by Pynk
“Yeah.”
“Oh, that’s shaky ground, man. How mad is she?”
“Pretty mad. It’s bad.”
“And obviously she knows what you do, right?”
“Yeah.”
Romeo set his glass down, saying, “You need to make that right. You need to let her cool down and then in a few days, get inside her head and convince her she needs to chill. Get back with her for a minute if you need to.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’ll be letting me back into her head, her place, or anything else.” Kemba took another sip.
“Her place? She kicked you out?”
“Yep.”
“Man, you never move into a woman’s place. Ever.”
“I know. Needed to save my money. Did that.”
Romeo explained, “Your focus should be on her squashing what she knows. If she doesn’t, Lip Service is all up in there with you. You are part of the whole thing, so that’s why I’m telling you that. Just keep it cool.”
“I don’t think she’d do that.”
“Never underestimate a woman scorned. Period.”
“True. Kinda like with you and Money. You two still trippin’?”
“Man, fuck Money.” Romeo frowned.
“Damn. What’s up? Money’s cool people.” Kemba sipped again.
“Money can’t be trusted. Women can’t be trusted.”
“Okay.”
“So, where are you gonna stay?” Romeo asked.
“I’ve got a hotel until I can figure things out.”
“All right. Just wanted to say, you need a place for a minute, I’ve got room.” He waved his arm toward his apartment.
Kemba looked around the suite. “I see that. I’m good.”
“Okay. And I know you’re making some good money for the old girl, but what you need to do is come and let me put you on trial over here.”
“On trial?” Kemba asked.
“Just a couple of appointments.”
“I thought you did more of the stroll kinda thing.”
“Does this look like streetwalker money to you? I’ve come up. I might not charge as much as Money, but I get mine.”
“What, you take 50 percent?”
“I do. But there’s no 10 percent off the top. I do it all.”
“I see.”
“And, I have a lot of women who want a male like you.” Romeo also threw in, “And men, too.”
Kemba put his drink down and said right away, “Hey, I don’t do that shit, man.”
“You don’t?”
Kemba sat up straight. “Hell, no.”
“Never have?”
“Never have. Never will. I can tell you that right now.”
Romeo raised an eyebrow and gave a chuckle. “Never say never.” He took hold of his glass.
Kemba raised both eyebrows and his voice. “Dude. I’m not gay.”
Romeo replied, “I didn’t say you were. I’m just talking about filling a need. Won’t mean you’re gay.”
“It would mean I’m bi. Same damn thing. And I’m not.”
“You sure?”
“What are you asking me?” Kemba gave a look of disapproval. “Man, fuck you.”
“Okay.” Romeo’s face said he was being playful.
Kemba was anything but. He noticed Romeo’s pinky finger sticking out as Romeo took a sip of his soda. Kemba said as he stood up fast, “Look. It’s about time I get on out of here. Thanks for the drink, dude.”
Romeo put his glass back down and made his way around the bar near where Kemba had sat. “Okay. Okay. Relax.” He looked at Kemba, who stood with his hands in his pockets. “Why are you mad? If you’re straight, no need to get mad.”
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“Look, I apologize. But I’m telling you now. Honestly. I thought you were feeling me. It’s just a sense I got. Nothing concrete, nothing definite, but you know, it’s almost like when we men see a woman and we’re attracted. I’m attracted. And I thought you were, too.”
Kemba looked pissed off. “Then let me tell you this. I am not attracted to you. No homo here. Period. And if you got some gay-ass men wanting you to hook them up, then you bend your pimp ass over and do that shit yourself, or find someone who’s into that. I know this business can sometimes mean some Academy Award–type performance shit, putting on an act and making their asshole dreams come true. But that ain’t gonna happen here. Ain’t no money in the world gonna make me rub up against some rusty-elbowed dude with a boner. Oh, hell no.”
“Okay.” Romeo just watched like he was even more suspicious.
Kemba turned toward the door and said, “You take care.”
