Whatever. Soon she’d know what floated William G. Gaddys’ boat.
“Now the hard part,” Ted said. “You have only seven days. In seven days, Gaddys is supposed to address a Congressional Committee on Regulation of Adult Entertainment. He will make a most impressive witness.”
“He must not testify,” Margaret said.
“You can count on me,” she told them.
Selena wasn’t even out of the room good before her mojo kicked in. Margaret slid her hand down into Ted’s lap. She was giggling. Ted was already breathing hard. Selena tipped out of their office and closed the door behind her. She stood outside in the hall a minute, listening.
Shortly there came from within the sound of folders, files, and ledgers being swept off the desk onto the floor, and then jagged gasps and whispers as their clothes came off and were cast aside, and then the groans and bumping sounds of Ted and Margaret fucking and humping on the desk.
Selena smiled and strode away down the hall.
Part II
Later Selena took a long hot herbal bath, ate a light vegetarian meal, and meditated for an hour alone in her sanctum sanctorum, a spacious wood-paneled room bare of furniture and decorated in earth tones. The only light came from several aromatic candles placed here and there around it.
When she came out of her trance she mentally checked her mind, body, and soul. She ran her hands over her arms, her legs, she stroked her neck, and then she tenderly stroked herself between the legs, vulva, clitoris, assuring herself that all was well, well lubricated and in working order.
She also knew what she was going to do.
Selena was no ho or skeezer, oh no. She had studied the works of sexual researchers at the finest universities and traded information with hardened ancient putanas who had worked in the cathouses of Havana before Castro, with Japanese geishas who knew a thousand ways of pleasing a man, with sex professionals of Bangkok who knew of the secret sacred G-spots, and with phone sex magicians who could talk a person into orgasm—in short, with people and folk from all over who knew the secrets of sex.
Selena was a professor, a high priestess of sex. If she had known as much about karate as she did about sex she would have had a hundred degree black belt.
In her body, her mind, her hands was the power of the Big Bang, the first orgasm that conceived the Universe.
She was Venus, Erzuli, Foxy Lady, Da Bomb.
She was the devil with the blue dress on.
She was a ninja of sex, a countess of cum, an O.G. of orgasm, from the top of her head, to her cunt and cute wiggling ass, down to her succulent toes. She made Masters and Johnson look like shade tree jackleg mechanics.
She was strong, confident, healthy and ready, ready, ready to rock ’n’ roll a regiment, if need be; fuck them high and dry and make them beg her for more!
Let’s do this, she thought.
Part III
William G. Gaddys was a predator, crafty and cagey like the crabs that camouflage themselves as rocks or plants on the ocean floor and lie in wait for their unwary prey to swim along unknowingly so they can pounce on it.
His game was tight.
Selena’s game was tighter.
His bait was the Shalimar Club which wasn’t especially on the wild side; just your usual chrome-and-glass, dance, suck-up-watered-drinks-in-a-stylish-setting, buppie-pick-up kind of joint.
He was a silent partner in that club. He selected his prey from among the single, attractive, inexperienced young ladies who wandered in. He never set foot in the place himself. He had his partner, Rance States, the club manager, select promising “talent” for him.
Selena went there that very night. She was dressed like a square schoolteacher or secretary from Podunk in town for a vacation—bulky sweater, long skirt, running shoes, thick glasses. She ordered club soda, didn’t dance with anyone, shyly brushed off the guys who tried to pick her up.
States didn’t make a move on her. Cool. Selena had banked on that. She would, like the Terminator, be back. Then she would flush the cock out of the fly.
The next night she showed up looking loaded for bear, like her biological clock had exploded, like the world was gonna end in the morning and she had to do the wild thang one mo’ time!
She was wearing a see-through halter top, her round, fine, fat titties spilling out and her rock-hard nipples poking through; a black leather mini that hugged her luscious ass and was slit up the side almost to her waist; fishnet stockings; and stiletto pumps with five-inch heels and cum-fuck-me straps across the ankles.
