Pure Paradise

by Allison Hobbs

  “I don’t feel like putting on any clothes, Milan. I’m comfortable in my sweats and I like chillin’ in my own home. So if you want to talk over breakfast, we’re going to eat right here. I’m not in the mood for dining in any of those high-class places you like to go to.”

  “Not a problem.” Milan was eager to accommodate her sister.

  Thirty minutes later, Sweetie swung her front door open and spread her arms to embrace her sister, but dropped her arms when she noticed the limo. “Why’d you come in a damn stretch limo? Always puttin’ on airs. It’s bad enough when you come through in your Rolls. This is a regular, middle-class neighborhood, Milan. Damn! Now the whole neighborhood gon’ be gawking over here, swearing Beyonce or somebody done come through.” She eyed Milan up and down critically, taking in her exquisite teal-colored caped suit. “On second thought, you’re not blond and you don’t have enough bootie for anyone to mistake you for Bey.” She ushered Milan inside. “You look more like that model—the one who’s always cussing out cops at the airport and knocking her assistants upside the head with her cell phone.” Sweetie fell out laughing. Milan didn’t join in. “I guarantee you, the word is gonna spread quick. Whoever saw you stepping out that limo is gon’ be calling up folks, talkin’ ’bout Sweetie hangin’ with that British supermodel, uh-huh, that’s her limo outside the crib.”

  Sweetie was funny enough to do a stand-up routine. She was known to have her friends doubled over in laughter when she got started with her biting wit. Milan, however, was too sad to even force her lips into a sliver of a smile.

  Milan made an impatient sound, which prompted Sweetie to cut out the comedy act and head for the kitchen. “Whatchu wanna eat? Eggs and bacon?”

  “I’m not hungry. Just coffee.”

  “Just coffee?”

  Milan nodded, her expression miserable.

  “All right. Suit yourself, but I need a real breakfast. I only had instant oatmeal after I got the kids off to school.”

  Milan was relieved to hear that it was a school day and that Sweetie’s two little hellions wouldn’t be racing around from room to room. While Sweetie took her time measuring coffee and gathering up ingredients for a breakfast large enough to feed an army, Milan paced the kitchen, fretting and wringing her hands. Her troubled expression pleaded for attention.

  “Milan, please sit yourself down. You’re making me nervous. We’re gon’ talk about your problem—give me a minute. Please,” she added irritably as she cracked open an egg.

  A short time later Milan sipped Sweetie’s horribly bitter coffee while her sister dug into a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs.

  “Okay, whassup?” Sweetie asked, chomping down on a piece of bacon while already chewing eggs. Only Sweetie, with her girlish face, could pull off such gluttonous behavior.

  “Oh, Sweetie…” Milan began weeping and covered her face with her hands, muffling her words, and making them inaudible.

  “Pull yourself together, Milan. I can’t understand what you’re saying.” Shaking her head and frowning, Sweetie chewed her food more intensely, preparing herself for whatever crisis Milan was about to unburden on her.

  “My driver quit,” Milan sobbed.

  Sweetie scowled and set down a forkful of hashed brown potatoes. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Sniffling, Milan shook her head.

  “You hired a limo to bring you all the way over here to cry on my shoulder because your driver quit? Milan, you are not in Beverly Hills somewhere, so stop acting like you’re so fragile that every little thing that happens to you is a reason to fall apart. So what if your damn driver quit. You got bank; hire another one.”

  “Sweetie, you don’t understand.”

  “I truly don’t. I could be relaxing and watching Maury right about now. Why did you come over here, bothering me with some bullshit?”

  “We were in a relationship.”

  “You were in a relationship with your driver?” Stunned, Sweetie held a half-bitten slice of bacon in mid-air.

  “You never met him, Sweetie. He’s not your average driver. Big, muscular, and gorgeous. He’s a former NFL player and—”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s his name?”

  “Hilton Dorsey.”

  “Sounds familiar. What team did he play for?”

  “I don’t know. I never asked. What difference does that make?”

  “Quantez is a football fanatic. He would love to meet—”

  “Why do all conversations lead to Quantez? This is not about your husband. I’m in the midst of a crisis.”

