Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison

  Heading to the bathroom—which was more like a personal in-room spa, with steam and dry saunas, a six-person Jacuzzi, a sunken tub filled with mineral water, a separate shower, and a private room for the toilet and bidet—I noticed the flashing light on my PDA, indicating I had a message.

  Backing up to the computer desk, I read, Girl, this man is so fine. In separate messages, Zena had texted, U forgot your laptop in my car. Want me 2 send it 2 U? then U okay, girl?

  “Nah, nah. You bold enough to say my man is so fine, and you want to know if I’m okay?” I said, placing my PDA back on the computer desk.

  More concerned with why Maverick hadn’t contacted me at all, I sat in the chair and browsed the last profile in the group of men.

  I clicked on Jagger: Twenty-two years young, native of St. John; six feet five; 205 pounds; loves sailing, music, dancing, surfing, snorkeling; the best in cunnilingus delight. That man intrigued me once more. My pussy had the hots for this Jaggerman.

  Why not do him? I thought. Oral sex wasn’t cheating. Jagger might give me the sultry, bubbling personality I’d had before meeting Maverick, helping me to forget about what Zena was doing with my fiancé.

  I typed in my request to Jagger. Can you meet me in the community area in two hours? Figuring I’d have to wait a few days to get on his calendar, I browsed the next profile at the bottom of the list.

  Jagger’s instant message popped up. Certainly. What took you so long to ask? I’ve been waiting to taste you, and I’ll come ready. Your pleasure is my only wish.

  I said, “Damn.” Fletcher was caramel suckalicious. The imprint of his snake slithering down his muscular thigh, threatening to poke that plump, juicy head of his out of his chocolate boxers, lit up my pussy and my eyes.

  I instant messaged Jagger. Looking forward to you. Then I sent Fletcher an instant message. Can you bathe me tomorrow at midnight?

  Fletcher’s message came back. I can do whatever you’d like me to do, Seven. Can’t wait.

  My pussy was on high beam! I was beginning to like this place. I walked over to my closet. Inside it, there were at least fifty colorful sarong, with the tags on but no price. When they said, “All-inclusive,” that was what they meant. I gathered the tags were just to let me know the items were new. A rack of one-piece swimsuits and bikinis stretched wall to wall. Beach sandals lined the shelves above. Slip-on stilettos in my size were in a row below the evening dresses. Why so many clothes for a nude resort? Probably because no one had worn them.

  Selecting a simple red sarong, I opened the dresser drawer filled with vibrant panties in lace, Lycra, and satin. “I won’t be needing any of these,” I said, deciding at the moment to let my pussy be liberated.

  I showered, poured myself a chilled glass of mango-ginger juice from the carafe, then added a shot of rum to relax. The tip of my big toe eased into the Jacuzzi, leading the way for my naked body. “Ah,” I exhaled. Being alone suddenly felt heavenly.

  Resting my head on the inflated pillow, I closed my eyes, opened my legs, and let the jet shoot up from the bottom of the Jacuzzi cleanse my pussy and pleasure me with multiple orgasms while I sipped my drink. Drinking with my eyes closed, I could smell the mango and ginger, taste and feel the flavors trickling down my throat. Bubbles blasting behind me massaged my back.

  Setting my glass aside, I whispered, “I could stay here forever.”

  Shriveled fingertips wiped away the sweat from my forehead. If I paced myself, I could experience all twenty-six guys by the end of my stay. Only this experience would be better than when I was in college.

  The plush white towel, almost longer than my body, absorbed the excess water from my body. Carol’s Daughter body products lined the vanity. I layered my skin with Sweet Honey Dip…Chocolate Brown Sugah Body Butter and the Ecstasy Shea Soufflé, tied my red sarong under my arms and around my breasts, and let it flow over my hips, snuggling up to my ass.

  Finishing my drink, I reached for an unopened bottle of 16.9 ounces of water, then drank the entire contents. That should do until we returned from the community area where I was headed for an evening of pleasure.

  Seven, keep an open mind. Enjoy yourself. Be happy or you’ll have to leave, I thought right before Jagger greeted me with a warm smile, which sent a tingling sensation throughout my body.

