Satan's Sisters

by Star Jones

  Channing reached down and started tickling Lizette. “Oh yeah? Boring, huh?”

  “Stop . . . Stop . . . Channing!” Lizette yelled.

  Channing obeyed. Besides, he wasn’t done yet. He wanted to scrape up every bit of dirt that Lizette had, even if they had moved beyond news to speculation. He could still use some of that. Chattercrazy.com was a gossip site, after all, not the New York Times.

  “How about Dara and Shelly?” Channing asked.

  “Nah, they’re not going anywhere,” Lizette said. “You can’t get rid of Shelly. She’s too fabulous. I think she brings in a younger, hipper audience. And she’s black. Can’t get rid of the black woman—even though I guess Maxine is black too. Anyway, I don’t think Shelly’s going anywhere. And Dara isn’t going anywhere either. She’s Latina, she’s beautiful, she’s brilliant, and she’s the new kid on the block. I think she’s probably the safest of all. So if I had to guess, I’d say maybe Molly. And she’s seemed kind of distracted lately anyway. I don’t think she’s been as funny. Sometimes I think she may not be feeling well or something. I don’t know. Maybe it could actually be Whitney. Who knows? This is all just speculation anyway.”

  Channing remembered that he had his laptop with him. He was desperate to get this all down while it was still fresh in his mind.

  “Excuse me,” he said, rising from the bed. “I forgot to send out an e-mail earlier. I’ll be back in like ten minutes.”

  “An e-mail! But we’re not done yet, remember?” Lizette said, her face in a frown.

  “I swear, ten minutes,” he said as he hurried out of the small bedroom. From the living room, he called out to her, “And don’t fall asleep!”

  THOUGH SHELLY WAS HALF done with her thirties, just five short years from her forties—though she’d be more likely to describe it as just five years away from her twenties—she still liked to party like she was in her twenties. This meant that when she was ready for a night out, she was likely to show up with a crowd quite a bit younger than she. Sometimes, this meant that Shelly was going to be close by when something stupid transpired, as was the case on Monday when she got caught up in foolishness that wound up in the newspaper. But Shelly wasn’t ever going to let some foolishness spoil her good time. Shelly was a pro at creating good times. She had learned from the best—the European fashion models who ran the streets of Milan, Paris, London, Barcelona, and the French Riviera like they were playgrounds specifically created for their amusement. You haven’t really partied until you’ve snorted coke from the bare nipples of your best friend after giving a blow job to a hot stranger in the VIP section of Les Bains Douches before having an orgy in the back of a limo traveling along the Seine at 130 kilometers per hour after going three straight days without sleep and having to show up for an eight a.m. cover shoot. Shelly had done all that and much, much more. So when she came back to New York, she was much freer with her sexuality, her lifestyle, her boundaries, than probably any other Harvard Business School graduate within a thousand-mile radius. For these reasons and more, Shelly started gravitating toward the hip-hop crowd when she was looking for a good time. The rappers, musicians, and their hangers-on weren’t into a hard-core drug scene—their happy juice tended to begin and end with weed—but they liked to enjoy themselves and they liked to spend money, two traits that Shelly had honed to perfection.

  Some of Shelly’s friends assumed that she was going to tone down the rapper forays after she joined The Lunch Club, but that hadn’t happened at all. Particularly after she hired La—ah (LaDashah) as her assistant. La—ah’s cousin, Ronny Ron, was a successful, well-connected hip-hop producer, so La—ah was apprised of every gathering of more than two hip-hop luminaries in any after-hours spot in the city, almost as soon as the first bottle of Patron had been purchased. This hip-hop grapevine perfectly suited Shelly’s needs and was one of the main reasons she kept La—ah around. It certainly wasn’t because of the woman’s organizational abilities—sometimes Shelly had to wonder which one of them was the boss and which one was the assistant. But if Shelly were going to have an assistant, it somehow felt right that she would be almost as fabulous as Shelly.

