Her Black Reunion


For the past three months, Violetta Jones had a recurring dream. It was like a nightmare that really happened many years ago but all evidence had been hidden away. Only the dream’s nightly return—vivid as the day that event actually might have happened—was there to stir her memories.

A 42 year-old woman with an 18 year-old son away at the state university and a husband who was frequently away on business ventures, Violetta had time on her hands. Maybe a bit too much time.

She worked part-time as a teller at the town’s only bank. Each night for the past six months she’d been returning to an empty house with far too many memories and too little human contact. Television and radio offered limited solace, and on weekends she felt terribly isolated. Sometimes she wished they’d never moved out here from the city, too isolating, and no one nearby to help in the event of a crisis. She often considered moving to a small apartment near the bank but for now, that was just a hope.

The night that triggered her dreams was several months ago, the first time she got the call. It had been storming for several hours and the power was out when her downstairs phone rang. Having just gone to bed, Violetta reluctantly lifted the covers off her almost nude body. She groped her way to the dark winding staircase heading down to the kitchen. There was no light to guide her except the occasional intense flash of lightning outside. The storm seemed to be getting fiercer by the moment.

Shivering from the unusual coldness of her kitchen, Violetta wished she’d worn something warmer than her tiny summer nightgown to bed that night. It couldn’t have been more than 60 degrees in her house. A rash of goosebumps suddenly rushed over her exposed flesh. Hoping she could go back to bed quickly, she grabbed for the telephone.

“Hello, is that you, John?” she spoke into the receiver, wondering if maybe it was her son John calling because he felt homesick.

At first, the other end of the phone was deadly silent. As if the caller had already hung up. Violetta listened for a moment longer, heard nothing, and considered hanging up.

“Is anyone there?” she asked one last time.

And then, it began. The sounds of labored breathing, at first barely audible. A subtle groaning sound seemed to come through also, barely discernable above the crackling thunder outside. The breathing grew louder, strange and surreal, with no words to accompany it.

Something kept her listening, wondering, could this be her son? Maybe he’s on a cell phone and not able to talk but trying to get through, Violetta thought.

“John is that you…”

“I’ve been watching you, Mrs. Jones,” a dark voice interrupted from the other end.

It was a voice that she’d never heard before, definitely not John’s and not her husband’s. It sounded like a black man’s voice, but she’d never met a black person since moving into that small town two years ago.

“You’re all alone in that big house, aren’t you Mrs. Jones?”

The voice sounded menacing, yet reassuring at the same moment. As if someone had been watching her and maybe, watching over her.

“Must get scary being all alone there at night, Mrs. Jones. Never know who might try to break in downstairs while you’re laying upstairs asleep… And what, with you up there all alone, what would you do, Mrs. Jones? You might not be able to make it to your phone in time, Mrs. Jones. 9-11 is a long way from your bedroom, isn’t it, Mrs. Jones?”


Hanging up the receiver after the caller’s abrupt disconnection, Violetta turned to head back upstairs. She tried to shrug off the call, thinking maybe it was a telemarketing scam. After all, she used to get so many calls at dinnertime. But then she’d changed her number, gotten unlisted, and the marketing calls seemed to stop. And this call was at 1:00 in the morning, hardly the time for anyone to be selling something.

Re-entering the bedroom, her mind was whirling. The caller’s voice seemed so haunting, so forceful, so intense. Violetta quickly climbed back under the covers and tried to let go of the thoughts that were stirring.

It was 3 a.m. when the phone rang again. Violetta had just drifted off to sleep about an hour earlier, and the ring seemed to jolt her. Lying there for long moments, she considered whether to ignore the phone til it stopped. Outside the storm continued unabated, wind fiercer than earlier. Still no sign of power and the house had grown significantly colder.

Ten rings, eleven rings, twelve rings. She knew it wasn’t going to stop. And maybe this time Ataşehir Fetiş Escort it really *was* John, or maybe even her husband.

She threw off the covers and practically ran down the stairs instinctively, still with no light to guide her way. Now she really was cold, her hardening nipples reminding her of how her body always reacted to a sudden change of temperature.

“Hell…” she began

“Mrs. Jones, you shouldn’t let your phone ring for so long before answering. Does it really take that long to get to the phone from your bedroom?”

Violetta shuddered inside as the cold, hard tone of his voice broke through her mental fog. Obviously it was the same caller, and this seemed no practical joke.

“What, what do you want?” Violetta heard herself say.

“It’s not what *I* want, Mrs. Jones,” the caller spoke in a halting, gruff tone. “It’s what *you* want.”

“Wh–what do you mean?” she asked, a sense of anxiety and almost pleading innocence in her voice.

“You know what I’m talking about, Violetta,” he spoke authoritatively. “Don’t play the innocent bitch with me. I might get angry.”

“But, but, I don’t know why you are calling me,” she admitted, now feeling more curious about the identity of her caller.

Who would have her phone number, and know her name, except someone from her bank? And there was no black man, or hardly any man at all, working at her bank. She never gave her phone number to any of her clients, anyway.

