Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison

  I opened the vibrator, rubbed it down with toy cleaner, followed by a hot, damp towel. Peeling the gold package away from the condom, I placed the condom in my mouth, sucked the tip between my teeth, then placed my lips over the head of the vibrator. Keeping up on my skills, I tightened my lips around the head, then unrolled the condom down the shaft, almost to the base, finishing with my fingers.

  “No more blow jobs or gay men for me,” I said, turning on the cordless dick. I’d just fuck myself until Deuce and I lived together. That way I didn’t have to guess who was straight.

  The pearls rotated; the head vibrated. I climbed into bed, lubricated my dick, spread my legs, then reclined on a pillow, bending my knees. Slowly, I inserted the head, closed my eyes, and exhaled out my mouth.

  I switched a button, and the head rotated clockwise, thrusting the pearls along my G-spot. I clamped my thighs together, holding the vibrator in place. I reached for the clit stimulator and opened it, rubbed it with toy cleaner. Wiped it with the damp towel. Inserted the batteries. Turned it on.

  “Goddamn!”

  The vibration shot throughout my entire body. Head buzzed. Feet tingled. I took a deep breath, placed the tip against my clit. Instantly, I came. The vibrating dick in one hand, the clit stimulator in the other, I came so hard, I damn near passed out.

  I limped to the bathroom, preventing my thighs from brushing my clit. My body jerked as I showered, water streaming on my shaft.

  “That combination is lethal. Better not do that again anytime soon,” I said, turning off the water.

  My cell phone rang. Not knowing if the call was close to going to voice mail, I grabbed the towel, dried one ear, slipped on my earpiece, then answered, “Hello.”

  “Ms. Belvedere?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?” I asked.

  “I’m calling with your lab results,” she said.

  My knees buckled, and I nearly slumped to the floor. If she said I had to come in, I’d expect the worst. If she told me the results over the phone, I was good.

  “Hello?” she said.

  I whispered, “I’m listening.”

  “Your AIDS test is nonreactive. It’s negative,” she said.

  A heavy sigh escaped my lips. “Thank you so much. So much.”

  “And,” she continued, “congratulations. Your pregnancy test is positive.”

  “No, no. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I didn’t request a pregnancy test. I’m not pregnant yet. You sure you know what you’re doing?” I asked her. “I’m Ms. Zena Belvedere.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re pregnant. If you want confirmation, you can get a home test. If you want to terminate the pregnancy, we can assist you with referrals for an abortion.”

  Ending the call, I raced to the bathroom, kneeled over the toilet, and vomited, as if I could regurgitate the baby, then flush it. Holding my stomach, I cried.

  What was I going to do? Have an abortion? Or birth a baby into this world for a man who loved men more than women? I cried until my body ached.

  Wait a minute, I thought.

  Deuce wanted babies. Demarcus Danté Davis was tall, dark, and handsome. So was Deuce Callahan. Deuce would never know the truth.

  I showered, preparing my already conceived child for its new daddy.

  Chapter 22

  Seven

  Living my life like it’s golden.

  Thanks to Punany Paradise, my pussy was walking on sunshine. Cruising on orgasms. I could come anytime, anywhere, without touching myself. My mind, my masterpiece. My body, my temple. My life, my life.

  Today was my last day at Punany Paradise. My time here wasn’t indefinite. I had to go back home. Get my things out of Maverick’s house. Clear my conscience. Bring closure to whatever it was we had.

  “Thank you, Mama,” I said aloud, knowing she’d help reveal my troubling truth. Like an addict, I had to rehabilitate myself, get Maverick 100 percent out of my system. Come clean. Become sober.

  Ten days remained on my reservation at the resort. I’d be back. Soon. No refund requested. I wished Zena had come to Punany Paradise with me. We’d still be friends. I missed her so much. When I got back to the island, I was going to explore my relationship—if that was what I could call it—with Jagger. See if he was worth pursuing or if his advances were a façade.

  Staring out the patio window, toward the ocean, I slid open the door, stepped onto the sand, and did jumping jacks while watching the sunrise. Blinded by the rays, I ran in place, fast. Arms pumping. Titties jiggling. Thighs burning. Mind racing faster than my thrusting fists. Back and forth. Forth, then back.