  “Okay, calm down. Let me guess—you and your driver were twisting up the sheets and he started hitting you up for a bigger salary?”

  “No…I mean, yes, we were involved, but he wasn’t after my money.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Sweetie, is it so hard to believe that a man couldn’t just love me for me?”

  “So, why’d he quit? What excuse did he give you?”

  “He’s trying to get a contract with the Eagles and I think he’s at their training camp, trying out or whatever football players do.”

  “So, why are you crying over that? He’s playing with our home team, so he’ll be close by. Girl, see if you can get Quantez and the boys some free tickets to the games…and some good seats. My husband and kids are not tryna be up in the nose bleed section.” Sweetie grinned and then excitedly rubbed her hands together. “Quantez is gonna be so shocked when I tell him my baby sister is hooked up with a member of the Eagles.”

  “That’s the problem, Sweetie. We’re not hooked up. We were on the verge of getting closer, maybe committing to a long-term relationship, but I ruined it.” Milan’s voice cracked.

  Sweetie slammed her glass of orange juice down. “What did you do to ruin it? Damn, Milan, why you fuck up everybody’s free seats? Quantez probably could have gotten some of the players to stop by his restaurant. It would be real good publicity for the restaurant if he could post up some autographed photos of the team.” Sweetie narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed at Milan for robbing Quantez of free publicity.

  Quantez’s take-out joint didn’t even have a place for customers to sit, yet Sweetie was envisioning framed and autographed photos of the Eagles’ top players on the walls. Milan ignored the fact that Sweetie didn’t seem concerned about her heartache. She was hopeful that she’d get some good advice now that Sweetie had a vested interest in helping her get Hilton back.

  “I said something insensitive…something really stupid…”

  Sweetie screwed up her lips. “What did you say?”

  “Uh…he’s been working out for quite a while, trying to get his busted knee back in shape and I told him that his football days were probably over.”

  “Well, are they?” Sweetie glared at Milan.

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say what he was going to do at the training camp.”

  “Whatchu think he’s gonna do at camp—train, dumb ass!” Sweetie blurted.

  Only Sweetie could get away with calling Milan derogatory names. Milan took the insult without a flinch.

  “He could be trying out—trying to get on the team. And with the bad injury he incurred, he’s probably not going to make the cut.”

  “Sounds like you don’t want him to make the cut.”

  “I don’t. I can support both of us. Why should he be running around with a football team, warming the bench while others play, when he could be home with me?”

  “You are about as selfish as they come,” Sweetie said, shaking her head. “Milan, if you ever plan on finding the kind of true love like me and Quantez have, you’re going to have to stop putting yourself first. Now, I don’t know who Hilton Dorsey is. Quantez is the football expert, he knows all the players and their stats from high school, college, and in the NFL, so I know he’ll be able to give up some info on this dude. But in the meantime, I need to tell you something for your own good.” Sweetie took a deep breath.

  Milan put her mug of nasty coffee down
and met her sister’s eyes.

  “You can’t be stepping on a man’s dreams. Athletes live and breathe their sport. They don’t ever want to get out of the game. If you were trying to take that relationship to the next level, you sure fucked that shit up. You, of all people, should be holding him up, keeping him motivated. Even if you truly believe that his career is over, you needed to co-sign with him every step of the way. Milan, that’s the kind of thing women do for their men. It doesn’t hurt to co-sign on his dream. If his dream falls apart, he’ll come back to you for comfort. But you done went and practically told the man that he wasn’t nothing but a bum.”

  “I did not!”

  “Might as well have.”

  Milan’s shoulders sagged. “So, what can I do?”

  “I don’t know. I’m gon’ ask Quantez to do some digging and find out if this Hilton Dorsey is training with the Eagles. If he is, I don’t think it would be a good time to bring the man any more drama. You’re gon’ have to give him some space and let him focus on training.”

  “I can’t. I want to talk to him; tell him that I’m sorry—”

  “If you bother him right now, all you’re going to do is mess up any chance you might have had to get him back.” Sweetie looked off in thought. “Look, go back to the salon—”

  “I can’t. I don’t feel like looking at the clients or my staff. I’m in a foul mood, Sweetie.”

