“You going back to the office?”
“Yeah.” I kiss her cheek again. It’s a small lie. This whole thing with Momma makes me realize I need to start looking into some longterm care options. Her mind is going. It was bad enough when she “confessed” to being a witch last year, but now this whole business with another witch cursing her with black muti has me wondering if it’s the onset of dementia.
It’s raining when I leave the hospital. Great. The freeways will be damn slow. Southern Californians don’t know how to drive in the rain.
After a too-long commute, I turn into the driveway just as a lightning bolt brightens the sky. Rain sweeps across the front yard.
I’m about to pull under the portico but some damn bird is in the way. A bird the size of a turkey. Its feathers are tannish pink and it has a long black beak like a woodpecker but a whole lot bigger. It’s a predatory looking bird—even its feathers fanning out from the back of its head are badass. A fugitive from the zoo no doubt. Last year it was a peacock.
My foot hits the brake and I wait while the bird cocks its head, spreads wide iridescent wings, and soars low over the yard.
I pull under the portico, get out of the car, and unlock the front door. The rain’s coming down so hard and fast I can hear it inside the house. It’s a comforting sound that makes me want to make a cup of tea. Michael’s carbon fiber Zero Halliburton briefcase is in the foyer so I know he’s home already. He’s got the TV on upstairs. Porn by the sound of it. Michael loves his porn.
I set my purse on the table, kick off my heels, and tread upstairs. About halfway up, I stop. Michael has the volume turned up loud. All I hear is “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me with your huge cock. Oh yeah, deeper bae, deeper. So fucking good.”
“God your tits are amazing.” It’s Michael’s voice.
I freeze. Skin, blood, heart. I’m frozen with rage.
“Ohhh, Mikey, your cock is gonna make me squirt.” It’s a real voice.
Mikey? My muscles thaw enough for me to creep forward.
“You like big cocks, don’t you? Like them deep inside your tight cunt.”
This is Michael? The man never says two words when we have sex.
The idiots didn’t even bother to shut the bedroom door, so I peek around.
Some blonde bitch with cheap extensions is riding my husband like she’s on a mechanical bull. One hand is waving in the air, the other pushing down on the top of his clean-shaved head. Michael’s got his paws on each one of her watermelon-sized implants as they bounce up and down. She’s a rich girl, has her Chanel bag on my dresser and five-inch red-soled Louboutins near the bed.
“I’m gonna fuck your tits next,” Michael says.
“Fuck my tits. Fuck my ass. Fuck my mouth. Just fucking fuck me!”
And he does. The man never fucked me like that. A few halfhearted thrusts are all I ever get. He’s fucking this girl like he’s auditioning for a porn movie.
I pull my phone from my pocket and tap VIDEO. I need proof, evidence, a bargaining chip.
Michael rolls the girl over and spreads her legs wide.
“Fuck yeah! Fuck yeah! Harder! Harder! Fuck me hard!”
This video will come in handy if she’s married.
“Is this hard enough for you? My cock is a sledge-hammer, bae.”
It’s like a bad porn movie. It is a bad porn movie. Weird thing though, I’m turned on. Mad as hell and yet my panties are wet.
Rich Bitch orgasms. Loud. Putting-on-a-show loud. Michael too. We’ve been married for ten years and he only ever whimpers. Now he’s moaning and groaning and giving Rich Bitch all the cred.
Michael pulls out his cheatin’ cock and shoves it between her collagen lips. Rich Bitch slurps his cum, and then Michael gets on all fours and shoves his ass in her face. Damn, Michael. I turn off the video.
I slide the phone in my skirt pocket and move around the door. Michael sees me right away. Rich Bitch doesn’t, she’s too busy stroking his semi-hard cock and licking a dark, dark place.
“Fuck.” Michael swats the girl’s hand away and sits down.
Rich Bitch looks confused. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are we having a threesome?”
Michael opens his mouth.
“No.” I cut him off. “I’m his wife. Get the fuck out of my house.”
Rich Bitch rolls her eyes, wipes her mouth on my sheets, slides off the bed, and wiggles into her limegreen Versace dress like she has all the time in the world.
