“You’re being weird.” I felt a little frantic, wondering if there was something about my body that turned him off. Maybe I wasn’t as seductive as I’d thought.
But he put my doubtful thoughts to rest when he walked up to me and dropped to his knees. His large hands grasped my hips and I glanced down at the sight of him brushing his lips against my baby-smooth cooch.
Although I had wiped his cum out with tissues in the Porsche, I wasn’t sure if there was a lingering scent. I would have jumped in the shower had I known he was going to stick his face between my legs and nuzzle my pussy like it smelled as fresh as morning rain.
I wriggled uncomfortably. “Maybe I should take a quick shower.”
“No. I love the way you smell.” He removed a hand from my hip and his fingers lightly touched the damp petals of my folds. “Are you always this wet or is your pussy dripping for me?”
“It’s all for you.”
He made a soft grunt before his tongue began to delicately lick at my silky folds. He didn’t try to penetrate my walls with his tongue. He proceeded to drive me insane by softly licking the outside of my cooch, and my body jerked like it was being zapped by a stun gun.
His style of eating pussy wasn’t anything like my husband’s. Don’t get me wrong; Maverick was good at oral sex. He dove right in and didn’t bother with any of the gentle-licking that Michelangelo was doing.
He had me squirming around so much, it’s a wonder I didn’t topple over. “That’s enough,” I whispered, but he kept at it, alternating between licking my folds and then closing his mouth around my clit as his tongue flicked against it rapidly.
Ready for Michelangelo to stop torturing my clit, I went into a semi-squat position—a nonverbal way of saying, “Get up in this this pussy, please!”
The way he was eating out my box was so electrifying, my legs started shaking. Desperate for deep penetration, I went into a variation of a Sumo Squat with my legs wide apart and my feet turned outward. My pussy was wide open and ready for him.
A quick study, Michelangelo got up and pulled me toward the bed. He nudged me to sit down, and then he resumed his position between my legs. At some point I wrapped my legs around his neck. He gripped me at the waist and then stood up, continuing to eat my pussy while walking around my vast bedroom. He cupped my ass and sucked my pussy like he was slurping raw clams out of the shell. The sound effects he was making with all the slurping and sucking was causing my cooch to run like a raging river.
He laid me down on the bed and stretched my legs into a V, splaying me wide open. Hovering over me, he devoured me with his eyes as he observed my most intimate body part. In response, my pussy wept with joy.
He splayed me even wider as he embedded his tongue as deeply as it would go, tongue-fucking my cooch until I was writhing around and begging for mercy.
After giving me the best head I’d ever had, Michelangelo puckered his lips around my clit and began tugging on it while teasing the tiny head with the tip of his tongue. He was a master of oral sex, and although I was in heaven, I was ready for some dick.
I sat up a little and struggled to get his belt unfastened. But he kept eating pussy, digging his tongue into my sloppy wet hole and then darting up to my clit and swishing across it. Each tongue stroke felt like an electric shock. The way he was toying with my clit should have been illegal. He had me scooting around on the bed and yelping like a wounded animal.
Somehow, I ended up with my head and torso hanging over the edge of the bed, while my lower region bucked and writhed against his face as his tongue delved into me deeply. On the edge of sanity, I cried out, “Fuck me, Michelangelo! Please, baby, please.” My voice was so loud and urgent, he finally realized I wasn’t playing with his ass anymore.
At last, he began to unbuckle his belt. I pulled myself up and busily tried to help him. He removed his pants, and then tore off his shirt, displaying the most beautiful washboard abs I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help from reaching out and running my hands over his eight-pack. From head to toe, Michelangelo was a work of art. So deliciously handsome, he looked edible—like an exquisite piece of high-priced gourmet man-candy.
He kissed me and slipped in his tongue, which was coated with my nectar. I sucked on his tongue, enjoying the spicy-sweet flavor.