“Did you forget all about 24 years ago, Violetta? You had a life before you became Mrs. Jones. Don’t you remember? Or do you need a late-night visitor to remind you?”


For the first week following the calls, Violetta could hardly sleep, and she was constantly stirred up at work. Every day, she observed the bank’s clients closely for any signs that one of them might be her secret caller. But no black clients ever entered the bank on her shifts. And yet she was sure that the caller had been a younger black man.

Something subconscious had happened to Violetta. Even without thought, she began to dress more attractively for her days on the job, choosing stylish blouses and skirts over her usual slacks and sweaters routine. A hint of perfume, some lipstick, which she hadn’t worn for so many years. She seemed to be coming alive after a long winter’s nap.

Then the dreams began. Always with the same theme. In her dreams, she would be walking somewhere, late in the evening, and realize that she was being followed. She’d look over her shoulder and no one would be there, but then she’d hear a voice. It was a black man’s voice. And then she would wake up, always in a cold sweat. Instinctively grabbing the covers and pulling them over her head. Wondering if someone had secretly entered the room.

It was about two months after the phone calls when Violetta went to bed on a Friday night finally feeling a sense of relief. Although she still occasionally experienced her dream’s recurrence, there had been no more phone calls. Maybe she wouldn’t be bothered anymore. Now at least the days were getting longer, the nights not so cold. And in 3 more months, her husband would return from overseas.

And then, it happened again. Four rings, five rings, six rings. Violetta jumped out of bed, hoping this time it might really be John.


“It’s been a while, Mrs. Jones,” the voice muttered. “Did you miss me? I’ve been keeping my eyes on you.”

“But, but, who are you?” Violetta spoke almost breathlessly into the phone.

“I’m the voice you hear in your dreams every night,” the man responded. “I haunt you, don’t I?”

“But, how could you…?”

“How could I know, Mrs. Jones? Or may I call you Violetta?” the menacing voice continued.

“How quickly you forget what you left behind so many years ago, Violetta.” Again, the words tugged at Violetta’s unconscious memories.

“You and my father, you spent many nights together. That was before he went to prison.”


Suddenly Violetta was seized by a flashback, to a scene of when she was just 18, in the woods behind her home. Just graduated from high school, she was walking home one day when she saw him in the distance, amidst the tall trees. Since her parents wouldn’t be home til later that night, Violetta stopped and watched him. She had never seen a black man close up, and her eyes were instantly fixed on the sight of him. He was very dark and very tall. Standing with his back turned. Violetta could tell he was peeing, for what seemed to last forever. As he continued Ataşehir Gecelik Escort to pee, she stood transfixed at the sight, and then he turned at just enough of an angle to reveal his open pants to her. She stared, wide eyed, as he finished peeing.

The rest all had happened so quickly. In the flash of an instant, he noticed her watching. Violetta quickly moved toward one of the large trees nearby, but it was too late to conceal herself. The man moved out in the open, leaving his pants unzipped, and stared right in her direction.

“Hey you,” he said, his voice sounding very angry. “What are you looking at?”

And like a jackrabbit, he took off in Violetta’s direction.

Terrified that she had intruded on his privacy, Violetta looked dumbfounded at first, then realized that he was coming after her. She began to run toward the woods in the other direction, her long hair streaming behind her. But his footsteps kept coming closer.

“You, stop!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

Violetta was afraid to look behind her, sensing he was getting closer. Her skirt fluttered as the wind blew under it. A storm was building in the distance, and the temperature rapidly falling. Her thin blouse offered barely any protection from the chilled night time air.

She knew she had to get out of the woods but the exit was at least a mile away. Running faster, she thought she could escape the man, but all at once she looked over her shoulder and saw him right behind her.

The next moment, all she remembered was the sensation of her hair being grabbed, her neck pulling backward, and a huge arm wrapping around her waist from behind. She fell to the ground and a second later he was upon her, his knees pinning her face down to the ground, his hand holding firmly the back of her hair. And then the other hand–huge, rough, persistent–working its way under the back of her skirt.


She could never tell her parents the truth about the baby. They always insisted she had been a victim. Against her wishes they had taken it away as soon as she gave birth. She never even knew the baby’s sex, much less its future name or home.

Violetta was sent off to university in a neighboring state three months after giving birth to the beautiful black baby. When the baby’s father was put on trial she wasn’t allowed to see him or to know the news about his fate. The story was kept out of the city newspapers by request of her parents. If she had ever had the chance to testify, she would have shocked her parents and the community by telling them the truth.


Now, as her memories flooded her mind, she lay wide awake, restless, intensely hungry yet knowing, food would not satisfy her needs. Her husband briefly flashed through her mind. She realized, she had never, ever told him what happened so many years ago. Her parents had helped her to blank out her memories, to pretend that she’d never had a lover before her husband. But she knew better.

