tried to act interested in the interior aesthetics, but she was more interested in touching and holding me. The feeling was mutual. It was as if we had just met, both feeling the magnetic force of physical attraction.
She grabbed my shoulders and kindly guided me backward toward the sheetless mattress. I lay down as she slowly climbed on top of me, straddling me in a squatting position, lifting the bottom front side of her sundress and holding it in her mouth, lips gripping it tightly.
She put her hands on my upper chest, using it to press against and maintain her balance. She aggressively unzipped my slacks with her left hand, never bothering to pull them down. Fondling my hardness with the same hand, she used the tip of it to pull her white cotton panties to the side and put me in her.
The warm thrust immediately relieved all of my pain, and I reached for the back of her head, pulling it down with my right handâpalming it as the tips of her hair tickled my nose. I put my hands under her dress, clutching her hips in an attempt to slow her movement, but her thrust only became more aggressive.
She sensed my release and put her right fingers in my mouth. I softly bit down on them as the two of us climaxed for what felt like everlastingness.
* * *
The next morning her fatherâs Chevrolet Baby Grand arrived from Philadelphia while she was still asleep. Because of my injury, I still couldnât do my Kodokan routine, so I drove over to the post office. The smoothness of the ride likely spoiled me forever, and the slick automobile blended right in with the rest of Harlemâs finest.
Waiting for me in my mailbox was a copy of the Chicago Defender, arguably the leading colored newspaper. In it was their âWeekly Commentâ regarding the Carnegie Hall meeting I had tried to attend. I sat behind the wheel and read it.
Such meetings as that of the Marcus Garvey one Monday night, Aug. 25, in Carnegie Hall are more harmful than helpful to the Race. We say Marcus Garvey because it would appear that he alone is the whole association. In the first place, the man who got himself misquoted in all the white dailies of Tuesday morning, Aug. 26, is not an American citizen. Our Race, it is true, is struggling hard here for justice, but the fiery little man who wants to start a Black Star Line to Africa will find conditions almost as bad in his own country, where he might better center his activities. His organization, too, is composed mainly of foreigners, and certainly does not represent one iota of the American Race man. Our people will not be frightened into quitting their fight for equality, but we can well dispense with the help of a man like Garvey.
Next, I headed over to my new office on 145th and Seventh. A Bureau employee was there finishing up. Dressed as a handyman, he showed me the layout and explained what was what. Two phones had been installed, one for everyday business, the other for Bureau communications only. And they had separate lines in case Hoover or Speed tried to contact me while I was on the business phone with a client.
Several wooden chairs and a desk had also been delivered. It was a small office, but of good quality. I was amazed at how freely the Bureau was willing to spend its money on all things that concerned spying on so-called enemy aliens like Garvey. Whatever I needed to enhance the effectiveness of my mission was granted. And the office itself was expensiveâespecially considering it was only a front business, a home base and cover for me.
But it was smart to have such an office because it would give the appearance to greater Harlem that I was independent, and Garvey himself would surely be more suspicious of an unemployed man coming to beg for a job. If and when I did go to work for Garvey, greater Harlem would simply see it as another of my many contracts.
I called the Bureau, which had much information to share. A secured post office box had been set up for me under the
She grabbed my shoulders and kindly guided me backward toward the sheetless mattress. I lay down as she slowly climbed on top of me, straddling me in a squatting position, lifting the bottom front side of her sundress and holding it in her mouth, lips gripping it tightly.
She put her hands on my upper chest, using it to press against and maintain her balance. She aggressively unzipped my slacks with her left hand, never bothering to pull them down. Fondling my hardness with the same hand, she used the tip of it to pull her white cotton panties to the side and put me in her.
The warm thrust immediately relieved all of my pain, and I reached for the back of her head, pulling it down with my right handâpalming it as the tips of her hair tickled my nose. I put my hands under her dress, clutching her hips in an attempt to slow her movement, but her thrust only became more aggressive.
She sensed my release and put her right fingers in my mouth. I softly bit down on them as the two of us climaxed for what felt like everlastingness.
* * *
The next morning her fatherâs Chevrolet Baby Grand arrived from Philadelphia while she was still asleep. Because of my injury, I still couldnât do my Kodokan routine, so I drove over to the post office. The smoothness of the ride likely spoiled me forever, and the slick automobile blended right in with the rest of Harlemâs finest.
Waiting for me in my mailbox was a copy of the Chicago Defender, arguably the leading colored newspaper. In it was their âWeekly Commentâ regarding the Carnegie Hall meeting I had tried to attend. I sat behind the wheel and read it.
Such meetings as that of the Marcus Garvey one Monday night, Aug. 25, in Carnegie Hall are more harmful than helpful to the Race. We say Marcus Garvey because it would appear that he alone is the whole association. In the first place, the man who got himself misquoted in all the white dailies of Tuesday morning, Aug. 26, is not an American citizen. Our Race, it is true, is struggling hard here for justice, but the fiery little man who wants to start a Black Star Line to Africa will find conditions almost as bad in his own country, where he might better center his activities. His organization, too, is composed mainly of foreigners, and certainly does not represent one iota of the American Race man. Our people will not be frightened into quitting their fight for equality, but we can well dispense with the help of a man like Garvey.
Next, I headed over to my new office on 145th and Seventh. A Bureau employee was there finishing up. Dressed as a handyman, he showed me the layout and explained what was what. Two phones had been installed, one for everyday business, the other for Bureau communications only. And they had separate lines in case Hoover or Speed tried to contact me while I was on the business phone with a client.
Several wooden chairs and a desk had also been delivered. It was a small office, but of good quality. I was amazed at how freely the Bureau was willing to spend its money on all things that concerned spying on so-called enemy aliens like Garvey. Whatever I needed to enhance the effectiveness of my mission was granted. And the office itself was expensiveâespecially considering it was only a front business, a home base and cover for me.
But it was smart to have such an office because it would give the appearance to greater Harlem that I was independent, and Garvey himself would surely be more suspicious of an unemployed man coming to beg for a job. If and when I did go to work for Garvey, greater Harlem would simply see it as another of my many contracts.
I called the Bureau, which had much information to share. A secured post office box had been set up for me under the
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