“Liyana...” Michael stands, comes toward me, arms wide. “Baby.”
I hold my hand up. “No.”
Rich Bitch slings her Chanel bag over her shoulder, scoops up her Louboutins, and saunters toward me. “He’s even better than my friends said.” She smirks and walks past.
I want to tear her extensions out. Rip off her fake eyelashes. Stick her stilettos through my husband’s cheating heart.
I don’t.
My fists clench so hard my nails dig into my palms. Last thing I need is for her to press assault-and-battery charges.
“Paris!” Michael grabs his clothes and runs after her.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I need to drive Paris home.” Michael traipses down the stairs.
“Yeah. Do that. Don’t bother coming back.” I keep my voice in check. Don’t want to give Paris the rich bitch the satisfaction of seeing me go all Crazy Wife.
Michael throws on his T-shirt and hoists up his pants while Rich Bitch checks her phone. If she takes a photo to put on Instagram I’m going to lose it. #GotCaught
“Nice meeting you,” she calls as Michael pushes her out the door.
I snap. The next thing I know I’m looking at a broken lamp, torn-off sheets, and the mattress against the wall.
I stagger down the stairs, consider smashing Michael’s fish tank in the family room, and head for the kitchen.
One vodka, three ice cubes, and a lemon wedge later I open the French doors and plop my ass on the chair under the covered patio. It’s still raining, not as heavy, just a steady shower that cools the air. I need cooling off because there are things to think about. Should I get tested for STDs? How many women has Michael fucked? Can I afford this house on my own? Will he ask for alimony? Who’s the best divorce attorney in town? How could I have been so stupid?
I saw the signs. Late-night meetings. Refusing to tell me the passcode for his phone. Texting clients during evenings and weekends. Lots of business trips. I should have confronted him, but I didn’t want to be that kind of wife.
I lift the glass to my lips. Empty already. I go inside and make another, then grab the vodka bottle as I walk back outside.
The odd-looking bird is standing on the edge of the patio.
“Shoo.” I wave the vodka bottle at him.
The bird hops closer. It must have escaped from the zoo—it’s way too friendly.
“Don’t have any food for you. Unless you want to peck out my husband’s eyes when he comes home.”
The bird stretches its neck and waddles forward. It has webbed feet.
“Maybe I do have food for you.”
I walk inside and use a large clear pitcher to capture one of Michael’s three-thousand-dollar clarion angelfish. It’s gorgeous but aggressive and territorial. Like Michael, named for an angel but nonetheless a predator.
“Here you go.” I empty the pitcher and the fish falls to the ground.
The angelfish flops once before the bird scoops it into its long black beak and swallows it whole. The bird looks at me and starts calling. It’s a staccato sound that ends with a long squawk.
“You want another? I’ve got one more.”
The bird eats that one too. I feel better and the bird looks happy.
“That’s it. Fish tank empty.” I set the pitcher on the table.
The bird walks to the end of the patio, spreads its great wings, and lifts off into the air. It circles twice around the yard before disappearing over the top of our neighbo
r’s eucalyptus trees.
The doorbell gives me a start. Drink in hand, I walk inside and look at the video doorbell mounted inside the kitchen. Dr. Nkosi waves at the camera.
This can’t be good.
I press the speaker. “Is Momma okay?”
“She’s fine. I’d like to talk to you about her.”
“It’s not a good time.”
“That’s why she sent me.” Dr. Nkosi rubs the back of his neck.
“It’s really not a good time.” What the hell did Momma say to him?
Dr. Nkosi leans close to the camera. “How many doctors do you know who make house calls?”
Good point.
“Be there in a sec.” I check the mirror and wipe away a mascara smudge. Still looks like I’ve been crying, though.
“Thank you,” he says when I open the front door.
He’s wearing gray slacks and a white linen shirt, the top button undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks younger without the doctor duds. Even sexier since the clothes accentuate his fine body.
“You want anything to drink?” I say, passing the kitchen. “Water, tea?” I jiggle my glass to clink the ice cubes. “Vodka?”