“You too. And hey. I’m sorry. Forgive me.” Romeo put out his arms as though encouraging a hug.
Kemba looked back with an angrier face. “Later. Fag-ass pimp.” He closed the door and said loudly, “Lord. I have seen it all.”
A little after midnight, Kemba pulled back the white sheets of the signature bed in his king hotel room and stripped down from the day. Exhausted mentally and physically, he entered the oversized ebony shower.
Warm sprays of water spewed from the chrome ceiling-mounted rain-shower head. He allowed his dreads to drench, leaning his head back to feel the water upon his tired face. He rubbed his forehead and placed his hand against the onyx wall, feeling the sensation of the water saturating his muscular, dark skin.
He stood in thought, wondering if he really could move on from Beryl without even trying to win her back. There was a feeling coming over him that surprised him. He didn’t think he’d ever really miss her that much if they’d decided to move on. Independence wasn’t something he’d grown to enjoy.
He gave a long exhale and grabbed the blue body wash with the mandarin scent, squeezed a generous amount on his hand, and rubbed down his chest, shoulders, and neck, then turned around for the other shower head mounted on the wall to meet his back. He rubbed his hips and glutes, and then his penis, washing himself with his hands. The soapy bubbles cleaned his skin, but did nothing for what was on his dirty mind.
His penis began to grow.
He grabbed it and looked down, as though it needed to cut the hell out. He grabbed it tighter, massaging his shaft with his palm, rubbing his tip with his thumb. Taking a stance with his feet apart and a hand on his hip, his mind raced to Romeo.
He thought, What if I had turned around before I left and he pulled down my shorts, taking hold of my dick and strumming it, then falling to his knees to apologize for thinking that I would even be amused by his stupid-ass “sex with a man” talk? What if he opened his mouth and began sucking my dick so I could feel the hairs of his mustache on my skin? What if I looked down and saw his male face pleasing me? What if his grip was strong, not like a woman’s, and I liked it? What if he went deeper down his throat than anyone ever had, kind of like he would like it himself? What if he knew what he was doing so well, that even if I pushed away he’d pull me closer, grabbing my ass cheek with his hand, stroking me faster with his mouth until I couldn’t take it anymore, and I looked down to see that he took his other hand, yanking his own long dick while having my dick in his mouth, and the anticipation of what that dick would feel like in my mouth made me come in his mouth like this? He screamed out loud, “Like this. Like this. Ahhhhh, Dammit. Fuck. Oh fuck. Just like that.”
Upon Kemba skeeting his last forbidden drop onto the shower floor, his phone rang. He listened to it and focused on his breathing, telling himself it could wait. It rang again. He continued to shower and shook his head over what madness had just occurred, and then his phone rang again.
He stepped out, snatched a towel, and darted to the bedroom to grab his cell from the nightstand. “Hello.”
“Kemba Price?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ty Ellis with TMZ. We’d like to talk to you about an unnamed source who has informed us that you are an escort who has been servicing Senator Ellington’s wife. Would you mind if we ask you
a few questions?”
His ears, head, and heart jumped, and he looked down at his phone as another call came in. The caller ID displayed a number he didn’t recognize.
Who the hell is that? Aw damn!
Senator Darrell Ellington has won the Maine caucus with Robert Sally coming in second. Sally is from Maine and was expected to win, but Ellington campaigned hard.
Twenty-Six
Money
Monday—February 6, 2012
Most of the lights in the hotel room were off. The lamps on each side of the bed were set to the most dim level. And Pretty in Pink, aka Mr. 31, didn’t have his bag of tricks with him. He had his thick little wife instead. It was a threesome, with each one playing by the rules that applied only for this particular afternoon. Part of the new rule was that today, Pretty in Pink would go only by his real name, Tyler Copeland.
“So you’re my husband’s mistress, huh?” Tyler’s wife asked.
Money, who was going by the name Queens, asked, “Did he say that?”
