Scandalicious: A Novel
Page 9
Finally finished with the knots, Colden gave her a sudden shove. Face down, she landed on his bed, her feet still planted on the floor.
Ass up, she hoped that Colden had had a change of heart.
Excited, she waited for the sting of his hand against her ass. If memory served correctly, the first blow would be harsh, taking her breath away and before she could recover, he would deliver a peppering of red hot smacks—one after another.
But he gave her something else altogether. Gently, he separated her butt cheeks. Melanee shuddered. Tenderly, a moistened finger caressed the tiny opening of her ass. When the front of his thighs touched the back of her legs, she gasped. But with her arms tied expertly behind her back, she was his captive.
He placed one hand firmly on the small of her back, pressing down hard as if uncaring of breaking her spine. The other hand guided his swollen dick between her petite buttocks. She shouted into the thick coverlet on the bed as he forced his dick inside the impossibly small area.
She cried tears as her flesh was brutally torn. “You like this?” he growled.
She nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir!” Her words were muffled by the bed sheets.
He grabbed a hand full of her hair and yanked hard and cruelly as he anchored himself. Her scalp felt like it was on fire and her ass was being split in two. Now he released her hair, and used both hands to force her ass to open wider. With loving ruthlessness, Colden filled her with more inches of hard meat.
It was a whirlwind of agony…an eternity of misery. Finally, Colden’s dick was completely buried inside her virgin ass, working up rhythm, and Melanee followed the tempo. This was a different kind of heaven. A feeling of euphoria that she had never imagined.
Her ass had been widened by the girth of his dick, allowing Colden to slide in and out with ease now. Something happened. A glorious sensation took her completely by surprise. While he stroked her ass, her pussy walls tightened and convulsed, bringing her to a surprising and magnificent orgasm.
She slid down to the floor. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to catch her breath. Arms tightly bound, she lay uncomfortably on her side. He left her there. Her eyes followed him as he went into the bathroom and closed the door. She could hear the shower running; Colden was cleaning himself. Meanwhile, his secretions oozed down her inner thighs.
What was next? Would he leave her on the floor for the remainder of the evening? Or did he have another surprise in store? The anticipation—the unknown was exhilarating.
Colden came out of the bathroom but she could see only his feet and his calves as he approached.
“Master,” she whispered worshipfully.
He didn’t acknowledge her, he strode past her.
Melanee’s shoulders slumped. “Master, didn’t I please you?”
She wanted to spin herself around to keep him within her sight. She struggled to sit upright, but collapsed after a few moments of effort.
“No questions.”
“I only wanted—”
“Don’t you remember the rules? Do not speak unless spoken to.”
She nodded briskly. There was the rustling sound of clothes as he got dressed. Colden left the bedroom. Was he going out for the evening? Would he leave her alone on the floor all night? Her heart thudded inside of her chest.
After an immeasurable amount of time, she heard him padding toward the bedroom. Her heart leapt with pleasure. He stood over her, watching. Obediently, she remained still, in spite of the awkward and uncomfortable position. Her muscles ached, her skin burned from the tightly bound restraints, but she didn’t so much as twitch. Glorying under his gaze, she waited for his instruction.
The sudden flash of light startled her. “Do you know how beautiful you are—right now—like this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another flash brightened the room as he captured the image of her naked and fettered.
Colden bent down to her level. Gripping the strong rope, he pulled her to her feet, positioning her backward, so that the ropes could be fully viewed. Melanee was nothing more than a prop. The intricately tied ropes were the main attraction.
It took at least forty-five minutes for Colden to undo all the intricate knots. Free from bondage, the ropes fell to the floor.
As Colden held the camera, admiring the images of Melanee in bondage, she couldn’t help from noting that he was becoming aroused. She licked her lips at the sight of the big dick that was clearly outlined inside his pants.
“Go ahead,” he mumbled, focused on the pictures, not even bothering to gaze at her.
Melanee ignored the pain in her arms and her wrists. With Colden’s permission, she unzipped his pants, retrieved his lengthy dick and feasted while he scrolled through the images in his camera.