  “Hello there, beautiful. How are you?” he asked, opening his arms, waiting for me to accept his hug.

  I did.

  He held me firmly. His strong hands embraced my shoulders.

  I took a deep breath, then exhaled. When was the last time Maverick had held me with such conviction, such patience? Momentarily, I wished Jagger were Maverick, praying Maverick wasn’t holding Zena in his arms.

  “Wow, you’re really tense,” Jagger said. “Let me relax you.”

  Looking around, I asked, “Where?”

  “Wherever you’d like. The entire island is yours to enjoy.”

  “Let’s walk for a while,” I suggested, trying to relax on my own.

  I’d met lots of men in Mississippi. Most of them conservative, up-tight, minimalist, and happy with barely getting by as long as they could pay the bills and have a little money left over to drink. My mother had insisted I explore men outside of Webster County, cities outside of Mississippi, countries outside of America. My mother had encouraged me to relocate to Chicago for undergrad school, then advised me to move someplace other than Chicago for grad school. Then she left me before I got my college degree. Daddy must’ve needed Mama more than me; he left shortly afterward, leaving me to walk across the stage with Zena.

  “You’re so beautiful. Want to talk about what bothers you?” Jagger asked, holding my hand as we strolled along the beach.

  I exhaled. “There are so many things right with my life, I hate to complain about what’s wrong.”

  “Seven, it’s only complaining if you don’t either do something about it or let it go. I had it hard in St. John. Lots of tourists coming from all over the world. Men and women wanting me to service them like I was a piece of meat, a sex machine.”

  Suddenly I felt guilty.

  Jagger continued. “Not appreciating me for me. Not knowing or caring to know my last name, how I grew up, or if I cared about them,” he said. “I like this place because the women who come here, they’re genuine, you know. No more explaining to men that I’m not bisexual. I’ve never had sex with a man. These women here are like you, Seven. They care about living a better life, and they’re doing something about it. Whatever that is for them, you know. I get to help them do that. In return, they actually care about me and the other guys here. Many of them write us. Some come back just to visit us. I like that. I hope you come back to visit me.”

  Just to visit? Yeah right. For a moment, I felt selfish. I hadn’t asked anything about Jagger. But I’d only been with him for a few minutes. And he wanted me to come back and visit him?

  “Well, I’m here for six weeks,” I said. “I have a question.”

  “Anything for you, Seven. I’m not just saying that. I mean that,” he said.

  “Have any of the women at Punany Paradise fallen in love with you?”

  Smiling, he answered, “Not really.”

  “What kind of answer is that? What do you mean, not really?”

  “It’s not me they fall in love with. They fall in love with themselves, not only because of what I do, but because of what all the men here do…We adore each and every woman. We respect you. We treat you like the queens you are.”

  “Is that because we get what we pay for?” I asked.

  He nodded. “True. And because you are beautiful inside and out. I tell you, every woman that comes here loses at least ten pounds if she stays for just one week.”

  My lips tightened. Impossible. How could that be? “Now you’re straight lying.”

  Frantically, he shook his head. “No, seriously.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “You arrived two days ago, right?”

  “And?�
��

  “And when was the last time you thought about food? I mean a full-course meal, like breakfast, lunch, or dinner,” Jagger asked, kissing the back of my hand.

  Silence consumed my thoughts. Not once had I thought about food in that way. I had reflected on my life a lot, had spent way too much time imagining what my fiancé was doing with my best friend, had read a book, had talked to my mom’s spirit, and had slept.

  “You see, Seven. When our worries turn into happiness, when we are happy like the Creator intended, food sustains and vitalizes us. Food does not consume or console us. Punany Paradise is about connecting with the chi energy in your womb that feeds your soul. Your creative energy. Chi drives your passion. I guarantee you, by the time you leave here in six weeks, you will be a sizzling size six.”

  The smile on my face could not be erased with a Brillo pad. “No way,” I said, cheesing ear to ear. “I haven’t been a size six since high school.”