  Sweetie shrugged. “Well take your ass shopping in Paris. Isn’t that the type of shit you’re into?”

  Normally, a trip to Paris and a private showing of the Chanel collection would put her in a wonderful state of mind. But not today. She was frustrated, angry with herself, and furious with Hilton for not understanding that she was ill-equipped to show love.

  Milan left Sweetie’s with a wicked plan in mind. She needed to lash out at someone. Why not Maxwell? He claimed to enjoy pain. Pain that she was only too happy to assign to someone else. As usual, her role would be to direct, prompt, and make sure the punishment was executed to her exact specifications.

  Back in the limo, she called BodySlam and set up a very special appointment for Maxwell. It didn’t take much convincing. She made him a monetary offer that only a fool would refuse. Besides, she knew BodySlam held bitter resentment against Maxwell for putting his girlfriend, the ex-mistress Veronique, out of business.

  CHAPTER 26

  Milan tracked BodySlam’s every move on Maxwell Torrance’s high-tech security monitors.

  Seemingly jolted by the dizzyingly vast and brilliant skyline, BodySlam unconsciously grasped the edge of the opened elevator to steady himself when the doors slid open on the forty-seventh floor. The unobstructed, sparkling blue sky and puffy white clouds displayed through a clear, massive window were beautiful. Like heaven.

  Complementing the magnificent view, a pretty receptionist sat poised behind an elaborate desk with all of heaven serving as a glorious, ethereal backdrop. The receptionist greeted him with a welcoming smile, which gave no hint that she was disturbed by his peculiar attire, his size, or by his bare chest.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Torrance is expecting you. Come with me.” She maintained her perfect smile and led the heavily muscled man down a short corridor lined with plush carpet. With each cushioned step, BodySlam looked increasingly uncomfortable, which greatly pleased Milan.

  Totally unaware of the purpose of the strange man’s visit but knowing better than to pry, the young woman tapped politely on an imposing-looking mahogany door and then opened it.

  “Mr. Torrance, your visitor is here, sir.”

  “Thank you, Karen. Good to see you again, young man. Come in, come in,” Maxwell Torrance offered jovially, as if receiving a visit from an oddly dressed man with bloated biceps was business as usual. Though courteous, Maxwell’s voice rang with the confidence and clarity of a man accustomed to wielding power.

  Milan watched from an adjacent room as BodySlam’s eyes panned Maxwell’s office suite. From Maxwell’s desk, there was yet another view of the sweeping skyline. The posh interior, elegant furnishings, and of course, the skyline, created a monument to the man’s success. BodySlam appeared both awed and disturbed. And bitter. Milan could tell that he resented Maxwell’s privileged circumstances. Hopefully, he wouldn’t hold back. She wanted him to dispense unmerciful punishment on her unruly slave.

  Maxwell sat behind a colossal corporate desk. Neat piles of work were stacked on one side. Glimmering picture frames, pens, and snazzy gadgets were strategically arranged on top of the desk.

  The receptionist left, closing the door behind her. With an impatient hand wave, Maxwell Torrance motioned for BodySlam’s to take the seat opposite him.

  BodySlam approached, slowly, hesitantly. He was obviously out of his depth. Noting his discomfort, Maxwell Torrance’s eyes twinkled with amused interest, as if he were a benevolent king granting a commoner a bit of his time.

  Milan had seen enough. She felt personally insulted by Maxwell’s smug attitude. She stormed out of the adjacent room. “Cut the crap, Maxwell.”

  Thinking he and the mogul were alone, BodySlam whipped around, surprised by Milan’s presence. She wore a black corset, a lacey black thong, and thigh-high boots with stiletto heels, and she wielded a whip as she stalked across the room.

  “Get up!” Milan barked at Maxwell. “How dare you sit behind that desk, pretending as though you have balls,” she said scornfully. “Do you have balls, Maxwell?” she demanded.