CHAPTER 17
As planned, Lincoln walked into the BMW service center at ten minutes to four.
“Do you have a scheduled appointment, sir? We close at four,” said a lean, young white guy, dressed in tan khakis, blue shirt and striped tie. He was sorting through a stack of yellow invoices as he stood behind the counter.
From the garage area in the back, Lincoln could hear the animated voices of laborers, loud and cheerful. Their work day was soon coming to an end.
“I didn’t know that an appointment was necessary,” Lincoln said. “I just stopped in to get a price on a part.”
With furrowed brows, the service rep glanced up at the clock, not wanting to be left behind when his coworkers started heading home. His worried look quickly morphed into a courteous smile. “What part are you looking for?” His pleasant tone of voice and willingness to help, announced that this young man had been given excellent job training.
Wondering if he could pick his wife’s ex-paramour, Raheem, from the group of mechanics, Lincoln leaned his head to the side, scrutinizing the fleeting silhouetted figures that moved noisily inside the garage. The men were becoming increasingly loud and jubilant as quitting time grew near.
A rugged-looking, dark-complexioned worker came out of the garage and sauntered up to the counter with paperwork in his hand. He added a couple of sheets of paper to the pile that was next to the computer. “You still working?” He turned his nose up at the young white guy, as if the idea of putting in an extra minute was a punishable crime.
“Man, they ain’t paying you no overtime. You better cut that computer off and get ready to roll out.” The man had an arrogant attitude and was throwing off a real bad vibe. Disliking the man instantly, Lincoln looked him over with a sneer. His body was somewhat husky—particularly around the shoulder area—like he pumped a little iron. Lincoln blinked in surprise when his eyes settled on the man’s name tag. It read, “Raheem.”
Hot anger rushed through Lincoln’s entire system. He wanted to leap behind the counter, and choke the life out of that adulterous muthafucka.
“I’ll check on that price tomorrow,” Lincoln told the clerk with forced calmness. Being a civilized man, he clenched his jaws, controlling his primal urge to kill.
A few minutes later, sitting in his car with the motor running, he shuffled through CDs. But it was murder—not music—that was on his mind.
Raheem stepped outside and lit a cigarette, and then strolled toward the parking lot. His slow, confident stride had a little dip, suggesting that the mechanic was feeling himself—walking through the lot like he owned the BMW dealership.
Lincoln watched the cocky bastard through his rearview mirror. Raheem was laughing and talking with one of the mechanics, bobbing his shoulders side to side, fully engaged in a ghetto rhythm as he communicated. Lincoln was disgusted. Chevonne should have been disgusted, too. Everything about that clown should have been totally foreign and completely repugnant to a refined woman like Chevonne.
Lincoln had envisioned Raheem to be the quiet but strong, sensitive type that many women claimed that they were yearning for, but Raheem was nothing of the sort. From what Lincoln had observed, Raheem didn’t have a sensitive bone in his body. H
e was arrogant, ignorant, and obnoxious. And he had a cigarette habit. Chevonne couldn’t stand the noxious odor of tobacco, so how did she get so close with this dude?
Trying to fit into the business world and the architecture industry, Lincoln had gone through a severe transformation, changing his speech patterns, excessive gesturing, and rhythmic body swaying that was indicative of the urban culture. He’d effectively smoothed out his rough edges and was able to mingle in any crowd.
It was astonishing to discover that his wife had been sexually attracted to a common street thug. If Lincoln hadn’t promised Chevonne that he’d move past her indiscretion, he would have picked up the phone and cussed her out. How the hell had she allowed a hood rat, ruffian to get into her panties?
What the hell? Mouth agape, Lincoln observed Raheem climbing into a brand-new Navigator. The truck had tinted windows and twenty-two-inch chrome rims. Apparently mechanics were earning more than architects. There was something horribly wrong with this picture.