“No thanks.”
I take him outside and we sit down at the table. It’s raining hard again, which matches the torrent I need to weep.
I brush away a tear. “Sorry. Bad day. Found my husband with another woman when I got home.”
“Thadie never liked him.”
I squint at the doctor over the rim of my glass. “Do you know Momma personally?”
“We’ve been friends a long time.” Dr. Nkosi folds his hands in his lap.
“She never mentioned you.”
“Why would she?”
“Um.. .just how do you know Momma?” I get the feeling he knows a lot more about me than he’s letting on.
“Thadie and my momma are in the same club.” He tilts his head. “The Zulu women’s group that meets once a week.”
“Oh, that group.”
Momma has been going to meetings once a week for years. Her Zulu Sisters, she calls them. Every few months she asks me to go with her. Says daughters and granddaughters are welcome. I’ve never been.
Dr. Nkosi looks out over the yard. “Thadie saw it coming.”
“It?”
“Finding out about Michael’s betrayal in the worst way possible. She had a vision.”
Momma and her visions! Most were just logical predictions, although a few were disturbingly accurate surprises, like the Jesus-praising client who stabbed her husband to death.
I finish my second glass. “So Momma convinced you to come here to do what exactly?”
“Get revenge.” He says this without a trace of humor.
Not only do I think Momma is going senile, I’m beginning to have my doubts about Dr. Nkosi.
“What kind would you like?” He rubs his hands together and then bursts out laughing.
I laugh too. The man had me going for a moment. “Right now? Death. A painful death.” I look into my empty glass. “Tomorrow I’ll just want the house.”
“No chance of reconciliation?” His eyebrows lift.
“No. I’ve been deluding myself long enough.”
Dr. Nkosi is quiet, his eyes doing all the speaking. Talk to me, they say. Unburden yourself.
“Our sex life’s been tepid for years.” I push the glass away. “Michael always complained. Said I was too uptight. Not creative.” I pull the phone from my skirt pocket, hit PLAY, and slide it toward him.
Dr. Nkosi would make a perfect poker player. His face betrays nothing. “Why are you showing me this?”
“Is that what it’s supposed to be like?”
“Sure, why not?” Dr. Nkosi stands, pushes in the chair.
I get up. “Tell Momma thanks but I need to work this out on my own. Tell her she was right about Michael.” I walk Dr. Nkosi to the foyer but instead of opening the front door I turn to face him. “Since we watched porn together I think it’s only fair I know your name.”
“Shaka.”
It’s a Zulu name.
Shaka stands close. “I am here for you.” He cups my cheek. “You’re a beautiful, smart woman, too good for Michael. You need a faithful man who respects and adores you.” He bends over and sets a soft kiss on my lips.
I don’t pull back. Enjoy the moment. Shaka pulls away, those sexy eyes asking a question I already know the answer to.
I part my lips and move forward. This kiss starts soft, cautious, and I wrap my arms around his neck. Our tongues meet, tasting and exploring with rising fervor. He tastes delicious, and the scent of his skin makes me weak.
Our mouths smash together. Who needs air? I haven’t been kissed like this since college. My panties are wet. Maybe watching the video got us both riled up. Maybe it’s the vodka. I don’t care. This man wants me!
Shaka’s fingers slip beneath my blouse and grab a handful of breast. He groans and pins me against the wall. He’s ripped. I discover just how sculpted his muscles are as my hands work their way down his hard body. He rubs his cock against my stomach.
“Do you want me?” He breathes into my ear.
“God yes.” This is crazy. What am I doing?
Shaka pushes me to my knees and unzips his pants. His cock springs out, black and bold and beautiful. He’s bigger than Michael and not circumcised. My lips close over the head of his cock and suck. My hand rides up and down his length. My cunt pulses, my thighs trembling I’m so fucking horny.
Shaka strokes my cheek. “Liyana, you’re amazing. Your mouth is blowing my mind.”
I wiggle my tongue over his smoothness.
