by Love Belvin
“Okay,” his chords croaked. “Shoot.”
Jackson’s brows were knitted tightly. He was uneasy about this, and so soon. I wanted to change the course of this treaty. It was supposed to, after all, be fun, impulsive and erotic. This is when I forgot his age. This is when I felt compelled to forget mine, too. To forget everything and give in to my desires to be free and explorative. But only with Jackson. I only wanted to let loose with him this way. I was too damn horny to examine this exclusivity with him. One of my favorite SWV songs began to play in my head. It was conducive to the masculine frame before me and that of the audible rain outside.
I went for his waist and pulled his belt out of the loop, then released the tongue, making quick work of it. I watched Jackson’s eyebrows loosen, his eyes soften and his mouth collapse.
I informed breathily, inexplicably nervous by my next move, “I want you to tell me if Princess Stephanie, Old Lady Beatrice, or Bratty Ashley ever made you feel like this.” I fluidly dropped to my haunches, pulling his pants and boxers down during my dive. Without a moment for Jackson to reply, I used both hands to grab him into my shaky and misted palms and fisted him gently. I didn’t want to quickly pull him into my mouth; he needed to be dismantled and that would only happen with patience. He sprung out with blatant authority. Size had never been a factor to me, so long as impressions were felt. I’ve had and seen varying lengths and girths. Had dreadful meetings with well-endowed and peewees and my take on penis size is, it’s not so much of the size as it is the talent—unless you’re working with a peewee.
Jackson was no peewee. Jackson’s was a beautiful big boy. His pliant skin was soft and velvety against the rigid muscle beneath. His mushroomed head was artfully carved and unhelmeted—circumcised with precision. No wonder he was masterful in bed. He had nothing to feel inept about.
I darted my tongue at it, tracing the wide edge then traced down one of the most prominent veins protruding. I could sense movement above and when I peered up, I saw that his eyes strained at a slope.
“I don’t play games with head, Elle. If you don’t have any experience or feel comfortable down there, it’s okay. Stop now.” His vocals were thick, guttural.
I swigged my tongue over it from the base where his hair was wildly branched and became further intoxicated by his personal scent. I could sense movement above again and this time when I glanced up, I saw his head had dropped behind his shoulders as his hands were splayed against the wall at the rear of me. Jackson hadn’t murmured a moan. Feeling challenged, I finally welcomed his head, swirling my tongue as I inched him in, being sure to apply pressure to both indexes and thumbs just beyond the thick crown of its head as I suctioned my jaw. A few strokes had him sucking in air. When I chanced a glance this time, Jackson’s face was so tight, the line of his vein in the center of his forehead protruded. That’s also when I tasted the first of his creamy essence.
It was now show time. I took him in with gradual increments. In the recesses of my mind, I wondered if he even liked head. Not all men were partial to it. My jaw had hoped Jackson wasn’t in that count. No matter his position, I was now vested. My already extra moist panties were now sodden with desire. But there was nothing I could do but endure the tantalization. This was for Jackson’s pleasure…and my ego—if he enjoyed fellatio. I worked him tirelessly.
That was until I heard, “Oh, fuck!” in a cry. There was nothing guarded about that yelp.
And that’s when inspiration increased. I sheathed my teeth more, looped my tongue faster, and pulled my jaw harder. I’d been at it for a minute, determined. It was hardly work for me when I allowed my sucking reflex to take over.
I’d given lots of fellatios in my youth, more than I care to recount. I’d done it so often, it came with nothing but manipulation and an increased skillset. But never before had I been aroused by it. Never before did it have me making infinitesimal thrusts into the air, craving my own release.
I drifted in no time, forgetting one key fact: I didn’t swallow. Ever. I could never take the taste of it. The idea, alone, of consuming someone else’s bodily fluid repulsed me. It was also a sign of disrespect by some men who used me for it because their lady didn’t pleasure them that way. But I knew when to withdraw. Again, I’d had practice. If I knew Jackson, at his age, he’d be gentleman-like. He’d tell me when he was ready to release. I knew this because I knew men.