Sitting behind the wheel of his five-year-old Dodge, Lincoln shifted into drive when he saw the red rear lights of the Navigator. Raheem glided out of the lot. Lincoln waited a few moments before pulling out of his parking slot. With no immediate plan other than to know all he could about the man that knew intimate details about his wife, Lincoln followed the shiny black Navigator.
Even with three cars between them, the big Navigator was hard to miss. Lincoln followed the mechanic to City Avenue, but kept a safe distance. He had to make a sudden left turn when his nemesis swung onto Monument Road, without bothering to put on his blinkers. Inconsiderate fucker!
Raheem parked in front of a bar called The Four Corners. Lincoln discreetly parked in the large Pathmark supermarket lot that was across the street from the bar. Hoping that Raheem wouldn’t take too long, Lincoln sat in his car, letting it idle.
The sun had gone down, and the sky was gloomy. Growing tired and irritable after waiting for forty minutes, Lincoln was ready to call it a night. He’d pick up his surveillance activities at a later date. Right now, he wasn’t mentally prepared to sit with cramped legs, while Raheem was having a good time shooting pool, listening to music, flirting with women, and chugging down cold beer.
The moment Lincoln shifted into reverse, Raheem bobbed out of the bar with that infuriatingly cocky walk of his. Swagger wasn’t even the word for that nigga’s strut. Lincoln envisioned himself using a baseball bat and giving that wife-fucker a powerful blow to the knee caps. Picturing the mechanic hobbling and limping, a smirk formed on Lincoln’s face.
Tenaciously, Lincoln tailed him through the streets of Philadelphia, while the mechanic made the rounds of various bars. It was after eight o’ clock, when Raheem drove along Lancaster Avenue in West Philadelphia. He made another pit stop—this time he rolled into a small shopping plaza. In addition to the requisite Beauty Supply store, Footlocker and Dollar Store, there were a couple of food options—Chinese food, Popeyes Chicken and Subway—inside the plaza. It was an odd surprise when Raheem, strutting with his chest poked out, strolled into the Save-A-Lot grocery store. Cheap bastard!
He came out of the store a few minutes later, holding a skimpy, see-through, Save-A-Lot plastic bag, containing a gallon of milk.
Staying in the cut, Lincoln watched with amazement as the mechanic parked his big-ass Navigator on a run-down block that was so narrow, he had to park the monster-vehicle with two tires cranked up on the pavement. This was the only way other cars could get down the slim, one-way street. Raheem let himself into a decaying little house that Lincoln assumed was where Raheem lived with his wife and family.
Lincoln was appalled. Raheem drove a $50,000 vehicle, but he lived on a raggedy little block. This was drug-dealer mentality. Dude’s priorities were all out of order. And Lincoln wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Raheem was hustling—using that mechanic gig as a front. Lincoln worked out an entire scenario in his mind: Raheem had most likely been locked up; he’d learned the mechanic trade while in prison. He’d gotten his current job through some help-a-convict program, but was only working to have proof of income for Uncle Sam.
The dude was criminal minded. Lincoln couldn’t imagine what a refined woman like Chevonne had in common with a street hustler? She’d really gone slumming when she started fooling around with that joker.
Sure, Lincoln was a product of the ghetto. But dammit, he’d elevated himself. What the hell had Raheem done?
Lincoln had rejected the idea of going into couples’ counseling with Chevonne, but now he was giving it some consideration. Not for himself; he didn’t have any mental issues. But Chevonne…Lincoln sighed. His wife really needed some therapy. Chevonne had to be a little messed up in the head to have practically destroyed her family over the likes of a nigga like Raheem!
Over the next few days, Lincoln became obsessed with Raheem, staking out his house at different hours of the day: before work, during his lunch break and after work. He wanted to get a glimpse of the man’s family. But no one ever went in or came out of the house except Raheem.
The more obsessed Lincoln became with his rival, the more passionately he made love to his wife, trying to make sure that he fucked that nigga’s memory clean out of her mind.
