by Risqué
“Swear you’re going to behave or I’ll stop right now,” she said wickedly, “and I will not let you cum!”
“I promise. I fuckin’ promise!” He grunted and she grunted, both of them holding on for dear life. And within an instant they returned to their realities, where his cum oozed like sticky gum over his fists and her thick wetness ran over a loaded flesh dildo and onto the floor.
Arri eased the dildo from between her legs and tossed it onto the bed. She sat up and looked around her bedroom; for a moment she’d lost sight that she was actually masturbating and performing for her client via the Webcam. She stared into his exhausted face and a sly smile ran across her lips. Mission accomplished.
Arri walked over to the computer and checked her account to be sure his credit card had been charged the fee for his fantasy. And just as he said, “Tell me—,” Arri turned off the computer and headed for the shower. After all, she didn’t have shit to tell him and she wasn’t running her erotic site, A Smooth Operator, to chance a relationship with one of her clients.
It was all bullshit anyway: love, trust, commitment, faithfulness … and A Smooth Operator had nothing to do with being a man’s better half. This was about making a way out of no way, about preparing an escape from this godforsaken building and ghastly apartment she lived in, a dire need to get away from too much damn traffic, too much fuckin’ pollution, cabs, dollar vans, dope fiends, Bloomberg, the damn economy, memories upon memories, and from being a struggling, black, single mother who fell into the can’t-win-for-losing category on the census. It was about just getting some sort of freedom, redemption, breath of fresh air, away from flashbacks and haunting regrets of what her life should’ve been like.
A Smooth Operator was about survival, about letting each and every motherfucker know that though she may have pleased their pleasure palates, at the end of the session she was simply handling her business.
I never intended
California
The sultry sounds of a twenty-piece jazz orchestra resonated throughout the W Hotel’s ballroom as Payton softly graced Lyfe with a kiss and they slow-danced across the floor. They were at their company’s annual black-tie New Year’s Eve gala; amid their employees, investors, high-powered executives, A-list entertainers, lobbyists, and politicians.
Most people were either dancing, networking, bragging, or becoming inebriated courtesy of the bartender’s top shelf.
The orchestra’s rendition of Nina Simone’s “I Put a Spell on You” seduced Payton to place her head on Lyfe’s tuxedo lapel and whisper, “We should be daring and fuck right here. No one would even notice.”
“They would notice,” Lyfe said while easing Payton’s hand from his crotch and placing it back around his waist.
Payton held her head up and looked into Lyfe’s eyes; their reflection didn’t reveal her standing before him in a black, Vera Wang halter dress but instead revealed thoughts a million miles away. “What are you thinking about?” she asked him.
Lyfe ran his hand over his shadow-box beard; the tip of his thumb and index finger met at the center of his chin. “Why did you arrange for me to go to New York without speaking to me first?”
“What?” Payton said, taken aback. “I brought it before the board, we voted, and then I advised you.” She waved at a few of their guests.
“I should’ve been at that meeting.” He grew increasingly aggravated.
“You were with clients.”
“You should’ve discussed it with me first.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m your husband.”
“Which is why you should be celebrating.” She grabbed two champagne-filled flutes from a passing butler’s tray and handed one of the glasses to Lyfe. “As well as appreciate the fact that I allow you so much power within the company.”
“Allow me?”
“And that I recognize your talents.” She stroked his cheek. “So, just accept that you are going to the New York office to bring in new clients, secure bigger deals, and to assure our existing clients that, yes, the Dow and the NASDAQ may be south, but there is no need to worry because, as the board says, we are wealth builders.” She clinked the tip of her glass against his.
Lyfe sarcastically clapped his hands. “Who wrote that speech? Robertson? Dave? Raymond? Or was it Patricia, or one of those other motherfuckers on the board who should really be going to New York instead of me? How about this: I go with my gut, do an audit, and follow up on their asses.”
“Don’t piss me off.”
“And don’t be so trusting.”