  And so it was that Shelly found herself cuddled up in the corner of Spry, the new hot West Side club, on Thursday with a gorgeous, well-known rapper named Big Sly who had decided he was going to attempt to swim in deeper waters for the night and try his luck with the fabulous Shelly Carter. Jay-Z had Beyoncé, Russell used to have Kimora . . . hell, it was time for Miss Shelly to step up her street cred, so Big Sly’s affections had been enthusiastically reciprocated. Shelly found him to be exceedingly cute, with a bright, pretty smile and sculpted muscles that bulged from his arms and torso like they were trying to escape. She also found him to be a lot brighter than advertised—well, to be honest, she had no expectations about his level of intelligence and was merely basing her preconceptions on his chosen line of work.

  As Shelly and Sly kissed and petted like teenagers, Sly’s assistant, Ramon, was trying to lure La—ah onto a nearby couch. Ramon wasn’t as good-looking or as muscular as his boss, but he was still sexy. La—ah couldn’t stop staring at the man’s hands. They were the largest hands she had ever seen, particularly on a normal-sized man like Ramon. She thought Ramon could probably palm her entire sizable butt with just one hand. Maybe she should give him a little positive feedback and see where it led, especially considering that her girl Shelly looked like she was about five seconds away from pulling the rapper’s tool out of his designer jeans.

  “Why don’t you come over here and sit next to me, girl?” Ramon said. La—ah shrugged and sauntered over. She couldn’t help but stare at Shelly and Big Sly, who looked like he now had his face buried between Shelly’s large, twenty-five-thousand-dollar fake boobs. “Damn,” La—ah said to Ramon, “those two look like they about to fuck right here in the club!”

  Ramon glanced over at them and nodded his head in agreement. “Seriously, they not wasting any time!” he said, putting his arm around La—ah’s shoulder. “But let’s forget about them. Pretend they aren’t even there. I’d like to get to know you better, baby, regardless of what they’re doing.”

  La—ah liked the sound of that. Too often guys thought you were supposed to sleep with them just because your friend was sleeping with their friend. Ramon was paying attention to her, not to what Sly was doing. She grabbed one of Ramon’s hands, something she had been wanting to do for the past hour. She measured his fingers against hers.

  “My God, your hands and your fingers are so big!” she said.

  Ramon shrugged and smiled. “So should I go ahead and say it?” he asked mysteriously.

  “Say what?” La—ah asked.

  “Should I go ahead and make a joke about the size of my fingers?”

  “A joke? What kind of joke?” La—ah asked with a frown. What is he talking about?

  Ramon sighed. Clearly, this woman was not as quick as her boss.

  “You know. What they say about what it means when you have big fingers,” he said. It certainly didn’t work when you had to explain it.

  “Ohhh!” La—ah said, smacking herself against the forehead. When she actually thought about what he was trying to say, she was embarrassed that she hadn’t caught on sooner. Damn, this guy must think I’m an idiot, she thought to herself.

  He laughed at her reaction. “Okay, let’s move on,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me all about what it’s like to be you?”

  “To be me?” she asked with a giggle.

  “Yeah, you. What’s it like to be the assistant for the fabulous Miss Shelly Carter? Then I’ll tell you what it’s like to be the assistant for the fabulous Big Sly. Then we can compare notes, see who has it worse.”

  They laughed together. La—ah was surprised by how much she was already starting to like this guy. It was not what she had expected when he and Big Sly came over and introduced themselves. She thought he was cute, but she assumed he had calculated that because he was rapper boy’s a
ssistant, then he would have her ass all lined up since she was Shelly’s assistant, as if access to her pussy was one of the perks of messing around with Shelly. But he had turned out to be smart, funny, and a total gentleman.

  They were laughing and giggling together about fifteen minutes into their battle over who had the worst job when Sly appeared in front of them, his clothes a mess and his face flush from excitement. La—ah wanted to laugh when she saw the hungry look on his face. Damn, what was Shelly throwing on that boy over there? So far Ramon was easily winning the assistants’ battle of bad—since there was no way she could match the assignment that Ramon had a few months earlier to help some groupie tramp wash the vomit out of her weave and her pubic hair after she passed out naked in her own mess when she got too drunk at Sly’s place. Ramon had objected, but Sly had answered, “Yo, you seriously don’t expect me to do it, do you?”