CHAPTER 18
“Relax, baby. Lean with me,” Deon reminded again as he turned a corner with his Harley-Davidson. Scared as hell, Solay’s arms were wrapped tightly around Deon’s waist, holding on for dear life. What the hell was she doing on the back of a bike? And the stupid helmet on her head was not only uncomfortable; it was ruining her hairdo.
Solay should have followed her gut instinct. She shouldn’t have allowed Deon to persuade her to mount his Harley. The moment he’d shown up on his bike, she should have opted to take her own car and meet him at the restaurant.
“You can hang with this, can’t you?” he’d asked, melting her reservations with a big smile that was pure temptation.
Trying to prove that she was down—pretending to possess the spirit of a daring biker chick, she’d agreed to this hell ride.
“Lean!” he instructed in a much more serious tone. Solay tried to, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. Her back was as stiff as a board. She couldn’t bear to see how close they tilted toward the ground every time Deon rounded a corner, and her eyes were shut tight in terror. Basic turns seemed like extreme motorcycle stunts. Deon had cajoled her with the promise of a fun time, but a high-speed motorcycle ride on the expressway seemed to be as bloodcurdling as bungee jumping or parachuting. She promised herself that if she made it off of this death trap with life and limbs intact, she’d never, ever, get on a motorcycle again.
Off the highway now and traveling in regular traffic should have been less frightening, but Solay’s nerves were terribly rattled.
Ready to jump in a cab and go home, she cracked her eyes open to determine how close they were to their destination. To Solay’s relief they were only a few more blocks away from the Marbar/Marathon Grill on Fortieth and Walnut Street. The moment Deon came to a full stop, Solay planned to yank the dumb-looking helmet off of her head and flag down a cab. For real! She was not a thrill seeker. The only thrills she sought were in the bedroom.
Daredevil that he was, Deon could pop wheelies, do hand-stands, ride side-saddle, and engage in all the death-defying stunts that his heart desired, but Solay would not be joining him as he lived life on the edge.
Solay’s legs were wobbly when she finally got off of the bike. Rolling her eyes, she pulled off her helmet, no longer concerned if her hairstyle had survived the tight-fitting and unattractive headgear. An assemblage of scornful words were lined up on her tongue, but the words began retreating the moment Deon tilted his head and looked at her. His pretty brown eyes held a mixture of adoration and concern. “Aw, was my baby scared?”
“Terrified,” Solay whined. Lips poked out and pouty, she melted into his embrace.
Comforting her, Deon patted her back. “Was this really your first bike ride?”
“Well, we’re gonna have to do something about that. You like martinis?”
“Love them.”
“Tell you what—I’ma make sure that you get the extra-large size to calm yourself down.”
Solay felt an overpowering urge to kiss his lips—to caress and run her fingers all over his gorgeous face. Deon had a way about him—a suave self-assurance combined with delectable good looks, making him impossible to resist.
Solay completely changed her mind about jumping into a cab and leaving in a huff. She decided to wait—hop in a cab after she and Deon enjoyed their dinner and drinks.
The spectacular view at the Marbar Grill was perfect for people-watching and ideal for Deon to keep an eye on his Harley that was parked in front of the restaurant.
Solay had taken a two-hour nap after work and now felt revitalized. She took sips from a mega-size pomegranate martini; Deon nursed a glass of dark beer as they waited for their meal. Focused on getting lots of protein, body-conscious Deon had ordered steak and vegetables. Solay ordered fried jumbo shrimp and French fries. She was content with the natural curves of her body. Having youth on her side, she figured that she could eat whatever she wanted, at least for the next few years.
Their food arrived, and Solay pushed her mega-drink to the side and began pouring ketchup all over her fries and breaded shrimp. “How long have you been working for the agency?” she asked and then bit into a shrimp. She really wanted to know what had prompted him to become a male hoe, but she’d need a little more alcohol to ask such a bold question.
“Not that long,” he responded, his head lowered as he meticulously cut the sirloin steak into small pieces. “I was doing some modeling in New York—”
“Oh, yeah? Print or runway?”
“Both. And I had a few acting gigs while I was out in L.A. Now I’m back home, making ends meet while I figure out my next move.”