“Would you stop throwing a tantrum? It’s not attractive. And besides, the board and I are fully capable of making decisions. Not to mention the majority of them don’t just have their MBAs, they also have their DBAs.”
Lyfe looked at Payton, perplexed.
“Please don’t tell me you’re confused.” She sighed. “Would you follow me here, it’s a doctorate in Business—”
“I don’t need you to explain shit to me.”
“Well you looked as if—”
“Looked as if what? I wasn’t impressed?”
“Would you stop cutting me off?”
“Then say something I want to hear,” he said tight-lipped, as a few guests passed by them, “and maybe I’ll let you speak.”
Payton was so taken aback that she paused and withdrew from his arms. “Are you fuckin’ confused? Did we switch places and you’re suddenly my boss?” She chuckled in disbelief. “Let me remind you that the letters behind your name are G.E.D. Unless, I didn’t check the mail the day your advanced degree came.”
Lyfe paused.
“That’s what I thought. Now, I’m going to ask you one last time to drop this.” Payton pointed to the clock, which read eleven twenty-five. “Besides, this is not a meeting. It’s New Year’s Eve!”
Lyfe clinched his jaw. “You better watch—”
“No, you better watch your fucking post.”
“And where is that?”
“Behind mine.” She squinted her eyes. “I make the decisions around here, not you. Now, you have a choice: you shut the fuck up, stop acting like a li’l bitch, or you go back to Crenshaw and rep for a set. Now, like I said, it’s New Year’s Eve.”
Instantly, Lyfe’s chiseled jaw tightened and a road map of bulging veins ran along the sides of his neck. At that moment Lyfe knew he’d been too understanding, accepting, and too easily changed into the junkie she wanted him to be—addicted to rearing his shoulders back, perfecting his poise, and pretending to be the happiest man in the world, all while he felt the opposite. A counterfeit reality where Payton’s prominence, stamina, and beauty all went in for the kill; and now the Lyfe he knew, the man the streets raised, who preached to his friends about what he would and wouldn’t accept from anybody—especially a woman—no matter what, that Lyfe had died and been buried in this manhood-stripping bullshit.
“Let me put this to you real quick,” he said evenly. “Whatever motherfucker you’re used to dealing with and speaking to like that, you need to go and find him, ’cause I ain’t that niggah. Now, unless you lookin’ for me to completely spazz on your ass and act like the fuckin’ goon that I can be, you’ll step the fuck back.” He paused and looked her over. “Now, don’t push your goddamn luck. And I meant exactly what I said, in the dialect and the incorrect grammar that I said the motherfucker in, so don’t try and restructure my sentences.” He walked toward the bartender, leaving her standing solo on the dance floor.
“Let me get a Hennessy and Coke,” Lyfe said, unbuttoning his black tuxedo jacket and loosening his bow tie. He leaned against the glass bar and the blue light that shone beneath the countertop reflected streaks of indigo on the side of his chocolate face.
“Lyfe,” Quinton called out to him as he walked over and gave him a brotherly hug and handshake. “Wassup?”
Lyfe stroked his beard, a nervous habit he had when he was upset. He looked at Quinton and for a passing moment Lyfe thought it wo
uld be in bad taste if he told Quinton what had really pissed him off. After all, Quinton was their Chief Investment Officer, the one who—after Lyfe met with the clients and secured their business—maintained their corporate (and individual) wealth by making the hard sales, investing the clients’ money into the most profitable stocks, and managing their portfolios.
But Quinton had also become one of Lyfe’s closest friends. He accepted him without question when Lyfe became a part of the company. Quinton never snickered behind his back, never passed judgment, and he always seemed to understand that although Lyfe’s higher education came from the streets, Lyfe was intelligent and capable of the career that everyone else had questioned.
Lyfe arched his eyebrows and a thousand creases ran across his forehead. “I’m mad as hell.”
“Why?” Quinton sipped his Ketel One martini, lifting his eyes over his drink. “We need to go run up on somebody or somethin’?”