  “Y’all ready to go?” Sly said, his voice a bit hoarse. La—ah looked over and saw Shelly trying to fix her clothing before she got up.

  “Where we going?” La—ah asked.

  Sly glanced over at Shelly. “Um, I think we’re all going to Shelly’s place,” he said.

  They piled into Sly’s sleek gray Maybach, driven by Ramon, and zoomed across town to Shelly’s apartment on East Sixty-first Street, in one of Donald Trump’s luxury palaces. “Wow, this is beautiful,” Sly said when they stepped into Shelly’s place. He went over to the window, marveling at the expansive view of the East Side skyline. He walked around the rooms, taking in the interesting, modernist furniture, the thick, shag carpets, the curious abstract art on the walls. She had picked up modernistic tastes while in Italy. Ironically, though many observers liked to call Shelly a young Maxine Robinson in training, two apartments and two personal styles couldn’t be more dissimilar than Shelly’s and Maxine’s. While Shelly was all sleek lines and angles, Maxine’s place was so old-world Victorian that it could have been decorated by Cornelius Vanderbilt himself.

  “This is what a grown person’s apartment is supposed to look like,” Sly said with a smile. “Maybe I could get you to come over to my place and give me some decorating tips.”

  Shelly stepped into his arms and stroked his smooth, bald head. “I’ll give you any kind of tip you need,” she said, grinning. “Why don’t you let me show you my bedroom?”

  She took him by the hand and started pulling him down the hall. She looked back at La—ah. “Y’all gonna be all right out here, dear?” she asked, eyebrows raised. La—ah nodded vigorously, glancing over at Ramon with a shy smile.

  “Yes, I think we’ll find something to keep ourselves busy,” La—ah said.

  As soon as they entered Shelly’s bedroom, they didn’t take much time for sightseeing. Shelly hungrily pulled Sly’s shirt from his torso. She sucked in her breath as she passed her fingers over his chest and stomach, the rippling muscles feeling like steel cables beneath her hands. She truly understood why they called them washboard abs. This man’s abdominals were ridiculous, like something out of a bodybuilding magazine.

  “My God, how much time do you have to spend in the gym every day to get them to look like this?” Shelly said. She couldn’t stop touching his stomach and his chest. When she heard his intake of breath as she passed her fingers over his nipples, Shelly grinned.

  “Ah, sensitive nipples, huh?” She leaned over and took his left nipple in her mouth, running her tongue back and forth over the hard nub. She heard his moan. She knew he was probably growing down below, getting nice and long and hard for her. She grinned again with anticipation.

  “Hey, baby?” Sly said. His deep voice sounded like a rumble coming through his chest and vibrated on her lips and tongue as she continued to play.

  “Yes,” she said through a mouthful of his thick, hairless chest.

  “I got an idea. You trust me?”

  Shelly thought that was an odd question coming from a guy she had just met. After all, this was a one-night stand in the making right here. How did trust come into the picture? Of course she didn’t trust him. She didn’t even know him!

  “Um, why do you ask that?” she said, lifting up her mouth a little. Sly was now tugging on her blouse to get it over her head.

  “Well, I was just wondering.” He tossed her blouse to the side, then smoothly undid the clasps on her bra. It was Shelly’s turn to suck in a breath as Sly leaned over and took one of her large breasts into his mouth. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “How would you feel about making this even more interesting?”

  He reached down now and started pulling her skirt off. When he was done, Shelly sat on the edge of the bed in her panties and high heels and nothing else. Sly gently pushed her back on the bedspread. It felt so soft as she sank into its folds. She giggled as he lowered his head to her stomach and started licking her navel. This man doesn’t waste any time, Shelly thought. She tried to concentrate on what it was he was trying to say to her, but she was having difficulty. He had said something about making this “more interesting.” What did that mean—it seemed to be quite interesting already.

  “Huh?” Shelly said.