Tyler admitted, aiming his blue eyes at Money, “Queens, I told her everything.” Unbeknownst to his wife, he’d already hipped Money to the deal. That his wife heard him on the phone booking an appointment. That she started digging into their finances and found thousands of dollars in even amounts debited from an account in his name only. But she wasn’t able to access the payees, only the amounts and dates. She assumed there was a very expensive third party in their marriage. He came clean after arguing with her for two days. But one thing he didn’t do was tell her about his other side. She did find a dildo under the sink of his separate bathroom years ago, but he claimed he bought it to use on her. Which he never did. She’d let it go. But this one, she just couldn’t drop. This one she said she had to see for herself.
Today he’d asked Money to make it average, like everyday, normal sex. And she agreed.
Money asked Tyler’s wife, “So, you just want to watch, huh?”
“I do.” She seemed semisure.
“You sure you don’t want to play?”
“I’m sure. He told me what he’s been doing. I told him I want to see. If he’s been living like this, seeing you, then I need to know it all. Just act like I’m not even here.”
It was a different situation compared to their usual. There would be no submissive. No slave sex. No female domination. No bondage. There would only be vanilla sex with a man she’d known for a couple of years who’d never even penetrated her. But she’d need to play the role of the escort hired to sleep with the husband who just wanted some pussy on the side. No kink. Just good old-fashioned sex.
Tyler, wearing Jockey men’s underwear, was barely hard when he stepped to the bed from where his wife sat on the guest chair. She was wearing the same outfit she arrived in. It was a blue-green wrap dress and heels, no stockings. She was in her mid-fifties, blonde, and pale. She had a bob cut, much like Katie Couric. She was conservative looking, wealthy looking, and almost square looking. Her face said she was a newbie, but she had her dress hiked up to her hips already, the finger of her dainty right hand rubbing her hairy vulva. Her slightly chubby legs were wide apart, cooperating by making room for voyeuristic playtime.
Tyler climbed on the bed with Money, holding a Magnum condom package in his hand, which he definitely didn’t need. He was average, at best. It was like he didn’t know what size to buy at the store. Money had always gotten them. But his wife made him get his own before they came to the hotel.
He lay next to Money, who crawled on top of him, and it was lights, camera, action. She began rubbing his forehead with her hand, massaging his hairline, and placing her hand along his flabby pectorals, coming to the level of his chest to kiss his nipples, tracing the roundness of his areola with her stiff tongue. She looked over at his wife, who was completely silent. Money wanted to see if she was buying it. She looked intrigued.
Money took a bottle of eucalyptus oil from the side table and rubbed it over Tyler’s chest and even his beer-belly stomach. She moved on down to his thighs and then scooted herself to his calves, massaging his shins and ankles. She turned to aim her ass at his face, and again looked at his wife. Money shook her ass cheeks and rubbed on the front of his legs from his knees to his upper thighs.
Tyler showed little response.
“Doesn’t that feel good?” Money asked him, making sure he remembered he was supposed to act like he liked it.
“Oh yeah, Queens. Ummm, that feels nice.”
Money raised an eyebrow at his fakeness.
His wife was none the wiser. Her eyes had grown sexy with curiosity. She now had her finger inside.
“That looks good,” Money told her.
She said nothing, she just continued to explore her pussy with her finger.
Money turned around and lay on her back along the width of the bed so the Mrs. could see them better. Tyler climbed on top of her, and Money brought her legs all the way back, exposing her pussy. It was wide open, and her wetness glistened. He removed his underwear. His penis was nowhere near as hard as it had been before. She pulled her legs all the way back, touching her knees to her ears, and said to Tyler’s wife, “Bet you can’t fit your whole hand in there.”
She said, “No thank you. I’ll let my husband have you to himself.”
Money explained, “No, I meant you put your whole hand inside of your pussy.”
His wife looked down at her vagina and right away, inserted two fingers, then three, then four. She adjusted her knuckles and turned her hand to make room, but she seemed to have reached her maximum.