Pulling me to my knees, he positioned me for doggy style. He slid a finger inside of me and then joined it with a second, thick finger. Seizing my ass in both hands, he fucked me from behind. Sizzling hot and creamy, my pussy opened up easily, enabling his dick to slide in without a struggle. I spread my knees wider apart, inviting him to fuck me as deeply as possible.
Doggy style was a good way to start off, but I couldn’t cum in that position. Pulling away from him, I flopped on my back, and urgently reached for him.
He got on top and I guided him to my hot spot. Once inside, he changed his pace, switching to a slow, winding movement that stroked against every inch of my satiny walls.
“This is what I’ve wanted since the day we began shooting. Never thought I’d get it, though. You feel so good, I’d fuck this pussy every day if you let me, Cori.”
I nodded, unable to participate in a verbal conversation during such an intense moment.
“I go crazy whenever you’re on set. Do you have any idea how hard it is to compete in a cookoff when your dick is hard?”
I murmured a sound, but I actually had no idea that he’d been harboring such intense feelings for me. But we’d have to discuss his erections on the set at another time. All I wanted to do in that moment was focus on getting satisfied.
In sync with me, Michelangelo pushed his dick in to the hilt and moved extra slowly while my inner muscles gently grasped, rhythmically massaged, and then clutched his shaft possessively.
“Give me more. Harder! Oh, go deep!” Mindless words escaped my lips as I rode him. “Does this dick belong to me?” I asked in a throaty whisper.
“It’s all yours, baby. Every fucking inch,” he responded in a growl and then pushed his entire length into my body, locating my G-spot and stroking it masterfully.
On the cusp of an explosion, my pussy tightened around his shaft like a vise. My body became wracked with tremors and pulsed in ecstasy. Heat gathered in the pit of my stomach and tingles corkscrewed up and down my spine. Cries of passion erupted from me and seemed to echo off the walls. A kaleidoscope of vibrant colors danced behind my closed lids as an orgasm tore through me. Then I went limp and collapsed with my breasts pressed against his chest, the sweat from our bodies comingling while our hearts pounded together.
• • •
Michelangelo had amazing energy. We made love over and over. I couldn’t get enough of him and he couldn’t get enough of me. I was lying in his arms, and gearing up for the next round when he shifted his position and sat up lazily, stealing a peek at the clock on the nightstand.
He peered down at me. “It’s getting close to dinnertime. I should probably be getting back to the hotel.”
“Don’t worry about food. If you’re hungry, I can fix us something or we could cook together. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
“I’d love that, but I can’t stay.”
“Why not?”
“The contestants always eat dinner together in the suite. Becca and Yancy will be looking for me. They’ll bang on my door if I don’t show up.”
“Oh, damn.” I’d completely forgotten that we needed to be careful about arousing the suspicions of his fellow contestants.
“I don’t want to leave, yet, baby. But I don’t want to give people a reason to gossip, either.”
“You’re right.” I nodded as if I was in total agreement. In reality, my mind was spinning, trying to come up with a way to keep him in bed with me.
He bent over and kissed me softly on the lips, and then threw the covers back and got out of bed. Panic set in as I watched him gathering hi
s scattered clothing from the floor.
“I have an idea,” I blurted.
He cocked his head to the side, waiting to hear what I had to say.
“Why don’t you take a taxi back to the hotel, have dinner with Becca and Yancy, and then pretend that you’ve decided to go to bed early…or you could tell them that you want to go back to your room and Facetime with your girlfriend. I’m sure you can think of a way to excuse yourself.”
“I like the Facetime idea.”
My heart dropped. “Wait. Hold up. Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
I felt like I’d been punched. Being married and all, I shouldn’t have felt betrayed, but I did. “Is your relationship serious?”
“I’d like it to be.”
“Well, damn. If it’s like that, why’d you even agree to meet up with me?”
“Because…”
“Because what?” Angry, I spoke in a sharper tone than I had intended.
“Because in my dreams, my girlfriend is you.”
