Indeed, when Fendi found Buck traipsing past the lion’s fountain and turning into her husband’s library, she went to him with the body language of a fawn.
“Your insecurity is uncalled for,” the sensuous white-faced beauty told him as he paced angrily. Then when he wouldn’t respond or look at her, Fendi halted him by getting in front of his towering tallness and gently caressing his dark face.
Her breasts were small and daintily powdered, and it seemed that by merely twitching her shoulders, the deep V-shaped cleavage of her slinky Cognac dress opened up to reveal pink nipples and soft white fleshy pillow-like globules. Her eyes invited him, and because it was so unexpected, his erection was massive and uncontrollable. He bent down kissing her mouth, fired up by the decadence; the fact that they could easily be caught. But as his hand slid beneath the scarves of her slinky dress and found his fingers touching pure ivory pussy unadorned by panties, he couldn’t turn it down.
Fendi was undoing his pants. Her pleasingly plump French girl’s mouth spewing the sexiest French he’d ever heard; “Suce toi (suck you)…et fais toi (and make you)…jouir (cum).”
Her mouth felt wet and hot as he slid his big dick inside it. But when she started wrapping her tongue around the shaft and pulling on the head with sucking motions, Buck had to fight his nervous system to keep from coming.
In and out of her mouth, his dick waded through wetness. And the more he thought about January being just rooms away, sitting at the fireplace, the more it aroused him.
“Moiste,” Fendi whimpered as she let his dick slip from her mouth. She showed him that her hand was stirring her vagina.
“Se doigter (finger me)…,” Fendi called as ecstasy and floating seemed to possess the both of them at once. Buck was as long and hard as he’d ever been in his life as he laid her on the library study table. Tenderly, he kissed the dollop of soft brown hair that coated her vagina; slurping and licking her pussy before time constraints rushed him to bang inside. “…ooh Baise moi (fuck me).”
And that was the sweetest part because Fendi’s warm little French tart was so deep, wet and flexible. Buck fucked it hard, enjoying his lunges. And despite the mansion having an echo in some of the rooms—Fendi moaned high and sweet—the milky whiteness of her neck and thighs savoring his chocolate brick of black cock as the g-spot inside her rode it like a child rides a banister; the both of them erupting from the forbidden excitement of it.
“Now does the little black boy feel no more jealousy?” the pretty Frenchwoman teased with baby-talk, and Buck laughed as he banged deep inside her one last time. He had no idea that their encounter was being filmed by security cameras and that Fendi usually gave her husband blow jobs as the two of them watched her various sex tapes with young studs in their bedroom late at night. Getting Buck Knuckle-Joy had been something of a coup for the swinging couple.
Buck admitted in Fendi’s ear, “I love a bitch who gives me some pussy and I love fucking other men’s wives.”
At that same moment, sitting by the fire and listening to Yves go on and on about how Papa Sinatra would have wanted her to find true love, January began to cry. Yves Malle had just handed her a crumpled edge-worn black and white photograph.
“It was taken in Italy when they were children,” Yves remarked. “Surprised I haven’t shown it to you before.”
In the photograph was her former husband, Papa Sinatra standing with his sister Caprice—Papa no more than a boy of twelve or fourteen years old, which is what brought January to tears—and standing behind him and little Caprice, as though she were presenting them, was a very black skinned African looking woman whose beautifully chiseled face startled January in its likeness to Papa’s idol, the singer Grace Jones.
“I be damned if that’s not Grace,” May Day commented, but of course, it couldn’t have been.
“Who is this woman?” January demanded as she wiped her tears away.
“Not sure,” said Yves. “All I know is that her name was Sicily.”
“Sicily,” January repeated with a breath of fascination.
May Day, who had been looking into Yves Malle’s eyes when he said he didn’t know who the woman was, could tell that he was lying. There was a secret, May Day surmised. And Yves had promised Papa Sinatra that he’d never be the one to reveal it.
