Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison

  “Umm,” I hummed. Felt so good having a dick in my mouth. I loved giving head. Loved having my lips wrapped around his shaft. I paused, closing my eyes. A long, steady flow of air filled my lungs. “Yes.” Taking him deeper into my mouth, I sucked, licked, came, sucked, licked, and came some more until I could taste precum oozing out of his dick. Eyeing him, I asked, “You have a condom for this deliciously big, pretty-ass dick of yours?”

  He exhaled, “Yeah, in my pocket. Put it on for me, will you, baby?”

  Baby. The word danced with my spirit. Wished he were all mine. It would be heavenly to come home to a man, a husband, who didn’t want kids. Cuddle with him in front of my wood-burning fireplace. Wake up with him in my bed every morning instead of every once in a while. Hoped this wasn’t my last time with Danté. He felt so damn amazing. If Seven wasn’t using her wedding gown, if Maverick wasn’t marrying Seven, Danté and I could star in our own version of Madea’s Family Reunion and get married.

  Tossing the pearls to the floor, I got up, got the condom, opened the pack. Sucking the tip into my mouth, my lips tight, I gradually rolled the condom over his head, down his shaft, then mounted him.

  Curling my fingers, I swear I wanted to scream, “Lord, Jesus!” when I sat on his dick. I eased up, held my hips above his, keeping the head in, trying not to cum right away with his head throbbing against my G-spot.

  “You okay?” he asked, placing his hands on my hips.

  I nodded. “Better than okay.”

  “I love your energy, Zena. I can tell you want me as much as I want you. Thank you for sharing your beautiful body with me.”

  He lifted me off of him, slid from underneath me; we traded places again. This time his tongue circled my areola. Narrowing in on my nipple, he bit hard enough to evoke submissive pain, sucked firm enough to please me, making me cum again.

  The next three hours I’d cum, he’d cum, and I’d cum over and over until I surrendered to the uncontrollable orgasms auditioning for matrimony in my vagina.

  The last words I recalled hearing before falling asleep at three in the morning were, “Baby, I see why I was intimidated by you. You are a real woman.”

  The sound of my front door closing awakened me at seven-thirty. The sunlight was in my eyes; the pearls were in my bed. I hurried to the living room, opened my door in time to see Danté’s limo cruising toward the security gate. Maybe he had to pick up a client and didn’t want to wake me. A kiss on the cheek, lips, or a quickie would’ve been considerate.

  “Oh, well. My pussy feels great,” I said, skipping to my bedroom.

  Glancing around, I noticed that my dress and thong were on the floor, beside my bed. I picked them up, headed toward the bathroom. Passing my desk, I stopped, took a few steps back, then stared.

  Seven’s laptop, and the cashier’s check, were gone.

  Chapter 16

  Seven

  Blue skies. Teal waters flowing deep inside my soul.

  I reclined in a lounge chair, looking out over the ocean. Been sitting here since before sunrise. Watched darkness turn to dawn. Fletcher offered to join me, but I didn’t want the company. Quiet time with my mother’s spirit would end soon. Boats would drift out to sea. Naked swimmers would dive into the ocean.

  The woman with the auburn locks walked nude along the shore, her hair arranged in a ponytail. Smiling, she waved, then shouted, “I want to spend time with you. Let’s get together tomorrow.”

  Her body, less than perfect. Cellulite, a few stretch marks, protruding belly, round butt, thighs rubbing, and plump breasts that begged for a bra. She seemed confident and almost a size smaller than when we’d met. I wasn’t sure I could be that bold if I had her body.

  I almost nodded back to her. As she kept going, I realized I hadn’t checked my mail at the front desk since I’d checked in.

  Punany Paradise was much more than a sexual resort. It was a place to sit still, to cleanse my heart. Would anyone miss me when I was gone, the way I missed my mother, my father? What had I done to make me believe anyone should care if I was dead or alive? Would spirits welcome me into the ever after?