Totally, disarmed, I felt myself turning red. “Don’t tease me like that,” I said, attempting to give him a gentle elbow to the ribs, which he deflected and then put a wrestler’s move on me, pinning me down and covering my face with sloppy, wet kisses.
“Ew. Get off me. Stop!” I said, laughing.
“Nope. You tried to crack my ribs and now you have to pay.” He held my wrists together with one hand and began tickling me in the armpit with his free hand. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been tickled—but I recalled that it was something that Grandma Eula Mae used to do. She chased my cousins and me around the house when we were little kids, and whomever she caught, got tickled unmercifully.
Laughing and wiggling under Michelangelo’s tickling assault, I felt like a little kid again.
I wondered what was happening here. Michelangelo and I were laughing and playing around like a pair of lovebirds. Maverick and I rarely laughed together. We mimicked the sounds, but we seldom truly laughed and we most definitely were never playful with each other anymore.
I cut an eye at Michelangelo and wondered if I was developing feelings for him. That would be crazy and totally out of character for a woman like me who was usually all about business. My main focus in life was to continue building the Mavcor brand.
Maverick and I were bound together for forever, and I accepted that. All I was doing with Michelangelo was indulging in revenge sex and having fun in the process.
I couldn’t wait for Maverick to discover that he wasn’t the only one who could reap the benefits of being in an open marriage.
Hugged up together, Michelangelo and I walked through the living room and stood at the door.
“Promise me you won’t linger around, bullshitting with Yancy and Becca. Promise me you’ll get back here as soon as you can,” I said, caressing his arm.
“As soon as I finish eating, I’m gonna stand up and announce that I have to Facetime with my girl. But it won’t be a lie because I’m going to hop in a cab, and tell the driver to step on it so that I can do some real face time between those luscious thighs.”
He’d caught me off guard with that remark and had me blushing and giggling, again. Before he walked out of the door, I pulled him to me and gave him a lingering kiss. “Seriously, hurry back because I miss you already,” I admitted.
“I’ll be right back,” he promised, and then he was gone.
I wanted to stand in the corridor and watch him walk to the elevator, but that kind of behavior would make me appear to be overanxious and juvenile. Forcing myself to get a grip, I went inside, closed the door and leaned against it.
My body was still warm from Michelangelo’s heat and I could still feel his touch. With a deep inhale, I wrapped my arms around myself as my lips curved upward into a smile.
CHAPTER 27
I hadn’t eaten all day and I wasn’t hungry. I was too excited to sit down and eat a full meal. With time to kill while waiting for Michelangelo to return, I munched on a bag of kale chips, and turned on Grandma Eula Mae’s recording.
• • •
People thought that all I did was sit around counting money. They spoke of me as if I had ice water running through my veins. But truth be told, I had a gentler side that I couldn’t afford to let others see. My gals would have tried to walk all over me and my enemies would have known exactly how to hurt me if they knew my Achilles’ heel.
After O’Grady had me and my girls locked up for the umpteenth time, he took over, marching around my establishment like he owned the place. Man, oh, man. I wanted to put a bullet in his ass for strutting around like a barnyard peacock and bossing me around like he was the true owner of my brothel.
According to the gossip mill, I was romantically involved with Mr. Banner, but there was no truth to that rumor. Mr. Banner enjoyed my whores and he valued our friendship. We had mutual respect for each other, but that was as far as it went.
Through my friendship with Mr. Banner, I met a Negro physician who was also a lover of art. This physician, a fine-looking and dignified man, had introduced Mr. Banner to a local artist. A colored fella named Horace Pippin, who was untrained and whose work was considered crude by art lovers. His paintings looked like crap to me, too, and I didn’t have a trained eye. But Mr. Banner bought up the man’s entire collection and added it to his gallery. White folks fell in love with Horace Pippin’s folk art and pretty soon, he was getting commissioned to paint for folks from Europe and other faroff places around the world.