  Invigorated, I returned inside and sat naked at the computer. I saw Maverick’s demand that I return in three days, and I saw Zena’s messages about Maverick and Danté. Outraged, I screamed, “Maverick, go straight to hell. Detour, motherfucker, detour. Do not pass by this good pussy. Don’t think about blowing a kiss at my bootylicious ass.”

  He wasn’t better than me in business. More than half of the ideas he’d implemented were mine. Mine! He truly couldn’t outmatch my boardroom or bedroom skills. I was taking over Maverick Maxamillion Incorporated. I’d show him my freshly waxed pussy, cuddled between two lean, cellulite-free thighs, and introduce him to the bitch in me. Omarosa didn’t have shit on Seven. I had the handle on the bitch switch.

  My nails fiercely clicking against the keys, I typed: I wasn’t seeking your sorry-ass approval. I DON’T need your permission to be a woman. The same as you don’t need my permission to be homosexual, be bisexual, gay, or whatever you consider yourself. I enjoyed fucking twenty-six guys in one month at your expense.

  Do whatever you’d like with my pics. Don’t forget I’ve got pics of you, too. I’ll be by tomorrow to get my things…Don’t touch my shit!

  Wait until I get to Chicago. It was his turn to be pissed off and pissed on, and not a little. A whole fucking lot. I will drown that motherfucker in his own misery.

  “If I say shit, Maverick had better drop his drawers, squat, and give me a full load,” I yelled.

  I glanced at the time, 7:11 a.m. Six hours before my departure to the airport. No bags or baggage to pack or check. I headed to the Jacuzzi; I turned on the cold water only.

  I lay on the living-room floor, interlocked my fingers behind my head. Closing my eyes, I felt tears escape the corners, streaming toward my ears. I really missed my best friend. I owed her an apology. Replying to her messages was insufficient. She deserved what I was going to give her, a face-to-face apology. A hug. A kiss. A thank-you for her being more of a friend to me than I’d been to her.

  Mama used to say, “Friends don’t let men come or cum between them. If you have a healthy relationship with a girlfriend, keep it that way. Men envy the relationships women are able to sustain. The closeness. The sharing. The caring. The heartfelt love. Seven, baby, like diabetes, an insecure man will deliberately kill everything and everyone in his veins. Keep your girlfriends close, because when a man does not have your back, a true girlfriend will look out for you, no matter what. Just make sure you look out for her, too, when she needs you.”

  Getting up, I grinned, turned off the water. Happy I was sharing my last moments with Jagger. Sad I’d be in transit to O’Hare before sunset. Jagger wasn’t accompanying me back to Chicago. I wanted Maverick to believe I had someone better than him. Actually, I did. But my heart wasn’t 100 percent convinced about Jagger.

  I heard a tap at my patio window.

  Sliding open the door for Jagger, I smiled, tugged at his white linen drawstring pants.

  “What’s up with all the clothes?” I asked, wanting to invite him into my personal space, my heart.

  Jagger’s finger traced my hairline, my jaw, my chin. Lightly touching the center of my forehead, he ran his fingers between my eyebrows, swiped each one, continued down my nose, outlined my lips. Then he cupped my face, taking my entire mouth into his. Jagger’s tongue penetrated my lips, sucked my tongue into his wet mouth.

  I
couldn’t breathe. I didn’t care. I could stay here forever. Love, the pentacle of life. His love overwhelmed me. Moved me to tears that wouldn’t stop flowing.

  He whispered, “Seven, I love you.”

  More tears. Strangling words trapped in my throat. A lump of compassion compelled me to hold him. Tight. Tight as I could so he could feel what I couldn’t speak. Love. Not lust.

  “I…I…” I exhaled.

  “Tell me,” he said. “I need to hear you say it. Look in my eyes and say it, baby.”

  Batting tears on my breasts, his chest, I cried, “I love you, Jagger,” not wanting to disappoint him. I loved so many things about Jagger, but I wasn’t in love with him.

  Rip!