Fendi and Buck were returning just then. January looked up and knew immediately that they’d been fucking. Rage filled her, but not an ounce of surprise. Before she could say anything, an old maid entered from an adjacent door and announced, “le diner est servi (Dinner is served).”
~*~
Sea pots containing the finest Provo Queen Conch, flown in from the Turks and Caicos Islands, was served on iced glass plates with bowls containing shards of ox meat submerged in wild cranberry soup, deviled mushrooms, creamed spinach, French bread in butter sauce and flutes of fine aged white wine.
The meaty Queen Conch had been smoked in-ground with a mixture of aged apple and cherry wood and then drenched in garlic butter. But no matter how delicious it was—May Day wasn’t down for eating ocean snails. And especially ocean snails that smelled like somebody’s very rosy twat. The kitchen brought out a plate of quickly seared steaks for her, but not before January pissed off Buck once again by telling him, in front of Fendi, the proper way to eat his food.
“What’s wrong with using my fork?”
January said that in the Neuilly-sur-Seine section of Paris, one ate the pinkish Queen Conch snail by first chopping it up on the iced plate and then pouring a little of the white wine and a little of the spicy cranberry soup over it. “Similar to how we do chit-lins,” she said. You then spooned it on the French bread and “treated it” like caviar; slow, economical, fully-chewed bites; sips of wine.
When Buck noticed that Yves and Fendi were already eating it that way, he rolled his eyes and gave January a cruel “fuck you” look rather than thanks.
“I’m getting tired of your mess,” May Day said to Buck under her breath. “Keep on disrespecting my daughter, nigga…”
But unfortunately, that’s exactly what Buck intended to do. Fork-cutting the Queen Conch into wedges, he stuffed his mouth with the buttery pink snails and announced, “Fuck Overbrook High. I have my own special way of eating pussy; always have.”
He then looked January’s mother dead in the face and said, “I sure would like to eat yours, May Day. That mole on your left thigh is sexy as hell.”
January spit out her wine.
Everyone was speechless as he continued, “Every since I saw you stepping out of the shower on my wife’s secret monitors at Warm Leatherette—I thought, damn, she got a body. I jerked off just watching you lotion down them long chocolate legs.”
May Day looked at her heartbroken daughter as if to say: “Now do you see why you shouldn’t have those Peeping Tom cameras?”
Buck was staring into his wife’s eyes with pure venom as he said, “God strike me dead if I’m lying. I would love to fuck the shit out of you. Just like I be fucking Dao Ming and every other fine ass woman that comes through Warm Leatherette.”
As January fought to hold back the tears of humiliation, Fendi’s eyes let them come naturally. She felt sorry that a husband could treat his wife this cruelly, and yet she understood the attraction that both men in the room had for May Day. At forty, the woman looked to be in her late twenties.
Still, just as Buck was describing his desires about fucking her, May Day picked up a glass, dumped out the water, and flung it in the center of his face hard!
“You fucking bitch!” he shouted in pain after being hit so hard with the heavy thickness of the French lead crystal.
By then, January was frozen in place in her chair, tears pouring down her face. She had put up with Dao Ming and Lorna, but she couldn’t see herself accepting the fact that her husband wanted to fuck her own mother.
Totally disenchanted by Buck’s lack of class, Yves Malle said, “I think you should leave young man. You obviously have no respe
ct for these beautiful women.”
“You right about that,” Buck answered as he winked at Fendi and then swaggered out of the dining room and exited the mansion through the front door.
“He’s nothing but trash,” May Day huffed.
“No mama,” January said as she wiped away tears, confessing to everyone gathered, “A lot of this is my fault. I don’t mean to do it, but I have this way of making Buck feel inferior to me. And because of that, he lashes out. In his mind, he’s taking me off my high horse by humiliating me in front of people. It is ugly what he just did—but deep down, he isn’t trash, mama. Buck is a good person, but he’s insecure and he’s self-destructive. He’s like this little boy who boxed his way out of the ghetto and nobody’s ever loved him. Don’t hate him for not knowing how to handle his jealousy, mama.”
