Pamela.

The strains of a harpsichord fill this room as I enjoy a sedate 2003 private reserve cabernet sauvignon bottled from a friend's family winery.

During my work day today, I couldn't help but observe a number of gorgeous black women. I particularly remember one woman whose short, spiky hair immediately caught my attention (such is one of my greatest vices), until I drank enough of her in to have my breath caught from me upon seeing her small, round, firm behind ensconced in a pair of tight faded jeans. I had to stop what I was doing, as I sensed that she possessed the kind of attitude that virtually always captures me.

She reminded me of Pamela.

Ten or so years ago, I was working at a godawful call center while putting myself through university in New Jersey. The office featured three or four rooms where computer terminals had been affixed to temporary tables, and on this particular day, it was a warm summer Saturday afternoon. My attire was rugged, with tight jeans, and a black shirt under a sleeveless denim jacket. My long, wavy hair was down as I wore the headset required to do the job. I was in one of the rooms alone, having stolen myself away from the noise and clatter of the main boiler room, and enjoying the solitude that otherwise came with working on a Saturday.

Pamela was a fairly new hire, or at least I had never seen her before. For whatever reason, when she arrived for work she located herself in the same room as I, and we sat reasonably close to one another. I was focused on doing the job, and it wasn't for a while before I realized that she had deliberately moved from one computer to another, available one next to me. We did the "Hi, how are ya," thing. We worked beside each other and discussed work when we weren't taking calls. As I worked and afternoon turned to evening, I started to notice her checking me out.

Pamela was dropdead yummy. She was black, with a rich chocolate skin tone that glowed. Her hair was extremely short, which is practically a fetish for me. She was dressed casually, with tight jeans and boots. She was trim and taut, maybe a size 8. When I was certain that she checking me out, my throat started to dry. When we exchanged names, I knew immediately that I'd remember her uniqueness, being a black woman with a Scottish surname.

Over time, she began shifting herself closer and closer to me, and soon she was twirling her fingers through the rich ringlets of my long hair. We removed our headsets, alone in that ugly, paneled room as our co-workers stressed in another room down the hall. "I love your hair," she told me, placing her warm hand on my thigh. "I can imagine how it would feel moving across my breasts."

I had to take a breath. As much as I love to flirt, it's being flirted to that stops me in my tracks faster than most anything else. For me, attitude from a woman often transcends any other factor to attract me, and here was an incredible, equally rugged, sensual creature who was making her interest straightfoward and clear, direct and honest. I was hard instantly.

There was a dark, Teutonic bar not far from the dreadful office, and there we went once our shift was over. The basement there was full of wide booths with high wooden backings, and it wasn't long after we started sipping our Guinnesses that we were embracing. Her kisses were passionate, hungry, as direct as her personality. She bit, and she darted her tongue across my lips and into my mouth as though it were a garter snake. When I held her waist, I swooned at how muscular her hips and stomach felt. Her hands held my head, her fingers knotting themselves in my hair, and soon were caressing my shoulders and chest. In time, we didn't really care who else was in nearby booths, though I was glad for the relative privacy we had between the darkness and the arrangement.

She had reached around me, and was holding my ass as we continued to kiss. Soon, she was gripping my stiff cock over my jeans, rubbing her thumb over the straining head of my pulsing shaft as she lifted her shirt enough for me to caress her stomach, hinting my fingertips along the undersides of her small breasts. She was biting my neck, chewing on my ear, gasping, and it wasn't much longer before I had my hand in the front of her jeans.

We arranged ourselves so that I could explore her, and she leaned back against the wall, looking at me squarely in the eye as she lowered the zipper. My hand slid inside the denim, found its way past a pair of panties, over what clearly felt like a tight stripe of wiry curls, and soon my fingertips discovered her folds and the tiny, coral nub inside them. I stroked her. I wiggled my fingers as she held me close. In the dark, in the rich wooden booth of the bar, she came in my hand as I teased and flicked my fingers across her clit.

After she had cum, we calmed ourselves a little and finished our beers. I was still utterly stunned that this gorgeous, tomboyish creature had come on to me and that we had shared this moment. I tried to regroup and regain some amount of composure, and soon we were just talking. Soon after that, well after it getting dark outside, we got ready to leave.

There was a construction site nearby that Pamela had asked us to walk through, being a shortcut to her place. Amidst the silent bulldozers and cranes, we walked through an alley. She pointed out her apartment building and sighed to herself because, she said, she wanted to take me home... but that her housemate would be there and awake. I made an effort to politely show grace, and suggested we see each other again another time.