Tyler said, “Good girl,” and Money saw his dick jump to another level of hard.
Money said to him, “Now why don’t you stick your dick all the way inside of me? Your pretty wife can fist herself while we fuck.”
Tyler placed the condom on himself, got in position to give Money what she’d never had from him, then pressed his hips against her body. The two of them moaned at the same time.
When they looked over at the wife, her entire fist was impaled into her vagina. Her eyes were still sexy, her hand was devoured, and she started a soft, erotic groan that escaped from her throat while she licked her lips and scooted toward her hand as if excited to get it in further. All they could see was her wrist hanging from her pussy.
Tyler kept watching her and fucking Money and grinding himself deeper as his wife freaked herself.
Money kept an eye on them both, and her thoughts shifted to how this woman had no idea her husband, who was so in control and responsible for so much, was really such a sissy in his head, who had such a need to be the opposite of what he was, who was so conflicted in his manhood that he wore makeup and high heels and liked to get fucked with dildos.
Tyler pressed deeper and gave off a high-pitched grunt, kind of girlish, like he always did. And Money realized he had actually come. His wife kept her fist inside and rubbed her breast with her other hand. Tyler pulled out of Money and went over to his wife, taking her hand out of her wet pussy and sucking her fingers, licking all of her juices off of her palm and knuckles, before taking her entire hand into his mouth until it disappeared.
She gave off a giggle—“Look at you”—as if the sight did nothing to turn her on. She said to Money, “He always gives off that girlie groan when he’s having an orgasm.” She sounded so straight-laced, the complete opposite of her husband, who seemed to be enjoying her fist in his mouth. The Mrs. closed her legs and giggled again, tapping him on his shoulder. “Tyler, stop that.”
Money lowered her legs and gave the wife a smile. “You’re very sexy.”
“Thank you.” She blushed but wouldn’t give Money eye contact.
Tyler stopped and looked toward Money, apparently realizing he’d gone just about as far as his wife could handle. He turned to get dressed.
When Money saw his now flaccid penis, she gasped. The condom was gone.
She quickly reached inside of herself and dug deep, bringing her legs back again, and she pulle
d it out. The way-too-large condom had slipped off, and it had Tyler Copeland’s sperm dripping from it. “Oh, no,” Money yelled.
His wife had begun putting on her clothes, but she froze when she saw the condom. “What?”
Money dropped it onto the sheets and jumped up, hurrying into the bathroom and slamming the door. She sat on the toilet to force out whatever was there.
She heard Tyler’s wife ask him, “Has that ever happened before?”
Tyler gave off a panicked “No.” Money could tell he was standing before the door. He asked, “You’re on the pill, right, Queens?”
She said loudly, “I have a uterine device,” wishing they would just leave.
The sound of her cell went off, and then it went off again. Money let it ring and ring and then heard Mrs. Copeland say, “Bye. It was nice meeting you.”
Money said nothing.
The door closed.
When she came back out, her mind was filled with the fact that the condom had slipped off.
She picked up her cell and saw that she had a message. She pressed 1 for the voice mail and heard, “Ms. Watts. This is Detective Raymond Thompson. I need you to give me a call, please. We have some questions we’d like to ask you regarding a case that just opened up here. I’m with the New York Police Department, 67th Precinct.” He left his number.
She stood frozen in a daze. “Shit.”
Kemba’s text came in next. Call me.
“Shit. Fuck.”
The next morning, Money Watts sat in the police station in front of Detective Thompson. It was just the two of them in a small, barren room. And he did indeed have questions.
Her reply to what he’d said so far was, “Solicitation of sex and pimping? You are kidding me.”
“Your employee is Kemba Price, right?”
“Yes.”
He was older, with built-in frown lines. “He has a girlfriend named Beryl Thomas. Turns out they broke up. We’ve been given the name of a woman who Mr. Price was allegedly seeing on the side.”
“Okay. What does that have to do with me?”