  Journaling in the book Serenity had given me, I wrote how I wanted my life on earth to culminate:

  Seven Stephens never grew old. One day her bright light transitioned into a peaceful space. Greeted by her mother with open arms, a beautiful smile, and a gentle touch, Seven floated on air into the universe the Creator had prepared. She defied gravity, like her body was filled with helium, and the air in her lungs gave way, thrusting out the energy in her body. Survived by two beautiful children—one daughter, one son—two grandchildren, and a host of people she’d helped along her journey through life. Seven Stephens lived. She never died. Seven Stephens’s legacy dwells in the hearts of her survivors, truly a reason to smile, celebrate, and rejoice in her goodness forever.

  A teardrop splattered on the page right before a familiar voice whispered, “Hey, you.”

  Looking over my shoulder, I saw Jagger. I smiled up at him. “Hey back at you.”

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked. Feet planted in the sand, he hadn’t moved.

  “I’d like that,” I said, happy he’d asked.

  The huge orange ball of energy had made its way into the blue cloudless sky, absorbing warmth from the ocean and reminding me of my date with Quin. Contrary to what most people believed, the heat from the sun dispersed into the ocean upon sunset, warming the midnight waters. Best not to break my date with Quin to spend time with Jagger. A lump lodged in my throat. I swallowed, placing my sarong over my stomach when Jagger reclined in the lounge chair next to me.

  Gazing at my waist, then out to sea, he asked, “What are you journaling about? Wanna talk?”

  I swallowed again, then asked, “You ever wonder, what’s the purpose of life? Why some people are happier than others? Why babies cry when they come into the world? Why loved ones break our hearts?” The lump in my throat choked my vocal chords, trapping my next words in my head.

  Jagger interlocked his fingers with mine. “Yes. Just like you, I do wonder about many, many things.”

  Blinking away tears, I asked, “Like what?”

  Jagger softly said, “Like, if we’re created equal, why don’t we treat one another as such? Man feels superior to woman. White man believes the color of his skin makes him superior to all races, yet his spirit is often vexed, perplexed, and plagued with ill intentions. Americans remain arrogant, even though their country is going bankrupt and China is quietly taking over. Russia is making a move for dominance over Georgia. Nuclear weapons are being designed to wipe out millions of men, women, and children. Man won’t be satisfied until he self-destructs. Yeah, I do wonder, Seven. Mostly, lately, I wonder about you. Are you happy?”

  Wasn’t expecting that last part. Quietly, I exhaled, squeezing Jagger’s hand. “Not right now. But soon,” I answered.

  Jagger smiled, pulled away my sarong, picked me up, carried me to the ocean, then tossed me into an approaching wave.

  Scrambling in shock, I stood. Before I opened my mouth, a wave crashed against my back. The current pulled me under. I struggled to stand again. Got swept under again. This time I was dragged out a little farther. Panicking, I reached for Jagger. He didn’t know that I didn’t know how to swim.

  Walking backward, Jagger watched me battle the waves slamming into me. As I gulped salt water, my obituary scrolled in my mind. I hadn’t given birth to my two children. Hadn’t seen the birth of my grandbabies. This was not my time to go. Digging my feet in the sand, I fought the next three waves with all my strength, with every step, until I reached shore.

  Gasping, I wanted to yell, “Motherfucker, are you crazy?” but I could hardly breathe.

  Jagger lifted me to my feet, then said, “Without consciousness, you are drowning your spirit. I threw you in to show you how it feels to fight for life. You’re a fighter. Get over him, Seven. Your spirit is fighting for freedom. If you let him drown your spirit, you have no life.�
�� Jagger kissed my lips, then said, “I love you, Seven. I care about you. Let me be your life support.”

  Slap! My hand landed across his face. “Don’t you ever throw me in the ocean again,” I cried. “I can’t swim.”

  Jagger held his open palms toward me. “No problem. Won’t touch you again,” he said, walking away.

  I hated how practical he was. Too bad love wasn’t logical. His for me or mine for Maverick. Perhaps I should let go of Maverick and learn to love Jagger.

  Salty wetness saturated my body. I felt an extra gush of wetness ooze between my thighs. I smiled. Tied my sarong around my waist, not sure if I was happy or disappointed that my period had finally arrived.

