🔥Ebz’s Black Book: Letters of Heat & Honey - True Erotic Confessions & Diary Entries from Across the Diaspora (Vol. 1) 18+ Reading 🔥

🎙️🔥 TalkBoutDat After Dark 🎙️🔥

“A DAT YUH FI TALK BOUT!”

🎵 [Cue sultry late-night dancehall jingle: bassline low, breathy female voice laughing]

🎙️ “TalkBoutDat Radio... Late night, after dark... It’s time for your secret release…”

Voiceover: “A DAT YUH FI TALK BOUT!”

The red “ON AIR” light glows.

It’s 10:04PM in London, but the confessions come in from Brooklyn to Brixton, Montego Bay to Mombasa.

Welcome to Ebz’s Black Book: Letters of Heat & Honey, where no tale is too twisted, no secret too sacred.

Ebz Dixon’s voice hits the mic — smooth, low, rich with knowing

“Good night, my honey-skinned sinners and chocolate-soaked saints... this is Ebz, your late-night lover, your diary whisperer, your lyrical freak therapist. It’s TalkBoutDat After Dark... and baby, we wide open tonight.”

A rustle of paper. A teasing sigh.

She flicks open her red leather-bound journal — the infamous Ebz Black Book.

The mic picks up the faint creak of the spine... the scent in your imagination is honey and musk.

“Tonight’s letter is from a woman in Hackney. Calls herself ‘Tangled’.

She says she’s married... but it’s her neighbour’s wife who keeps her up at night.

Let’s get into it...”

________________________________________

🖤 Letter #1: “That Night in the Garden” – from Tangled, Hackney, UK 🖤

“Dear Ebz,

I told myself it was just wine and summer heat...

But when I saw her watering the plants in that loose robe... I swear to God, my thighs twitched.

She bent over the roses like she was offering something — and maybe she was. Her husband was in Ghana, mine was in Birmingham. And I was three glasses in and too hungry to lie to myself.”

“She saw me watching. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at me with those sleepy eyes and said,

‘Come help me trim the bush.’

Ebz…

She knew exactly what she was doing.

I didn’t even put shoes on. I was on her lawn in a maxi dress and nothing underneath in seconds.”

“The shears dropped. My hands didn’t.

I pressed her against the fence and kissed her like I was trying to shut her up before she said something holy.

She moaned into my mouth.

And just like that — I was on my knees on the lawn…

face deep in forbidden flower.”

________________________________________

Back in studio, Ebz lets out a slow, satisfied chuckle.

“Mmm. Baby… That’s the type of bush we love to trim. Hot, wet, and a little wild.”

Phones are already lighting up.

DMs pouring in.

The WhatsApp line buzzing with emojis — 🍯🔥💦🌺

________________________________________

Listener Call-In:

📞 Caller from Atlanta:

“Ebz… I got a story for you. It involves my best friend’s mum, a thunderstorm, and me learning I’m not as straight as I thought...”

📞 Text from Lagos:

“Please don’t say my name on air but I caught my husband filming me and his cousin in the shower… I didn’t stop.”

📞 Voice note from Spanish Town:

“Mi gyal, mi waan tell yuh dis... yuh black book a tek mi soul. Mi did tink mi wild till mi hear dat garden story. Mek mi confess mi own...”

Ebz closes the segment with her signature line:

“Confess it, baby. Don’t carry it. This is Ebz’s Black Book. You don’t have to be good. You just have to be honest.”

Until next time, mi darlings… stay sticky, stay safe, and stay scandalous.

🎵 Outro jingle plays

“A DAT YUH FI TALK BOUT!”

“The Flat Above the Afro Shop”

August 14th, 1997 — Birmingham, UK

Letter from Nadine A., 26, to Ebz

Dear Ebz,

That summer had a grip on me — on all of us.1997. The air was thick, charged, and even the nights refused to cool down. I was 26, living above the Afro shop off Lozells Road, broke but bold, working afternoons at the community centre and dancing till dawn on weekends.

That flat was a sauna — windows painted shut, fans doing nothing but pushing hot air around. Across the hall lived Daniel. Skin like milk tea, dirty-blond hair that curled when it was humid, always in a vest with his tracksuit bottoms hanging off his hips like a dare.

He smoked menthols, wore cheap cologne that somehow worked, and played R&B on CD loud enough for the bass to vibrate through my walls. But it was his eyes — that lingering, cocky stare when we passed in the corridor — that stayed with me.

We’d been circling each other for weeks. I caught him glancing when I bent to get my post. He’d “accidentally” knock on my door asking for sugar when I knew damn well he didn’t drink tea.

One Saturday, I invited the storm in. Told him my tap was rattling. He came over with a wrench and a grin.

"Tap's fine," he said after barely looking. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

My reply was a smirk and an unbothered shrug. "You gonna fix anything or just stand there looking pretty?"

Next thing I know, my back’s against the wall, his mouth’s on mine — lips urgent, tongue slick, tasting like mint and trouble.

He stripped me down with no patience. My vest top hit the floor. My shorts followed. My breath caught when he ran his fingers up the backs of my thighs, then grabbed my ass like he’d paid for the privilege.

"I knew this would feel good," he muttered, kissing down my neck.

He dropped to his knees and ate like a man starved — lips wet, tongue deep, chin shiny with me. He took his time, moaning into me like I was his favorite flavor. I was already close when he stood, tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth, and rolled it down over the thickest cock I’d seen in years.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he turned me around, bent me over the side of my sofa — cheeks spread, legs wide. The first push was slow, almost sweet, but the second had me gasping.

He fucked me deep — hard enough that my toes curled, slow enough to feel every stroke, every throb. My hands gripped the cushion, back arched, ass bouncing into him. But then...

He spat. Loud, wet. I felt it land, hot between my cheeks — then his thumb spread it, slick and greedy. Not inside. Just rubbing. Circling. Teasing that taboo spot.

"Fuck," I whispered, my body shivering.

“You like that, yeah?” he breathed, voice low, cock drilling me steady. “Your ass is so fuckin’ pretty when it’s trembling for me.”

The way his thumb played with me, barely there, all tease and promise, while he pounded from behind — it was too much. My moans turned to cries, my thighs shook, and I came so hard I bit into the cushion.

He didn’t stop. Just grunted, grabbed my hips, and fucked through it — long strokes, deep and deliberate — until I felt him tense and spill inside the condom, hips jerking, breath catching.

We stayed like that — both half-naked, sweating, breathing hard — until my leg gave out and we collapsed together on the sofa.

He lit a cigarette after, still inside me. Passed it to me with a smirk. “Next time you call me over, better make sure the tap’s actually broken.”

We never dated.

But that summer? He fixed me more than once.

Yours in sweat and sin,

Nadine 💦