  Now Sly put a couple of fingers in the waistband of her frilly black panties. In one decisive, sure motion, he yanked them down. Shelly let out a little yelp. She could smell her excitement, released from the panties and wafting through the room. She saw Sly’s nostrils flare. Certainly he could smell it too. With a gleam in his eyes, he dived between her legs. Shelly moaned loudly as he went to work, separating her with his tongue and plunging it inside. The suddenness and shock of it all had seriously affected her—she felt like she was on the verge of an orgasm and he hadn’t even gotten to her clitoris yet.

  “How about,” he said, lifting his head for a second, “if we join them in the other room?” He pushed his face back down again, this time taking her clit between his lips and tongue. Shelly could feel the familiar sensation starting in her legs. She knew this one was going to be loud and strong. In the back of her mind, as she relaxed and let the feelings begin to flow over her, she ran back what Sly had just said. Something about joining the other two in the other room. What did he mean by that? As he flicked his tongue back and forth, it occurred to Shelly that this man was proposing an orgy. He was seriously asking her if she wanted to go out there and have sex not just with him but with La—ah and Ramon?

  “Oooh, here it comes,” Shelly said, her voice starting out in a whisper. She was trying not to become distracted by the parallel thoughts running through her head. An orgy with La—ah? Damn, was he crazy? Shelly tensed her toes as the orgasm began to grow in intensity. One time she had tensed her toes so hard she had gotten a cramp in her foot. That was back in her Milan days with this Italian boy who was so sexy, Shelly thought he should just walk around the streets naked so that every woman he passed wouldn’t have to go through the bother of wondering how he looked naked.

  “Ooooooh!” Shelly cried out.

  Shelly had done some wild things in her day, and had participated in her share of orgies when she was younger, but that was then and this was now. She had absolutely no interest in seeing her girl La—ah’s coochie all up in her face. None. ’Cause from a guy’s perspective, what an “orgy” usually turned into was allowing them to stick their dicks in the other girls and then watching the women eat each other out. Of course they never had any intention of putting another man’s dick in their mouths. The idea of seeing and touching La—ah’s snatch was about as appealing to Shelly as seeing Maxine Robinson naked.

  She gripped the sheets and felt the waves begin to subside. As she came down from her orgasmic high, Shelly took several long, deep breaths. Then she sat up on the bed.

  “Sly!” she said, her chest still heaving. “Are you seriously trying to talk me into going out there and letting you fuck my assistant? Is that what you just said to me?”

  She saw the surprised look come over his face. What kind of wild woman did he think she was? How would that look in the gossip pages—“Shelly
Carter Caught in 69 with Her Assistant”?

  “That’s some crazy shit, Sly!”

  He frowned. “It was just a suggestion, baby. That’s all.” He started pulling down his pants. “Now, why don’t you come over here and let me slide these nine inches down your throat?”

  Just like that, Shelly felt like she had quickly become a character in a bad porn movie. She really liked sex, but she hated bad porn movies.

  “You know what, Sly? I think you need to keep those nine inches in your pants and take your narrow behind back uptown.” She didn’t really sound angry when she said it, so Sly thought she was just kidding. He laughed—until he saw Shelly stand up and start putting her panties and skirt back on.

  “Wait, you’re serious?” he said. His frown had turned into shock.

  “Serious as a motherfuckin’ heart attack,” Shelly said. She made sure to keep her voice sweet and even. She didn’t want to incite his rage or embarrassment. She knew shame could lead some men to do crazy things. She had no desire to shame him—she had just had a change of heart. It was time for Big Sly the rapper to go on home.

  She picked up his shirt and tossed it to him, then she pulled on her bra and blouse. He sat there, staring in disbelief. He shook his head. “Damn, Shelly Carter,” he said. “I had no idea you were a crazy bitch!”

  Shelly grinned. It was so calm and serene a grin that Sly found it unnerving. “I might be a crazy bitch, but this crazy bitch is kicking you out.” She walked toward the door and waited for Sly to follow. Slowly he pulled his shirt back over his head and rose from the bed.

  “Damn, really? It’s like that?” he said as he approached her.

  Shelly nodded. “Yep, it’s like that,” she said.