybar entrance to Grand Central, her Times and her Wall Street Journal already set aside and ready. I’d wait for her cheery ‘Good morning’, delivered in that husky voice that sent shivers down my spine.
‘Good morning, miss.’ I’d hand her the papers. She’d give me her four bucks and a smile that turned me to jelly, then stride away on her high heels and disappear into the terminal. I’d stuff the bills, still warm from her hand, inside my shirt, as close to my skin as I could get. At night, I’d bring them out, sniffing for a hint of her perfume.
I’d lie on my cot in my cousin’s kitchen, gripping my bicho, conjuring her out of the darkness. She usually dressed in white; fitted jackets and straight skirts that were sexy but business-like. In snug clothes like that, someone with her curves should have looked trashy, but somehow she was always elegant and professional. Never mind the gold in her earlobes, the lips painted blood red, the stilettos that had her towering over me as I crouched near the pavement. She had class.
I loved to imagine what she might have on underneath. Smooth silk cradling her swelling breasts, the snowy lace a shocking contrast to her espresso-dark skin. Pale satin hugging that ripe ass and vanishing into the cleft between her thighs. I’d be hard in a minute from the pictures I painted for myself.
Her voice was in my ear, low and raw. ‘Come on, baby. Give it to me,’ she’d tease. She would straddle me, tits dangling in my face, brushing her pussy hair over my dick. I’d grab her meaty hips and pull her down onto my rod. Her moans drowned out the traffic, the sirens, the thud of my cousin’s bed as he banged his girl in the next room.
It didn’t matter how raunchy she talked. She was always a lady, even when I rammed her from behind, making her curse and clench her pussy around my dick. She was my beautiful black queen. She was practically my saint. I worshipped her with my come, pouring it out for her by the gallon. It was the only thing I could give her, aside from her papers and my nervous greeting.
She showed up every work day around eight, more predictable than the sun. Before her arrival, my heart slamming against my ribs, I kept my eyes on the crowded sidewalk, watching for the first glimpse of her curvy form coming up Lexington. After she left, I’d replay the memories: the twinkle in her eyes, her throaty laugh as she bid me good day. Had she been a bit more friendly today? Had she smiled more warmly, lingered a bit longer than usual? She hurried off to what must be some important job, maybe down on Wall Street, leaving me aching but happy.
Weekends and holidays, without my daily dose of her magic, I was miserable. Then I had to remind myself how lucky I was to be in the city at all.