  Chapter 17

  Maverick

  Danté never let me down. When we first met, I was a young man with a vision, with determination to become successful. Danté helped me out. My four years in college, I owned two expensive suits, which I’d bought with part of my student loan funds, along with six shirts, nine ties, and three pairs of dress shoes. I’d coordinated at least fifteen different looks out of that wardrobe. I was always neat, clean, and professional, and clients, professors, and students respected me. No one, except Danté, had given me anything.

  Quietly, I sat at the bar in my entertainment room with Danté, admiring him. Danté was a real man. A selfless man. Not many men would generously help another man to make it in this world. My own father would kill himself before teaching me how to be a man. There were some things in life I could never repay my best friends, Chad and Danté, for. Chad hadn’t given me what Danté had. Chad had faith in me when I didn’t have faith in myself.

  Having Danté pick up my clients, chauffeur them to and from meetings that I arranged at country clubs, restaurants, and hotel lobbies when I had no office, had allowed me to minimize my business expenditures on the front end. Back then I’d skip a meal a day in order to pay the barber to cut my hair frequently, style my beard, and to get regular manicures and pedicures.

  I asked Danté, “Man, how did you manage to get Seven’s laptop out of Zena’s house without her eagle eyes noticing?”

  “I have my ways. It wasn’t complicated,” he said, pouring two glasses of Scotch, handing me one. “A toast to one less bitch in our lives.”

  Standing in front of him, clinking my crystal glass against his, I stared into his eyes and said, “I hope your way didn’t include fucking my Zena.” Then I picked up the bottle of Scotch. “Let’s wait in the living room. Chad will be here shortly.”

  We sat on the sofa, where Seven and I had had our last conversation. I missed her.

  “Zena was easy,” Danté said, smiling. “Real easy. She was so wide open, I could’ve had her any which way I wanted. Front, back, down her throat, in her ass, any which way.”

  He was too fucking assured. What had happened between them? “Could have? Did you or didn’t you fuck her?”

  Casually, Danté said, “Chill out. Not like she’s your woman. You’re not going to marry her or Seven, so stop trippin’.”

  “No, you’re right. I might not marry Seven, and Zena isn’t my woman…but you, I love you from my heart,” I said, downing my glass of Scotch.

  He shook his head, gulped his drink, then said, “Ditto. But I must admit I like pussy as much as you do, maybe more. I’ve held off for six long-ass months, while you’ve had the luxury of a fiancée, who, might I remind you, you’re building a damn house for, when I’m the one who deserves that house.”

  Not this shit again. I loved and hated making Danté mad. The veins in his forehead protruded. That usually meant the veins in his dick were protruding, too. “I told you, you can have this house after I move out.”

  “I don’t want this damn house. This is the house that you fucked me in longer than you’ve known Seven. Let her move in here permanently, and we can share the new house now that it’s finished.” Danté poured himself another drink, then said, “I’m not asking, Maverick. I’ve earned the right to be your husband.”

  Husband? Indeed, he could be my husband if I weren’t worried about repercussions from my clients, losing business, or being castrated by the media. His threats had grown old.

  The character he’d possessed—loyalty, friendship, dedication, discretion, and trustworthiness—when we first met was now tarnished by his love for me. Why did we have to fall in love? I wanted to marry Seven to remain acceptable to society. I wanted to marry Danté because if I had to choose who I’d spend the rest of my life with knowing that the world would embrace us, I’d undoubtedly choose my man.

  Danté removed his shirt, tossed it on the back of the sofa, and moved a little closer to me. His knee touched mine as he said, “Ain’t shit gon’ be right in your life until you deal with your old man. We’re going over there again today. We need to curse him out, beat his ass, and move your mother into our new house. She can live with us. I hate seeing you suffer like this.”

  That was the kind of shit that had made me fall in love with him. “Miserable as she is, my mom don’t know any other way to live. He’s got her fucked up in the head.”

  “Yeah, like you’re trying to do with Seven, but that shit backfired on your ass. You honestly believe she’s going to have your baby and mine? Like your recommending in vitro fertilization to her is going to work? They can’t combine your sperm with mine. That’s insane. Your problem is you don’t think shit all the way through.”