“Men like Buck end up killing their women,” May Day warned her daughter with a firm smirk.
“I think you should divorce him,” Fendi offered. And so that they, as a couple, would have more time to sway January in that direction, Yves told the women, “There’s no need to worry about Buck taking the car. I’ll have my driver take you and your mother back to your hotel, Jan-Jan.”
January wasn’t suspicious of Yves, but May Day was reading the old man and his too-young wife like a book.
He’s working for somebody, May Day thought as her eagle-eyed stare sized the old man up. And, in fact, that somebody was none other than Adam Crown.
Not a day after May Day had followed her daughter to Paris, the private investigators that Adam Crown had hired to find out everything they could about January had put the wealthy race car driver in touch with Yves Malle. Lucky for Adam, Yves had never particularly liked Buck. And because Yves remembered Adam winning the prestigious Monaco Grand Prix some years back, he admired the young American.
Yves Malle had once raced cars himself. Though he’d been primarily known after age fifty as the ‘playboy member’ of France’s parliament, he’d once been a young stud in the French foreign legion; a wrestler; dabbled in writing espionage novels; hidden and saved the lives of several Jews during World War II; made his first fortune as a camera man on a slew of hit pan-European films before doubling it through investments; and after retiring from France’s political scene had married seven times.
It was Adam’s masculine aggressiveness mixed with a rouge-boy’s class and intelligence that impressed Yves. Whereas Buck was a hot head, Adam’s sophistication employed precision.
“You say that you love January?”
“With all my heart, sir…it’s my dream to make her the happiest woman on earth.”
“I like the sound of that,” Yves had replied as he thought of Papa Sinatra and how his old friend had adored the young black girl’s fire and tenacity.
“Will you help me?” Adam had asked.
And now as January and May Day revealed that they were leaving the next day for a beach holiday in Madrid, and that Buck, because of his actions that night, wouldn’t be with them, Yves was very delighted.
Adam Crown would be there for the wonders of Spain, but Yves kept his mouth shut.
He asked the women about the upcoming race car trials in Monaco and whether or not they were going to that, too? When they said no, he told them, “But you must come for Monaco—Fendi and I are going to be there, aren’t we Cherie?”
“Oui-oui,” Fendi nodded.
And immediately, January recalled that Buck had teased her about Adam Crown being in Monaco at that time. If May Day had known about Adam wanting January, she would have figured Yves’s whole thing out right then. But at last, January did. She stared at Yves for a very long moment, completely devastated over Buck. But then she said, “I’ve never been to Monaco; I hear it’s cheerful.”
And seeing how incredibly vulnerable she could be, Yves wished that he was forty years younger.
~*~
Cordoba, Argentina
Adam Crown came out of the shower wrapping a towel around his waist. His cell phone was ringing and from the wall-length glass windows of his suite at Ecipsa Tower, he could see an orange moon blessing the darkness that was spilling over Argentina’s lion-shaped city of light.
“Hello.”
“All of the tests have been completed,” Otis Crown reported to his son. “Bliss is definitely pregnant.”
Adam got a lump in his throat. He said, “I’ll always take care of it, father. I’ll always be there for it.”
“Get your ass back to Georgia…rat now, Adam!”
“No father. I don’t want your life, I want my life. I’m going to Spain.”
“Look boy…what if I put Bliss on a plane and fly her to Europe?”
“Trust me—she doesn’t want to see what I’m doing in Spain.”
“I didn’t raise you to be this heartless son.”
“Heartless,” Adam laughed. “Please, father. I graduated from Bank Street Elementary a long time ago. You forget that as young boys, Winston and I watched you piss in another man’s face and dare him to wipe it off.”
Otis Crown could be one of the most vicious sharks in anybody’s life pool. Few blacks in America knew what he was actually capable of. Just the fact that his own child had questioned him about why he kept his hair shaved off was enough to make him want to kill somebody. But when it came to this dilemma about Adam loving February’s twin, he had stayed within the moral reactions of his national religious image up to this point. Now his patience was wearing thin. He growled, “Damn it, Adam—you know how much your mother’s always wanted this baby. This baby is a Crown!”