Nonetheless, this was different. This man—although young—had me in a zone with one end point: his release. He mentioned finding it difficult to get me out of his system after having my legs in the air, quivering at the strokes of his practiced tongue. Well, I wanted to show Jackson what pleasure a real woman could bring. I knew I could. And I did by the way his pelvis rocked into my face and his hands gripped the back of my head, feeding himself to me with mortal need. Hearing the deep grunts from the back of his throat, and feeling him grow inside my mouth had me working harder, increasing the volume of my suctioning. I gripped his hardened sacs with my right hand, massaging with careful speed.
“Motherfuckin—” should have been my cue, but damn if it only made me angle my head to allow him into the vortex of my throat.
Yup.
So, in the next beat when Jackson’s warm translucent fluids jetted down my throat with fierce speed and force, pulling back marginally, I almost choked. But even then, when he spurted again, something shifted for me. I glanced up at him, noticing the muscles in his mahogany face relaxed and his eyes softened from euphoria. That, mixed with the delicious taste of him in my mouth, hurled me above erotic realms into…intimate ones. This was no longer an act of manipulation and a means of stroking my own ego. This was me tapping into another side of Jackson Hunter. As I couldn’t shift my gaze from the phenomenon of him taking place before me, I saw his unalloyed bliss.
Shit.
I sensed he was done and plopped him out of my mouth, jarred. I hated to admit that I was shaken by what I’d just felt. Never during any type of sex had I felt a connection to a man, not even Henry. It was just something fun or obligatory. Something for recreation. But—even dissimilar to that night at Gild Hall—I felt something unfamiliar with Jackson.
With his head burrowed into his arm against the wall above me. Jackson heaved the aftermath of his orgasm. Slowly, I stood to my feet, my back still against the wall, my mouth still agape. Now closer to his face, I could see his eyes were closed. That was different, too. I was used to a smug simper accompanied by a greasy, “You could teach a course on that.” That always made me feel like trash. A slut. And always remembering my grandmother’s words, I had to accept responsibility for my own actions.
But this was different. Jackson pulled me into his chest and applied pressure as he murmured out of breath, above my head, “Beatrice tries. Ashlee has never made me feel like this. Not even close. And Stephanie has never even attempted. I’ve never been with her intimately.”
Tries? As in currently?
So, is that who he was sleeping with? And he’d never slept with Stephanie? Why…that had to mean she was a virgin. She worshipped Jackson that much. My head dizzied trying to process it all.
“That was…amazing, Elle,” he droned lazily. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest. He was too close. This was…intimate. Too intimate.
I shifted from the sandwich of him and the wall, feeling his head jerking upward as I squeezed by.
“I-I have to go, Jackson. It’s late,” I informed just above a whisper.
My head was fuzzy with…emotions, jarred with confused messages, and filled with questions of my reaction to Jackson in this raw disposition. I wasn’t used to it. That wasn’t why I did it. Incredibly flummoxed, I walked out of what I soon discovered was the master suite of Jackson’s home. My shoulders sagged all the way to the dining room where I found my purse. When I made my way to the front door of the massive estate, Jackson was there, scowling per usual. When I was mere inches away, he pulled on the French knob and opened the door.
“I don’t know what the hell happened, but I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly as I whisked past him in a hurry to the rental.
I couldn’t even look him in the eye, embarrassed by my rejection of him and odd reaction to him. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
That agreement to sex with Jackson was a terrible idea for me.
And him, too.
eight
“So, what are the terms? I mean…Dale has public relations representation through Sony. This would mean him having two teams,” Patience questioned.
“His representation at Sony has to go through RCA to even get a grasp on Dale’s happenings. The unique feature Dynamic Branding can bring you is accessibility. There would be no third-party dealings going on here.” Jackson assured as he reached for the glass of sparkling water Patience brought from the kitchen.