That's when sexy-black-Pamela-with-the-Scottish-surname bit her lower lip, looked at me in the eyes, and pulled me to a corner alcove in the alleyway where the streetlights couldn't brighten. Pushing me against a raw brick wall, she looked from side to side before dropping to her knees, tugging at my jeans. The air was crisp, and the sound of traffic was close by. Tugging the button and zipper, she looked up at me as she reached inside for my cock. When she had blissfully freed it, all I could do was lean my head against the rough brick behind me, steady myself, breathe deeply, and listen to the honking car horns as I felt her tongue begin to swab my widening cockhead. Her hand was wrapped around the shaft, and she playfully tapped my dick against her face between licks. Her quiet moans of pleasure made me harden all the more, and soon I was feeling the warm wetness and increasing suction as her mouth began to engulf me.

Her hungry slurping drove me wild. Her hands held on to each of my thighs as she knelt in the gravel and blew me. Her head alternated between slow, taunting motions and becoming a blur of noisy movement. I grasped her head, my fingers caressing the sides of her face, feeling her cheeks cave inward as she suckled and slurped me. I started to fuck her wanton mouth, and soon I knew she was feeling my balls gently slapping against her chin.

She stopped. She was reaching into her pocket. She asked me to help her stand. She started kissing me hungrily. She was looking around again. She began to unbuckle her belt and drop her jeans. She stood next to me, pulling me beside her as she uncapped a tube. Lathering her fingers, she brought her hand behind her to her bottom... she was lubing herself.

"Fuck me," she urged. "Fuck my ass."

She pressed her forearms against the brick wall, still wearing her shift and jacket, her jeans down and tangled around her ankles, and her delicious, almost boyish, chocolate ass jutting backward as she bent herself slightly. As much as I craved to fuck Pamela, there was something I needed to do first. Dropping now to my knees, I caressed her beautful bottom in the dimness, enjoying how the light played against the texture of her brown skin. Her ass was smooth and firm like a swimmer's, and I parted her sexy cheeks to open her. Nibbling on her thighs, I drunk her clean scent deeply in, and soon was taunting her with my tongue as I flicked across her tight, dark core. Finding her nub, I sucked it into my mouth between darts from my tongue inside her. She was drenched. Soon after, I got into position.

Her hips were warm and I could coil my grip around her torso. Stroking my cock, I tapped the head on her cheeks. Reaching under her, I gently stroked her clit again, although now I could easily feel her hot and dripping folds. She looked at me over her shoulder. I slipped on a condom.

"Fuck me in the ass," she repeated.

There's something special, incredible about the sensation of pressing one's cockhead against a lubed, willing rosebud. As I pressed more firmly, it was easy to feel her smoothly open up. The sense of being committed to this act, knowing without question that This Was Going To Happen, came when my cockhead had slithered deeply enough that the glans of my cock had finally, softly, wetly popped past her tight anus. Now it was just a matter of sliding in deeper. And I did.

There, in an alleyway of a New Jersey urban construction site, late at night and barely feet away from being illuminated by streetlights, the hum and honk of traffic nearby, black-Pamela-of-the-Scottish-surname bent herself against a brick wall and got a solid ass fucking. Soon I was inside her as deeply as I could go, and held on to her hips as my thrusts quickened and became more demanding. Pamela gasped and clawed at the brickface, and I could feel her anus tighten as she tightened her eyes in ecstasy. When she came, she muffled herself by forcing her face against her shoulder, and when I came, I was pulling her delicious little ass harder and harder against my pelvis. I pumped my come while deeply inside her, feeling her cloying heat and grip.

When it was over, and when we each had composed ourselves, I walked her to her door. We exchanged numbers. I tried to stay in touch, but life must have happened on her end. It was months before I ever saw her again.

When I did, I definitely sensed that she regretted not staying in touch. By then however, she was clearly with another man, and was proudly showing me the ultrasound images of the child she had conceived by him. We talked and hung out like old friends as she invited me into her new apartment, and I got to meet the guy she found herself with. I smiled to myself when I noticed that, like me, he was white. I guess it's her preference.

I moved from the state not long after that second meeting with Pamela. Part of me wonders what life could have been like had we stayed in better contact. Sometimes I think about how she's coming along, how her baby is, what life has been doing for her. I have hopes that she's well, especially since I'm confident that I'll never see her again in my life.