I have one of his paintings. It’s up in the attic somewhere. Heard his work is worth a fortune now, but I haven’t had the energy to go digging around up in the attic to find the dusty painting. If any of my descendants ever bother to listen to this recording, you need to get your butt up in the attic, find the painting, and get it appraised.
Okay, what was I talking about? Lord, that quick, I lost my train of thought. I hate the way my memories come and go. Oh, I remember. I was talking about the Negro physician who became very, very important in my life. His name was Dr. Felder Bradwell.
When Mr. Banner caught the clap from one of my gals, he convinced Dr. Bradwell to start treating all my gals, behind the scenes, of course. Not only did he treat their various womanly ailments, but he also gave them regular checkups to make sure their privates stayed in good working condition. Before long, the white customers secretly began getting treated by Dr. Bradwell—after hours, also. None of them would have been caught dead paying a visit to a Negro doctor during daytime hours. They’d rather slink to his office in the dead of night than put themselves through the embarrassment of facing their regular family physicians with yellow puss leaking out of their peckers.
With Dr. Bradwell in my corner, I didn’t have to rely on ol’ Hattie Baker and her risky coat hanger method of getting rid of pesky pregnancies. Dr. Bradwell did the abortions safely, and no one bled to death from a punctured uterus or got infected from a rusted wire hanger.
He was a handsome man with wavy hair that he wore brushed backward, showing off his chiseled facial features. He had beautiful dark eyes and wore a thin, neatly trimmed mustache. Although the round spectacles he wore gave him an intellectual look, those eye glasses couldn’t hide the doctor’s good looks.
I would venture to say that when I was first introduced to Dr. Bradwell, it was a case of love at first sight. For both of us. There we were, two people from very different worlds, and yet we both recognized something familiar in the other.
Felder, as I referred to him behind closed doors, was a married man. He was married to a high-society gal named Daffodil, and it took two years of hell before he came to realize that Daffodil was crazy as a bedbug. When she started showing up at his practice wearing a wrinkled slip covered by a terrycloth robe that was encrusted with oatmeal and egg yolk, he had no choice but to put her away in a mental institution. Ba
ck then, folks didn’t divorce their spouses the way they do today. You married for better or for worse and stuck by those vows
In the eyes of the law, I was carrying on an illicit affair with a married man, but Felder and I were so much in love, our bond was surely sanctioned by the Lord.
We were both masters at keeping secrets, and no one, not even Mr. Banner, was aware of the fiery passion that burned between us.
Felder despised Commissioner O’Grady for continually locking me up. He hated the man as much as I did, maybe more so. It bruised his ego something terrible that he couldn’t protect me from O’Grady, and his desire for revenge was starting to eat at him.
I’m ashamed that we had to sacrifice an innocent woman to get to O’Grady, but in times of warfare, there’s always collateral damage.
I had this new whore named Baby Cakes, a cute little petite thing, with the deepest dimples and big, round eyes. She looked childlike and adorable, and the men went wild for Baby Cakes. She was so tiny that even the puniest customer could feel like a he-man when he picked her up and carried her up the flight of stairs.
I was fit to be tied when during her very first week of employment, one of those dirty bastards gave her the clap—not only in her pussy, but also in her throat.
It burned me up having to lose money due to Baby Cakes being out of commission for a while. If it were up to me, she would have been back sucking and fucking as soon as Felder gave her the shot of penicillin. But Felder always insisted that the gals he treated lay low and refrain from sexual activity for at least two weeks.
Felder shocked me when he decided to hold off giving Baby Cakes a dose of penicillin. He confided that he planned for her to infect the commissioner when the ol’ brute made his regular Wednesday night visit.
There was no doubt that O’Grady would want a toss in the hay with Baby Cakes. He made it a point to try out all the new meat, free of charge, of course.
“If giving O’Grady the clap is your idea of punishment, I don’t think it’s severe enough,” I complained to Felder.
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