  He tore his linen pants off his body and his hard, beautiful dick sprang forth. The head greeted my clit. He tossed the cloth to the floor. Made his way to the bath area, dipped his hand in the water in the Jacuzzi. Upon returning to me, fingertips wet, cold, he pulled me to the floor, on top of him. Jagger held me close. Kissed my face, my cheeks, my forehead, my chin.

  “Seven, don’t go. You have ten more days. Give me each day. I’m afraid I may never see you again,” he said.

  My legs around his waist. His pubic hairs under my ass. He searched my eyes for confirmation that I’d stay.

  Softly, I said, “Why don’t you take a week off? Come with me.”

  “What?” He smiled, gripped my shoulders, leaning me backward. Searched my eyes for confirmation.

  Uncertain, I looked away. What was I saying? I could ruin Jagger’s feelings for me if I dragged him into my unpredictable forecast. Windy. Gloomy. Overcast. Thunderstorm watch. I had no idea what to expect when I arrived in Chicago.

  “That was my heart speaking. Going with me isn’t a good idea. I’ll come back. I need to go home alone for right now.”

  “No, no, I want to go with you. I want to protect you. Keep you safe.” His grip tightened…loosened. His steady gaze locked with mine. “Stand up,” he said.

  One arm braced my back, and the other was under my knees. Jagger carried me to the Jacuzzi.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, laughing. Scrambling out of his arms. “That water is cold!” I yelled.

  Too late. I’d planned on gradually adding in hot water to warm the water before I, before we, got in. I couldn’t drown in the Jacuzzi. Still didn’t want to get tossed in the water. Jagger got in the Jacuzzi, extended his hand.

  “You don’t have to control everything, Seven. Sometimes it’s good to let go,” he said. “Seven, please. Let me come with you. It doesn’t matter where we are, as long as we’re together.”

  I blurted, “How do I know you’re not trying to get American citizenship?”

  Shit! The water was cold. I shivered. Hugged myself.

  “You don’t know. And you don’t know me very well,” he said. “If that was all I wanted, I could’ve been an American ten times over. Many American women have proposed to me. America is the freest country in the world. At the same time, the people are enslaved. Like you. Americans thrive on revenge, determined to drag one another down before they let go. You cannot let go of a man that you know is bad for you. You must like drama.”

  I laughed. He didn’t.

  Emphatically, I said, “Fine. Come with me. But don’t blame me if you don’t like what happens. Don’t depend on me to take care of you financially, either. And do not expect me to be with you all the time.”

  “I don’t have a visa,” he said.

  My eyes narrowed. Why was this man putting me through this?

  “I need time to get one. Serenity can expedite the process. Wait for me,” he begged.

  I didn’t want to wait another hour, minute, second. Another day might make me stay several days, ten days, or forever. Perhaps that was his plan.

  He held my hips in his palms, guiding my pussy over the jets. Not too close, yet a perfect distance for the streams to tease my clit. His lips grazed my shoulder; he kissed my ear.

  Lord Jesus, what are you trying to tell me?

  Then his dick floated into my chilled pussy.

  I closed my eyes. More tears. More aches. More love pains found their way to my throat. Holding on to the edge, I felt his hands cover mine. His tongue danced on the back of my neck, slowly making its way to my opposite ear.

  “I love you, Seven. Why won’t you let me love you in every way possible? Beyond your imagination.”

  “I will. I promise. But I can’t give you all of me…Ah, that feels good. Let’s not talk right now,” I pleaded, thrusting onto his dick. I squeezed my pussy as tight as I could, clamping his dick inside.

  Jagger pulled out, picked me up, carried me to the bed, laid my dripping body atop the white comforter, spread my legs, then softly kissed my clit. Again and again, his lips gently touched mine.

  Salty streams flowed into my mouth, my ears.

  “I want to satisfy you so good that when my lips are not on your sweet pussy, I want you to cum thinking about me,” he said, resuming his clit-a-thon.

  Jagger climbed atop me missionary style. His dick was wedged against my shaft. He kissed me. I kissed him, held him close.

  “I could stay here forever,” I whispered.

  “Don’t tease me, baby. You’re not staying. But if you say it’s okay, I will be in Chicago as soon as I can,” he said.