  I saw Danté’s nipples harden, making my dick harden. His eyes traveled down my abs to my crotch.

  “Yeah, that’s why I fucking pay you. You don’t pay me,” I retorted. He need not get shit twisted.

  Danté countered, “Don’t forget who helped your ass get what you’ve got. I’ma get mine from you, you best believe that, before Seven gets hers.”

  I’d heard enough of his truth. “Shut up and suck my dick,” I said, unzipping my pants.

  Danté slid a few inches on the apricot sofa, then pressed his lips to mine. Mustache to mustache, our mouths parted. First, I sucked his tongue, and then he sucked mine. His mouth covered my nipple, the second most sensitive part of my body. My dick agreed as precum rose to the top, spilling over my head.

  Once I started fucking Seven doggie style, the only time my nipples got attention was when Danté and I made love.

  He kissed my neck, held me close.

  I found comfort in being with him. We took care of one another. I could be myself with him. He was easy to talk to. Outside of my home, we never displayed our intimate relationship. Inside my home, we never discussed business.

  What in the hell was I doing with Seven? Leading her on by building a house that I prayed would keep my love affair with Danté a secret. I feared that if my father discovered I was bisexual, it would validate his hatred toward me.

  Seven had to have my baby, our babies. One for Danté, one for me. Then I could divorce her, and Danté and I could raise our kids without a woman. But divorcing Seven would mean exposing my relationship with Danté. Not marrying Seven would mean I’d have to find another wife. Zena was too angry to be an option. Or was she? If she’d fucked Danté, and if she didn’t mind fucking me, maybe we could barter her into our lives.

  I stood, then walked to the bedroom. My lover, my love, followed me. By the time we made it to the bed, we were completely naked. I lay across the bed; his body covered mine. He took my dick into his mouth while I sucked his beautiful erection into mine.

  Sixty-nine was our favorite position because we both loved oral sex.

  Mouth wet, jaw strong, he sucked me so fucking good, I felt the cum inside of me stirring inside my balls, creeping up the wall of my shaft, yearning to explode inside his mouth.

  His strong hands cupped my ass, squeezing my butt. That shit felt fucking fantastic. His head bobbed like my dick was a sweet candied apple lollicock on a stick.

  Fuck! Normally, I could hold out for at least an hour if I focused on not cumming. Not this time. My toes started to curl. Legs, ass, and back tightened.
My spine curved.

  With determination, Danté took more of my dick—his dick—into his mouth. Deep, long, strong strokes.

  Fuck! I forced his dick deeper inside my mouth. Grunted. Thrust down on him, nestling his head in the roof of my mouth, like a baby sucking its thumb. That was how I felt. Vulnerable. A long stream of cum left my body, taking my love and energy for Seven along a trail that led to Danté.

  “Turn over,” he insisted.

  I was now joyfully in the submissive position I’d used to fuck Seven from behind.

  I felt him releasing my cum from his mouth onto my asshole; then bright lights flashed as his dick entered me raw. Neither one of us liked using condoms. Most of the time we did when fucking women. I trusted Seven wouldn’t cheat on me. She was my fiancée; we didn’t need condoms. That would change when she got back, until she got tested again.

  More women had HIV and AIDS than men. In reality, that meant more men were probably contracting the disease from women rather than the other way around, especially if they were diving face-first into a female’s pussy when she was on a light day of her menstrual. Only a fool would suck a woman’s fluids like a vampire, granting her possibly contaminated blood direct access to his body.

  I loved Danté inside my ass raw. I wanted him to make me forget about Seven, forget about my father. She was probably giving my pussy to some man who didn’t give a fuck about her.

  Thrusting his shaft deep inside of me, Danté shivered. He thrust, then shivered, alternating his motions until his climax subsided.

  Opening my eyes, I saw the bright light again. Looking over my shoulder at him, I saw Zena watching us both.

  “You bitch!” I yelled, scrambling from underneath Danté. We both raced after Zena’s ass. I yelled, “Bitch, give me that fucking camera.”