  “I want to make you feel like you’re in high school again. Let me please you, Seven,” Jagger said. “I know you don’t know me, not yet, anyway. All I ask is that you trust me.”

  Unwrapping my sarong, Jagger laid it over the sand.

  “Lie down,” he said, guiding me to a horizontal position, parallel to the waves washing ashore.

  “Ooh, nice. I love your punany. You have a beautiful pussy, Seven. Your shaft is thick, and it’s protruding,” he said, lightly kissing my clit. “Yes, she’s excited for me. I like that.” He kissed me again.

  Oh my gosh, I thought. What am I submitting to?

  Lightly grazing my pubic hairs with his teeth, he massaged me, softly stroking my nipples.

  “Is this okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I agreed, breathing rapidly.

  Spreading my outer lips, he knelt between my legs, twirled my hairs with his fingers, then his tongue. Licking his fingers, Jagger teased my clit. I wanted to scream.

  “Relax,” he said. “Don’t hold it in. Let it out. Release yourself. That’s why you’re here. We will never recapture this moment. Let go for me, Seven. It’s okay to be vulnerable with me. I won’t hurt you.”

  I heard a few women screaming in the distance, giving me permission to join them. “Yesss!” I yelled, releasing the energy.

  Jagger placed his wet, hot lips on my shaft, then whispered, “ABC,” licking the capital letters. With each letter, he passionately grazed my clit.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, cuming just a little with each stroke.

  Light flutters and gentle, subtle licks pleasured me. The sea breeze swept against my skin, nudged my hair. The moonlight stared into my eyes when Jagger traced the letter E, ending with that middle stroke, then passionately sucked my clitoris into his mouth.

  I swear, by the time Jagger got to Z, easing his middle finger inside of me, stroking my G-spot while sucking my clit, all I could do was cry a river of tears, which cleansed my spirit.

  Chapter 11

  Maverick

  Overcast.

  Dark clouds swept down on the Windy City. Rain poured down in the middle of the workday, drenching the unsuspecting, the ill prepared. A funnel of darkness swirled, skating along North Michigan Avenue, snapping umbrellas inside out, the sound of microwave popcorn frantically approaching its peak. Dirt, debris, leaves, rain stuck to the five-thousand-dollar, hand-stitched, tailor-made suit cloaking my body; an unsavory residue permeated my skin, making me want to slither out of my clothes, shed like a snake.

  Parting the pack, racing across East Chestnut Street from Water Tower Place, I darted into my office building, bypassed the line of people waiting to buy tickets to gain access to the Hancock Observatory, located on the ninety-fourth floor of the John Hancock Center.

  Shit! Where’d that storm come from, man? I thought, plucking dirt from my jacket. Weather conditions around the world were becoming less predictable with each passing year. First, a tornado in Brooklyn, now one in Chicago.

  Blame the man-made wind tunnels on the politicians, the city planners, and the architects that created this eclectic monstrosity after the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which killed hundreds of people. Sometimes a mass of people had to die to give birth to innovative ideas. Or sometimes just one person needed to be laid to rest to make the world a better place for another. For me, that one person was my father.

  After the fire, Chicago was resurrected. After I moved out of my dad’s house, I was reborn, wishing my father would’ve died shortly after I’d left so I could’ve returned home to my mother. He hoarded her all our lives; I was an unwelcome kid in his home.

  Refusing to soak in childhood trauma, I curtailed my negativity, instructing my secretary to call my driver. Then I asked, “Has Ms. Stephens called?”

  “No, sir. Not yet,” Amanda replied. “But Ms. Belvedere phoned. Said if your offer still stands, she’d love to join you at tonight’s game.”

  Took her long enough to respond. I knew she’d call me. I wondered what Zena was like in bed. For certain, she wouldn’t become Mrs. Maxamillion until I found out. The sooner she gave in, the better.

  “Is my new house near ready for inspection?” I asked Amanda.

  “They’re on schedule, sir. Three more days. The floor plan for your new home is fabulous. Ms. Stephens is going to love it. My favorites are the rooftop Jacuzzi and swimming pool. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why did you let your fiancée make all those reception plans, then build her an estate, where you plan to surprise her with an all winter-white wedding reception?”