Once again, Adam hung up.
Otis flipped his phone shut. He summoned February Foster’s image to his mind, imagining her in place of the glamorous, rich and married January Knuckle-Joy. And with all the rage of a corporate executive fighting a hostile takeover, he hissed through a clenched mouth, “Hussy!”
Coming out from behind her father-in-law’s shadow, Bliss Carrington Crown said in her Australian accent, “Its okay Big Daddy. I think I’d better head for Spain.”
Lorna, Sweet Lorna
Warm Leatherette
Pismo Beach, California
The whole time that Debbie Dallas was away having (and recovering from) the unneeded plastic surgery that Lorna Sinatra had talked her into—Lorna began dating Jared Presser.
At first the quarterback hadn’t been that interested in Lorna. He had taped his guest spot on the television series in Burbank with Debbie Dallas playing his romantic interest, and because Debbie had been so nervous and kept flubbing her lines, he’d felt really important being the one to coach her through the role. The show’s director and producer didn’t see much of a future for Debbie in television, but Jared had become smitten with her. Then poof—the sexy blonde bombshell disappeared, saying that she’d be back in a few weeks.
That’s when Lorna got his attention, claiming to be Debbie’s “best friend” who would keep him company until Debbie got back. Jared mainly took her out with the thought that he’d score some easy pussy until Debbie got back. But during their second date, Lorna had reeled him with a doozey of a story as to why she—an eighteen year old intern!—could no longer date a man with his reputation.
Breaking into crocodile tears, the twenty-three year old slut had blurted out—“You have to promise that you won’t ever tell anyone else at Warm Leatherette, because they’d laugh at me…but, but…well, I’m a virgin. I’ve never been with a man before.”
Lorna’s tearful storytelling had been beyond convincing.
When Jared tried to say that sweet little Debbie was also a virgin—Lorna shook her head and pulled out a scrap of video that she’d paid a professional to Photo-shop. Where the original footage showed Lorna being fucked by Buck Knuckle-Joy, the faked version showed Debbie Dallas in Lorna’s place. Of course Lorna had gotten footage of Debbie in reclined naked in bed from the times she’d taped their lesbian play house activities.
“Debbie the Stripper act
ually told you she was a virgin? I’m so sorry Jared.”
The quarterback for the San Francisco Coalminers realized that that no woman stripping in a club could possibly be a virgin and that he’d been a fool to fall for it. When it came to Lorna Sinatra, however, he was intrigued and determined to be the one to deflower such a drop dead gorgeous young woman. Instead of just dating, he asked her to be his girlfriend.
“You want me to be your girlfriend?”
“Yes,” Jared had said with his own acting going on. “I’m not just some wolf trying to trick little red riding hood, Lorna. I’m interested in your heart and your mind. I think we should wait until you’re at least twenty-one before we make love.”
It was the same line he had used on Dao Ming in high school before taking her virginity.
“Can you see the love in my eyes?” he asked Lorna.
Jared was so good at manipulating young girls that he even gave Lorna a brand new copy of the Bliss Carrington romance novel, “Email My Heart,” and claimed that he’d read it and changed his womanizing ways because of the love story.
Of course a sexual athlete like Lorna wasn’t about to read that sugary shit, but at least she had the football star that much closer to conquest. In fact in Jared’s case, because Debbie had so strongly competed for him, Lorna no longer wanted just sex. She wanted to rub her relationship with Jared in Debbie’s face; she wanted Debbie to see that they were fucking regularly. And then she planned to drop him and leave Debbie the leftovers.
A player like Jared was sure to fuck dumb little virgin Debbie—Lorna couldn’t prevent that. But the important thing was for Debbie to know that Lorna was the goddess and had had the most that a woman could have from the much desired celebrity athlete. It was nothing more than an ego tripping star fuck, but then that’s about the only thing in life that didn’t bore Lorna Sinatra to death.
~*~
SEX ON PISMO BEACH by Tweet Page 9