“No third-party happenings? What do you call J.G., Wizer and Hunter?” Patience challenged promptly.
We were meeting with Dale at his girlfriend, Patience’s home in New York. It was a good thing Dale had a show in the city or else we would have had to fly out to his home in Atlanta, or worse, the one in L.A. Apparently, Jackson felt I was slow-gassing on my pitch to Dale and what services we could offer his less than stellar career as of the last ten years. I could never admit it, but he was right. I’d been out of any solutions to resurge his relevance in pop culture.
Dale was my age, give or take a year. He’d been in the business practically all his life, even dabbled in acting to a degree with success. At the height of his soaring career, he’d been predicted to blaze the trails set by icons, such as James Brown, Michael Jackson, and Prince. He’d even given himself the moniker of Mr. Entertainment, something I snickered at. Dale had been known to churn out hits and accompany them with skilled dancing, but when Justin Timberlake parted ways with ‘NSync and showed the world that decent singing and high-energy dance moves were not reserved for one skin tone, Dale had competition for that Mr. Entertainment title.
Dale’s disastrous two year marriage to a course personal stylist, eight years his senior, really put him on the sidelines and divorcing her benched him. While wrapping up his divorce, he started seeing Patience Torres, another cougar, thirteen years his senior. She’d flown in and assisted him through that dark period, attempting to maintain his business and humanitarian pursuits. Patience was an industry vet¸ being a former executive at a major record label. There had been rumors of her cut-throat and controlling ways with Dale. The word was she influenced his breakup with a long-term agent, most recently.
Jackson and I had been there for a few hours as their guests and were now in the formal living room where there was practical earthy furniture and décor. It was easy to discern Jackson and Dale’s familiarity with each other. They discussed mutual friends who were well-known and other names not so recognizable. The two men had this natural rhythm of banter and shared humor. The visit had been pleasant and revealing of Dale’s unguarded mien. I could discern interesting facets of his personality. He was honestly no different from a layman, extremely down to earth with Jackson, convincing me that this was a good move, assisting me with his file.
We’d had dinner with them and then moved on to drinks. Now that we were talking business, I could see Patience tucking her docile, hospitable woman-of-the-house role in, while displaying her ‘tool’ of business savvy bulging from her pants.
“…Our parent company,” Jackson answered her, “which has no involvement in our operations outside of human resources.” Jackson sat up in his chair, widening the spread of his shoulders…and thighs. He was undeniably hot in a gray tailored blazer, dark dress pants, black cashmere sweater and matching oxfords. Though appropriately casual, I could tell Jackson came to do business during this house visit. “Dynamic Branding was conceived on the premise of intimacy between our clients and staff. This is why our roster will never reach the double digits. We will cocoon who we absorb into our fold.” He turned to Dale, specifically. “The vision of this auxiliary was from my father, whom, you know, Dale, wasn’t about any bullshit when it came to image. I’m here to carry his legacy. I even have an extension of my own passion involved. I’m not asking for an investment at this point, I’m only asking for an opportunity to show and prove.”
After a few seconds of deep regards to Jackson’s strong imploring eyes, Dale broke away and glanced at Patience. Her expression was impassive, unresponsive. I didn’t know how to read her and I didn’t like it. Patience had cool bisque skin, natural curly hair similar to mine, and soft slanted eyes that could deceive an unknowing party, but I could see the fierce protector all over her. And not a moment too soon, as she glided over to the sofa chair where Dale was hunched over, facing Jackson. She placed her arm protectively and comfortingly around his shoulder and slowly raked her eyes up to Jackson. But she didn’t utter a word, only messaged her dominant presence through her sharp orbs.
With his perpetual smile, Dale sighed harshly, “I don’t know, man. It’s a delicate time.” He buried his face in his hands, expressing frustration.