  “Because I can afford to.”

  All was not in vain. The only thing that had changed was my bride. My grand plans had somewhat backfired. But with no contact information, for all I knew, Seven could be gone for good. I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to live with Danté, and I had been kept from my mother all my life. I would perish if I had to live without a wife.

  Amanda smiled, then asked, “Is it true? Are your football and basketball players going to be there?”

  “Yes, the players will be there. Is Ms. Belvedere’s contract ready?”

  “It’s on your desk, sir,” Amanda said, with a smile.

  Perfect. The contract was a test. One, to see if Zena would sign it without reading it first, a sure sign not to hire or marry her. Two, to determine her level of competence.

  Closing my office door, I removed my clothes, placed everything, including my underwear, in a laundry bag, then showered. After easing on a gray tailored suit with hairline purple vertical stripes, a hand-stitched lavender shirt, no tie, I stepped into my gray ostrich shoes.

  I sat at my desk, reading the final contract. My lawyer had added in a few clauses, like: “Grantor agrees to pay Grantee the sum of one hundred thousand dollars, $100,000, per month.” The following clause read, “This is a performance-based contract whereby Maverick Maxamillion Incorporated, the Grantor, reserves the exclusive right to rescind at its discretion, without cause at any time, and the Grantor shall be held harmless under all circumstances, without obligation for restitution of any kind to the Zena Belvedere Agency, the Grantee, if the stipulated outcome, as determined by the Grantor, is not achieved.”

  I’d taken advantage of most of my female clients by allowing an “out” clause for me while obligating them to perform.

  Amanda’s face popped up on my office iChat. Mr. Maxamillion, your driver is here. Don’t forget your cashier’s check for Ms. Belvedere so she can finalize your wedding plans.

  Check? More like a surprise gift of fifty grand to Zena basically to plan her own wedding. All the work for the real reception, I’d done.

  “Perfect,” I said, leaving my office immediately. Passing Amanda’s desk, I said, “Have Danté pick up Ms. Belvedere from her home.”

  I had to scale back on spending time with Danté. I’d devised a plan to keep him busy and out of my space for a while.

  “Okay, sir. Enjoy the game,” Amanda said, smiling.

  Amanda was a sweet girl. Sharp. Efficient. Obed
ient. Perky. Attractive. Twenty-one, straight out of college. A bit too young according to my personal preference. Girls that young weren’t women yet. I wanted only grown folks in my bed.

  My driver was waiting for me outside my office. As I slid into the backseat, I noticed that the dark clouds hadn’t dissipated. The inclement weather might work to my advantage, forcing Zena to stay the night at my place.

  I called Danté.

  “Yes, Mr. Maxamillion,” he coyly answered.

  I chuckled at his tone, then asked, “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way to Ms. Belvedere’s.”

  “Good,” I said. “Flirt with her. Make sure to give her your business card with your cell number, and tell her you’d like to take her out. You know how we do it. You take care of her, and I’ll take care of you,” I lied.

  “Will do,” Danté said. “Anything else?” he asked, with enthusiasm and extra bass in his voice.

  “Yeah, when you drop her off at the stadium, you’re free to go home. She’s going home with me,” I told him, sure my mixed messages would fuck him up.

  “You know what? Fuck you! I helped your ass when—”

  I interrupted, “Tell me a thousand fucking times so I don’t have to hear it again?”

  Danté hung up.

  I glanced out the window and saw that we were passing my dad’s house. My mother was sitting on the wet porch. What had caused her to be outside after the rain?

  I told my driver to back up to the house. After getting out of the car, I stood at the fence. “I love you, Ma.”

  My mother looked up at me for a moment before standing. She brushed off her blue floral print dress, and came to me. As she hugged me over the three-foot fence, she said, “I love—”

  “Get your ass in this house!” my father yelled at her from the porch, holding the screen door open.

  I held her tight as she struggled to free herself. “Mama, why?” I cried.

  Slam. The screen door closed.

  My father disappeared into the house. I knew I had only a few moments before that punk would shoot at me again.