  Fear replaced the arrogant twinkle in the business tycoon’s eyes. He sprang up from his seat and scuttled around the desk. Maxwell had on a shirt, tie, and suit jacket, but he was nude from the waist down. BodySlam’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. Maxwell’s appendage, shrunken with fear, was barely visible. “No, mistress. I don’t have any balls,” he admitted.

  Dropping to his knees, head lowered in shame, his pale exposed buttocks poking upward, he crawled to Milan and kissed the toe of her shiny black boot.

  She cut a glance at BodySlam, her former adversary, and gave him a triumphant smile. Then she swept her gaze toward Maxwell’s genitals and down his bare legs. “As you can see, I had my property prepare himself for your special brand of punishment.” She emphasized the words my property, hoping to raise BodySlam’s ire. He had, after all, co-owned Maxwell briefly, and she felt certain that he deeply regretted losing the masochistic billionaire.

  “Get over here,” she hissed, looking down at her boots. Maxwell scrambled over and kneeled. His naked ass was several shades lighter than his face. She glared disdainfully down at her chattel who now kneeled at her feet. “He’s my property,” she repeated tauntingly. “Worthless property, I might add. But I own him, nevertheless.”

  BodySlam shifted his eyes menacingly from Milan and down to the groveling executive, looking as if he’d like nothing better than to wring both their necks.

  She watched BodySlam process the situation and then set his hateful eyes on Maxwell. Wise choice.

  “Tell BodySlam why his presence is requested today,” Milan ordered.

  “Mr. BodySlam,” Maxwell Torrance said, his tone now soft and meek. “Sadly, I can no longer satisfy my cherished mistress.”

  “Because…” she prodded.

  His face went red and he dropped his head in shame. “Because I’m ill-equipped to satisfy my dear mistress.”

  “Ill-equipped?” Milan scoffed. “Explain your problem in simple words.”

  “My penis is inadequate,” he uttered, his voice filled with angst.

  BodySlam grunted in disgust and scowled at the shuddering billionaire.

  Milan shared BodySlam’s revulsion and sucked her teeth. “There’s another thing—”

  “Yes, Mistress?”

  “I expect you to refer to our visitor as sir. Got that!” She gave Maxwell’s head a disdainful smack. “Now, be more specific about your pathetic penis problem.”

  “Yes, of course, Mistress.” The CEO crouched down in a position of worship at Milan’s f
eet, lifted his head, and shifted his gaze upward toward BodySlam. “Mr. BodySlam, sir…my cock is very short and thin, sir. It’s miniscule, sir, and it’s too small to satisfy my mistress.”

  “My clit is bigger than his dick,” Milan mocked.

  BodySlam laughed but the sound held no joy. Then his face hardened. He seemed to growl as he incredulously bared his teeth, exhibiting frothy anger and deep loathing toward the despicable billionaire.

  BodySlam’s ferocious anger had Maxwell shaking and he was beginning to scare Milan as well. Maybe she should get out of the way and let the sadist take out his disdain on Maxwell, who wanted and deserved the highest form of punishment.

  But she stood in position, refusing to show fear. Focusing on Maxwell, she spat, “You’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. Our visitor is repulsed and it’s your fault.” She swatted his pale rump. Then she raised the whip. She would have preferred disciplining Maxwell with a paddle, but being that he was prone to run away, she was given no choice but to toughen up and give him the excruciating pain he yearned for. Grimacing, she delivered a disgusting succession of whip lashes. She involuntarily flinched with the landing of each hot whip lash. Maxwell’s closed mouth muffled his moans of erotic distress. Eew!

  As she whipped Maxwell, she noticed a protrusion in the front of BodySlam’s tight leather pants. Who would have thought that such a posh domain would contain such depravity in such a lofty office in the midst of the workday? Red marks appeared on Maxwell’s backside, but Milan was quickly growing tired. She’d worked herself into a sweat, and BodySlam’s hand worked itself down to his groin. His fingers brushed his stiffening manhood that pushed against his leather crotch. He began rubbing circularly. His dick, bulging against the zipper of his pants, demanded freedom from the leather confines.

  Finally exhausted, Milan dropped the whip and kicked Maxwell as hard as she could. “Prepare our guest!”