“Nah.” Lyfe shook his head. “No shit like that.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Lyfe squinted and his lips melted into a frown. “Did you know I was going to the New York office for a month?”
“Nah.” Quinton sipped again. “Why are you going to the New York office?”
“To bring in new clients, secure bigger deals, and to assure our existing clients that although the Dow and the NASDAQ may be south, there is no need to worry because, as the board says, we are wealth builders.” Lyfe shook his head. “I don’t believe I just said that shit.”
“And verbatim too.” Quinton laughed. “That shit’s been floating around the office like a Bible quote. But anyway, what’s the problem with you going to New York? It’s a new office.”
“It’s been operating for three years.”
“Yeah, and upper management has yet to go and spend an adequate amount of time—”
“That’s why we hired Thomas to run the office.”
“Yeah, and his ass quit.”
“He didn’t quit.” Lyfe smirked. “Payton fired him.”
“Yeah, true. She did, but he also complained all the goddamn time. Said it was too much responsibility. And no one else besides you is qualified enough or trusted enough to go out to New York, handle business, and bring their asses back home without some type of catastrophe happening.”
“Man, please. Bullshit. Robertson could’ve gone, Dave, Patricia, a number of people.”
“You know you sound like a li’l bitch, right?” Quinton laughed.
Lyfe paused. “Don’t make me whup yo’ ass.”
“Nah, seriously, I really don’t see what the problem is.”
“First off, the decision was made without my knowledge and finalized without my consent.”
“Oh, so that’s it.” Quinton sipped his drink. “Your ego was fucked with. Understandable. But that’s why I restrict Dominique to staying home.”
“What did you just say?” Dominique walked over and placed her arms around Quinton’s waist. “You restrict me to what?” She looked him in his eyes. “I’m listening.” She smiled.
“You know I’m joking, baby.” Quinton kissed her on the forehead.
“You better be,” she said, pushing her shoulder-length hair behind her ears.
Quinton looked back to Lyfe. “Chill, it’ll be fine.”
“Excuse me.” Payton came from behind Lyfe and grabbed his hand. “Honey, I want you to meet someone.” She waved two couples, one white and one Asian, over toward them.
Still fuming, Lyfe thought about leaving, but Quinton’s words made him question how bad it would look for him if he did.
Once the couples were standing before them, Payton made the introductions. “Lyfe, Quinton, Dominique, this is Mr. and Mrs. Raymond Cunningham and Mr. and Mrs. John Chin, and they are—”
“The CEO and Financial Vice President of the Public Employees Pension and Deferred Compensation Fund of New York State,” Lyfe said with confidence. “I’m pleased that you all accepted the invitation.”
“How could we resist?” Raymond smiled. “Especially since you sent us two sets of first class tickets and arranged hotel suites for the weekend. Our wives wouldn’t allow us to refuse.”
John Chin joined in, “Because if we did they would’ve been upset forever.”
“After all,” Mrs. Chin interjected, “hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.”
All the women laughed and the men nodded in agreement.
Mrs. Cunningham looked toward Dominique. “Your dress is absolutely stunning.”
“Yours as well,” Dominique returned her compliment. “I do hope that while you’re here you’ll get to explore Los Angeles.”
“We were hoping the same,” John Chin said as he looked toward Lyfe. “And while we’re here we’d like to arrange a business meeting.”
“Well,”—Payton batted her extended lashes—“we aim to please.”
“We certainly do,” Lyfe assured them. “But I tell you what, like my wife says, this isn’t a board meeting, it’s New Year’s Eve, so we want you all to party and have a wonderful time. Besides, you’re here with your wives, so take the next few days and enjoy the City of Angels. I’m due in New York in two weeks and at that time we can discuss business, but until then let’s enjoy.”
Everyone agreed and after a few moments of light chatter, the New Year’s countdown began. “Five, four, three, two, one! Happy New Year!” Everyone lifted champagne-filled flutes in the air for a toast and cheered. White and silver balloons and streamers fell from the ceiling, scattered over everyone, and drifted toward the floor like snow.