  Men. Vulnerable. Warm. Loving. Caring. Until they got what they wanted from me. What did Jagger want? What did Maverick want? I wasn’t sure, but I was determined to find out.

  “I would love to say, ‘Let me know when you’re arriving. I’ll pick you up from the airport. You can stay at Zena’s house. I’ll give you all my contact information,’ but I can’t.” Tired of talking, I added, “Baby, make love to me like you’ll never see me again.”

  No sooner had I spoken those words than for the first time, a man cried in my arms.

  Chapter 23

  Maverick

  I’d read in Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope, “Someone once said that every man is trying to either live up to his father’s expectations or make up for his father’s mistakes.” That man was me.

  I rolled over in an empty bed. First time I’d slept alone in years. The house was empty. No Seven. No Danté. As insane as Danté was, breaking out the foyer windows, screaming at me from downstairs, he was more sane than me.

  Love made people do the incomprehensible. My lying to Seven, lying to Danté, lying to myself. Time for me to think sensibly. My life wasn’t mine. Headed in a tunnel loaded with dynamite. I felt it. The ache in my bones.

  I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

  Hadn’t planned on missing Danté. Never believed Seven would lose the weight. I got out of bed, went into the living room, sat on my sofa, staring out the window. The way I felt right now, I’d shoot myself in the head.

  I jumped to my feet. “Fuck!” I had to devise a plan to regain control.

  Sitting back on the sofa, I stared at the cell phone in my hand. Needed to call off the hit on Danté. Couldn’t. Something compelled me to call Seven instead.

  “Hello,” she answered cheerfully.

  “Where are you?” I asked softly.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  I overheard an announcement in the background. “Last call. All passengers for San Francisco must board for an immediate departure.”

  I said, “I’m at home. Waiting for you, baby.”

  “Good. I’ll be there shortly. Thirty minutes tops. To get my car. I’ll hire movers to get the rest of my things tomorrow or the next day,” she said.

  “I miss you so damn much,” I said, forcing back tears. “I’ll be here waiting for you. We need to talk.”

  “Gotta go. My driver is here. Bye.” She hung up.

  I hung up. Went to my bedroom. It was messed up. Clothes scattered. Comforter on the floor. Picking up my suit and tie, I tossed them in the laundry. I sat on the toilet. Shit. Then showered and shaved. I put on a splash of cologne. Sweatpants, blac
k wife-beater. Straightened up my bedroom. Changed the sheets. Put her favorite red satin sheets on the bed.

  Pacing in my library, I stared out the window, eyes following every town car that went by. Thirty. Forty. Fifty minutes. One hour. Two.

  I called her phone. No answer. Redialed the speed dial. No fucking answer.

  I went to the garage, got in my car, and sped off down Lake Shore Drive. Took a left on the Magnificent Mile. Drove to the end. Kept going. Found myself parked in front of my mother’s house.

  I got out of the car. Slam. Closed the door, almost shattering the driver’s side window. I didn’t care. Today I was prepared to kick my father’s ass or die trying. Didn’t know which was worse, not living up to a father’s expectations or having a father with no expectations of me.

  Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.

  Relentlessly, I jammed my finger against the button. Fed up with his bullshit. Balled my fist, prepared to knock his ass the fuck out the second he opened the door; step over his body; tell my mother how much I missed her, loved her, needed her in my life; then carry her out of his house in my arms, for good.

  My mom quietly opened the door, then walked away.

  No plan B. Uneasy, I entered, looking around for him.

  She sat in the old familiar rocking chair, swaying back and forth. Knitting.

  “Ma,” I said, standing in front of the coffee table. Wasn’t going to let my old man sneak up on me.

  No answer from my mom.

  “Where’s your husband?” I asked her.

  That was appropriate. Always her husband, never my father.

  Knitting needles clicking, softly she said, “Your father is in the hospital, fighting for his life. I’m home fighting for mine. Don’t know what I’d do without him,” not looking up at me for one second.

  He treated my mother like shit on the bottom of his shoes, and she was fighting for her life when she should’ve been praying for his death. She’d let him control her all my life, most of hers. How could I free my mother? I knew what I had to do.