At that instant, Violetta overcame her instinctive fear of her caller. She found herself fantasizing about him, visualizing him in her mind’s eye. She remembered so vividly the sight of the black man who’d been the father of her first baby. A rush of sensations ripped through her imagination and Violetta’s hands found a life of their own, pretending that they were the hands of her first lover, her black lover. She nearly tore her nightgown, pulling it up and over her head and squeezing her breasts, her hands ravishing her own body as she imagined she would be ravished if her midnight visitor were intruding into her bedroom at that moment. Her breasts and tender nipples throbbed under the relentless probing of her own hungry flesh. And then her hands forced themselves between her widely parted thighs. She imagined being impaled on the object of her pleasure—the object which she dreamed her midnight intruder might be more than ready to give to her.

For the next week, every night Violetta went to bed and waited for her phone to ring again. And while she waited, her hands did incredible things to her own body, pretending to be those of her erotic intruder. She hungered for his touch, for his rough hands to find their way under her sheet, under her nightgown, inside her soul.

But the phone didn’t ring.

It was late in May when Violetta drove into town to pick up her paycheck on a day she usually reserved for staying home. As she entered the bank, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a tall black man departing through the Ataşehir Genç Escort back of the bank. For a moment, Violetta watched, but then realized she was staring. Retrieving her paycheck, she turned to leave at the front exit.

“Excuse me, Violetta, there was a young black man here earlier who said he’s looking for you,” one of the tellers said. “He says his father used to be a friend of yours.”

Violetta looked at the teller with a confused expression.

“But I don’t know any black men,” she said.

“Oh, I think you must,” the teller responded. “He certainly seemed to know a lot about you. He left this phone number.”

Taking the message, Violetta tried to act calm but inside, her soul was churning, her mind whirling. Could this be the number of the man who had given her a black baby so many years ago? She couldn’t get the thought out of her mind as she went to find a phone booth. Should she call the number, what would people say if they knew? She decided, the only place to make a call was out of town, out of sight.

Driving to a pay phone away from view of the town, Violetta tried to calm herself but her heart was beating wildly. Overcome with fear, trepidation and anxiety, she picked up the phone and quickly punched in the number. One ring, then two—and the phone answered. Violetta’s heart stood still, anticipating a voice that might seem familiar. Instead, she heard a strange recording of a woman’s voice.

“The number you have reached is no longer being used. However, be assured that your call will be confirmed at midnight next Friday night.”


For the next several days, Violetta was beside herself, totally unable to concentrate on her daily life. She took the week away from work, embarrassed by the disclosure of her colleague, wondering now if there was gossip running rampant among the other bank tellers. It was all too much to bear.

On Friday, she was strangely relaxed. She got up early, dressed in her favourite blouse and skirt, went shopping at the local mall for new summer clothes, had lunch, flirted with several men in the restaurant, then returned home in late afternoon. The sun was very warm, she decided to lie out in her backyard and get a bit of a tan. For the first time in months, Violetta felt sensual, alive, even a bit ravenous, as if she was rediscovering a hidden portion of her soul.

The afternoon passed quickly as she lay in her bikini, letting the sun tone her skin, letting her fingers tease and pleasure her body. In the late afternoon she sipped wine til it made her drowsy and she drifted off to sleep under the intense afternoon sunshine.

Hours later, as night fell, Violetta decided to climb under the thin satin sheets naked. Anticipating a midnight phone call from her mysterious telephone “intruder”, she began to pleasure her body and envisioned what he must look like. Drifting off to sleep on the unusually warm June night, she totally forgot that she had left the window of her kitchen wide open.

There was hardly a moment to awaken before she realized it was happening. All at once, Violetta felt herself stirring in bed, and then the strange sensation in her hands. Before she could see what time it was, she realized her hands were both attached to the top of the bedpost. And then she felt someone’s hands on her breasts, pulling and pawing at her nipples. In that split second between sleep and wakefulness, she realized someone was in the room and in her bed.

“You gave up my first child, but you’re gonna keep this one,” she heard the voice say as her eyes flew open.

Amidst the darkness, she could make out the distinct features of her first black lover towering over her, his huge arms pressing against her hands, his mouth lowering to her breast. In a flash she felt the blinding jolt of his mouth on her nipple, biting so hard that electricity sparked right to her clit and her moan filled the room.

“Oh god, it *is* you,” Violetta groaned as she recognized the familiar brute strength and gentleness of her first lover. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”

“Baby, it’s been a long, long time,” he said. “I’ve paid my dues, I’ve done my time, and now I’m here and ain’t nobody’s gonna keep me from having you now… I’m so glad Jamie found you, baby.”

“Please, unfasten my hands,” Violetta moaned. “I am yours, totally, completely, absolutely. Fuck me, James, Please fuck me hard,” she nearly begged. “Make me remember how it felt to give myself to you. I’ve always loved you, James. I want to always be with you.”

“And you will be, baby, you’ll feel this every single night, And Jamie will live with us too, he’s yours you know. And I want us to be together, starting with tonight.”

“Love me, love me James, fill me to overflowing with your love, give me more than I can handle,” Violetta moaned as the molten lava of James’ liquid love filled her to capacity…