The jazz orchestra began playing a swinging tune and the dance floor quickly filled. In an effort not to draw unneeded attention to them, Lyfe wrapped his arms around Payton’s waist and began to move slowly with her. Payton slid her arms around his neck and whispered to him, “Lyfe, I really don’t want you to be upset with me. I’m sending you to New York because you’re good at what you do. And, honestly, I hated to be so hard on you, but there are times when you seem to forget where you came from.”
Immediately, Lyfe stopped dancing and looked down into Payton’s face. “I’m sick of you speaking to me like you have lost your damn mind.”
“Well, honey, the next time—”
“The next time, I’ma sling your ass across the room.” He released her from his embrace, walked out of the double doors, and onto the elevator.
“Lyfe—” Payton called as she walked swiftly behind him, only to be halted by the elevator doors closing in her face.
Lyfe was so pissed that when the elevator opened and he stepped off into the underground parking lot, where his kettle-black Range Rover was, he didn’t notice Payton breathing heavily and leaning against the hood until she reached for him.
Lyfe jumped and once he realized it was Payton he stared at her; her heavy sighs revealed that she’d run down six flights of stairs in stilettos to beat him here.
“I can’t let you leave,” she said as she placed her arms around his waist and began kissing him on his neck.
He pushed her away. “If you don’t get the hell away from me. I’m done with you and your bullshit. You know how hard it is to be with you? It’s like you wanna be the fuckin’ man. If I didn’t know any better I would think you had a fuckin’ dick and shit.” He laughed in disbelief. “Yo’, if you know like I know, homie, you’ll get out my fuckin’ face.” He reached for the door handle and Payton placed her hand over his.
“Wait.” She sighed. “Lyfe, honey, I’m sorry.” She cupped his chin. “You know I love you.”
“Payton—”
“And I know I need to change …” She wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her fingers. “And I will … I am … willing to change.” She lightly kissed his Adam’s apple.
Silence.
“Please say something.”
More silence.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, unbuttoning his starched white shirt and running her tongue through his smooth che
st hairs; sliding her apologies over his colossal pecs. “Please forgive me,” Payton said as her tongue led a wet trail down the center of his eight-pack to his right nipple, where she felt his heart thunder against her lips.
The cool breeze cut across their skin like razor blades, as the echoing of car engines, the slamming of car doors, and the lingering laughter of people in the distance turned Payton on even more.
For a fleeting moment she thought about how her company was ringing in 2010 a few flights above, and how embarrassed she would be if anyone saw her … but the risk of getting caught, and the challenge of soothing her man’s bruised feelings while getting her erotic jollies off in public forced the freak in her to take over.
Payton unzipped Lyfe’s tuxedo pants with her teeth and he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She looked into his eyes and said, “Let me do this.”
She worked her tongue in between the sash of his boxers and pulled out his treasure with her mouth. She could feel his grip on her hair loosen as she rubbed the light glimmer of precum glistening on the tip across her lips like gloss. “I need you to forgive me …,” she whispered repeatedly as she licked the bulging veins and ridges.
Payton eased Lyfe’s shaft from her mouth and sucked only the tip. This was a new trick and before Lyfe could wonder where she learned it from he was pouring rain between her full lips.
Payton swallowed and just when she thought he was going to leave her on her knees, wondering if their marriage had hit its bottom, he lifted her from the ground and roughly bent her over the hood of his SUV.
There were voices in the distance that became clearer with each passing moment; but right now—at this moment—Lyfe didn’t give a damn because he was still pissed, stressed, and confused about what to do with this beautiful bitch.
He ripped her panties off and spread her ass cheeks, ran his hard dick between them, and rammed his member through her wet and pasty pussy lips. He stroked her fiercely, taking no shorts, and showing no remorse. “Your fuckin’ ass.” He gritted his teeth as he yanked her head back. “Better learn how to act.” He slapped one side of her ass and then the other, forcing her to scream out his name. “Lyfe!” she yelled, and he whipped her around toward him.