“Your husband is an idiot. You’re fucking incredible.” He groans loudly and my clit throbs harder. “Girl, I’m not coming in your mouth. You need a real man’s cock inside you.” He tugs me up, pushes my skirt to my waist, and takes me against the wall.
I’m whimpering it feels so damn fine. His cock thrusts hard and I swear my cunt is dripping. My legs hitch around his waist and my arms hold tight.
“Fuck me.” The words are freeing. Stimulating and arousing. “Fuck me.”
“You need a good fucking. It’s the best kind of muti.Tell me what you want, Liyana.”
“I want...” I groan, my transition from horny to almost there taking me by total surprise “Fuck.”
Shaka goes deep, each plunge rubbing my back against the wall.
“Like that?” Shaka bites my earlobe. “Your cunt is so damn wet and tight, I can’t hold out much longer.” I’m panting now, the thick weight of pre-climax making me writhe. “I’m coming. Oh god, I’m coming!” “Oh girl—”
I explode, pulse my juices all over him. My limbs shake and my ass tingles.
“Fuck, yeah.” Shaka shouts, trembles, and burrows his head into my neck. “So fucking good.”
I burst into tears and slide down to the floor.
“That bad?” Shaka pulls up his pants and zipper. I’m panting, trying to catch my breath, my cunt still pounding. I want more. Lots more.
Shaka knows this. He drops to his knees, sticks two fingers inside and lowers his head to my clit. So fresh from orgasm, it only takes a few licks for me to come again. My ass clenches and lifts off the floor, but Shaka keeps licking. I come again and again. Each orgasm brings a fresh torrent of tears. Years of pent-up sexual frustration unleashed as he laps at my cunt.
Breathless, I push him away. “No more.”
Shaka gathers me close and we sit like that for a few moments while thunder shakes the house and lightning illuminates the foyer.
“You need to leave,” I say.
“Are you sure? I’ll stay all night if you want.”
“No, I don’t know when Michael is coming back.” I scrape my fingers across his short beard. “We need to talk.” Shaka helps me to my feet and his lips graze mine. “I’m here for you. Don’t forget that.”
“Yeah, you make one hell of a house call. I think you jump started
my healing process.”
“The right muti is powerful.” He winks and shuts the door behind him.
Michael comes home an hour later. We talk. Or rather, he accuses me of not meeting his needs. It’s my fault. I won’t suck him back up after he comes. I won’t give him a rim job. I won’t let him ass-fuck me. I don’t talk dirty, I don’t...and on and on. I tell him to leave. He refuses. He tells me he intends to collect alimony because I earn more on paper. He’s glad I never got pregnant. I’d be a terrible mother. He sits there with his arms crossed and tells me he’s not leaving the house.
I get up, throw a change of clothes in a duffle and walk out the front door. I stay at a swanky hotel, order room service, and book a morning spa appointment for the next day. A little pampering is in order. I think about calling Shaka but don’t. Alone time is what I need. And a good divorce attorney.
In the middle of the night I wake up, my dream about Shaka making me orgasm in my sleep. He unleashed something inside me and it scares me. After a breakfast of eggs Benedict on the terrace and a harmony-promoting massage in the spa, I head home.
I feel good. My head is clear. I know what I need to do. I have the video.
The bird is in the driveway again. Sheesh, I probably shouldn’t have fed it. I honk the horn but it only flies as far as the stucco wall at the edge of our property.
Michael walks out of the house. He’s dragging luggage behind him.
I turn off the car. “Glad you came to your senses.”
“You’re a fucking crazy bitch.” He throws a suitcase into the BMW’s trunk.
“I’m crazy? You’re the one doing the nasty with Paris the ass licker.”
“Don’t play innocent with me. You told your mom to put a curse on me.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Michael pulls up his T-shirt. There are long gashes on his back. “Fucking bird tried to kill me last night while I was outside in the hot tub. I know your mom sent it. I’m leaving all right?”
“A bird?”
Just then that bird swoops under the portico, wings wide, claws outstretched, and knocks him across his head.
Michael covers his head and dives into the front seat. “Fuck you, Liyana. Tell your crazy ass mother to go to hell!” He slams the door.
Legends of Lust Page 21