That’s when I found myself standing to my feet from the long sofa adjacent to Jackson and gaiting over to the cushion next to him, only leaving an inch between us, illustrating the intimacy Jackson mentioned moments ago. Slowly, I planted myself down and crossed my legs clad in tights under a swing skirt. I’d purposely worn my Gucci booties, understated, yet eye-commanding.
“That’s the problem,” I informed with resolution. Dale’s head shot up and his eyes momentarily widened. I hadn’t uttered many words since we arrived. I only observed, not having much to contribute until that maneuver by Dale’s partner. That’s when it clicked for me. Jackson had a formidable partner, too. “There needn’t be any further ambiguity of your image or passion. You say you want to record for the charts again. I’d like to see that as well. Lucky for you, your style’s still on par with the current generation. If you give Dynamic Branding the opportunity, we can facilitate you connecting with the teens as well as regaining your throne with that mid-twenties to forty-five year-old subpopulation who ushered you to that throne. We’ll start with the music, as that is where your biggest deficit is. You have to go back to the place you were in when you introduced us to “Revelations.” That album was a great combination of talent and passion.”
“I still have passion,” Dale assured, almost cutting me off.
“Does D.J.?”
The air in the room turned thick. I arched my brows, challenging him to think before replying.
Daryl Joubert, also known as D.J., was a producer and disc jockey from Atlanta. At the height of his career, he ran a successful recording label himself, signing artists, writing and producing the most popular songs in American history. Dale, here, was his protégé for years. Dale’s last album, “Revelations,” was released at the genius of D.J., whose career had taken a nosedive over the past ten or so years as well. I didn’t know exactly why, neither did I need specifics.
“If he doesn’t, I bet he can find it for a chance to top the charts with you again.” I goaded, waiting for Jackson’s heeding.
It didn’t come. From my peripheral, I could sense him staring in the same direction as me: to Dale and his fierce partner.
“Dynamic Branding can get you the backing you need for whatever producers you two need as well as studio time.”
Patience snorted, “That’s a lot.”
“Yet something we can deliver if Dale and D.J. can put aside their differences to regain that chemistry that put your career in a stratosphere that’ll be preoccupied by the next “Dale” being trained to sing and dance if you don’t agree to giving us a chance.” I shrugged. “Make it temporal as Jax has offered. We don’t need much time to deliver. We’re only asking for your attention while we do.”
The room rang quiet again.
“Dale has a brand he’s bringing to the table, Jackson. He’s been in the industry for over twenty years. He’s worked with—”
“No one that matters to this new generation buying music and concert tickets.” I cut Patience off. She annoyed me by addressing only Jackson. So, I returned the favor and trained my eyes to Dale. “We’re asking you to step out of the box. Take risks you’ve never had to. Your career has met a stalemate. You have to be willing to risk your comfort to reach a new plateau.”
Dale repositioned himself in his seat by sitting up, opening up for more of my advice.
“I see you thought smart about recording with newer and younger artists like Chris Brown, but have you thought about touring with them? The way we see it, you, Chris, Trey and August are southern natives. We can play off of that in creating a sensual tour theme. I won’t share all of our ideas, but know there is a whole plan worked out for you, Dale, if you give us a chance.”
“Those guys are kids!” Patience chimed in. “Dale has passed that stage in his—”
“Dale can still keep up with them. Yeah, you may not move as fast as you used to, but you’re still a supreme dancer. We can get you in the studio with new and skilled choreographers to rejuvenate your stamina. You can still run with Chris. And Trey and August don’t have the element of dance in their acts. You’re a triple threat with a solid reputation, vocals and superior dancing. You can do this, Dale.” I gave him hard eye play.
Next to me, I could sense Jackson straightening in his seat, emphasizing my pitch.
“We can have you on the road for the next two years. Once you’re done proving your throne with the younger artist, we can announce your solo tour”—Patience straightened with newfound excitement in her seat on the armrest—“with a more mature theme—”
“That we won’t share a detail of until we have your agreement,” I interrupted Jackson.