Oh, heads turned, eyes bulged, tongues lolled, crotches were massaged as she switched ’n’ sashayed, her buns squirming like two pigs screwing in a burlap bag.
She tossed down three scotches fast, one behind the other, then leaned against the bar, arms stretched across it, legs wide like a sexual gunfighter ready for a shootout with Mr. Goodick, and waited for the right moment.
It came when the DJ threw Mystikal’s “Shake Ya Ass” on the box.
Showtime, she thought.
She was up on the floor like a shot. She waved all potential partners off—she had to fly solo, didn’t need no slew foot cramping her style—and she got down.
She flipped through her mental Rolodex of hot dances and finally decided on a medley.
She started with a hip grind that had been cooked up by the priestesses of Ishtar, the Babylonian fertility goddess, that had gotten Hammurabi so hot he left his legislating and hit the streets of ancient Babylon for some tomcattin’.
Then she did a little Yoruba Oshun river goddess move where her whole body rippled like ocean waves, and her breasts spun in separate directions like fleshy whirlpools.
Then she threw her hands up in the air, shouted, and did an ol’-time New Orleans shimmy that made her ass shake like a bowl of jelly and wouldn’t have been out of place with Satchmo blowin’ at the Funky Butt Cafe.
Then, she vaulted up on a table, did a Voodoo spin that would have made Marie Leveau proud, and did the Dog the Slop and the Slow Drag so down and dirty she’d have made a hoochie mama in a rap video look like Miss Muffet.
She was rolling her ass, flicking her tongue out like a dick-sucking lizard, and rubbing her hands all over her tits and belly and hips, and then she did a deep-knee bend.
She wasn’t wearing any drawers.
That did it. Several spectators who were standing too close were bowled over like tenpins.
She wound up doing a little move all her own, an impossible thang where she traced figure eights with her swiveling hips and grinding crotch, running her hands up and down and up her skirt while trembling like she was getting off with multiple, machinegun, jackhammer orgasms.
Everybody else had long since stopped dancing to watch her, a sexy hot fireball flaming across the stratosphere.
Then the song ended. For a New York minute, it was dead quiet.
There were audible gasps, moans, and sighs from the crowd, a release like a mass orgasm. Several couples hurriedly headed for the exits and cars and alleys and homes where they could do the nasty. Other couples fell to necking and groping right there. Some guys who came stag broke for the men’s room, from which soon came the loud sounds of frantic whacking off.
Other people sat stunned at the bar, pouring down drink after drink like they were trying to quench fires of desire, fires that no drink ever poured could put out.
That oughta hold ’em a minute, Selena thought, quietly satisfied.
“I hope y’all brung some protection!” she yelled at them and laughed like a wild woman.
As she started to get down off the table, a tall, tanned, and terrific young man in a red silk T-shirt and tight black pants who had been enjoying the show gallantly offered her a hand.
She nodded to him, all ladylike, and quickly pulled a card with her phone number from her stocking top and slipped it in his hand before he was shoved out of the way and she was surrounded by several big beefy bouncers who escorted her to a table in the corner.
A man was sitting there who looked like a big ugly ol’ bullfrog. It was Rance States, the club manager.
“Well, that was some show,” he said, clapping his large fat hands.
“Fair to middlin’,” Selena snapped. “If yo’ fat ass had any class you’d hire me to put some life up in this dead-ass joint.” She laughed like she was out of control.
“What are you drinking?” he asked.
“Scotch,” she said. “And don’t bring me none of that ol’ watered-down shit. I want the real deal!”
He made a sign to a waitress. She brought Selena a tall glass. She swooped it up and downed it with one gulp. Even she would have been drunk on her ass had she not coated her stomach with a special preparation beforehand that neutralized the alcohol. She leered boozily at States.
“I know someone who’d like to meet you,” Frog Face said.
“Who? You?” She wondered if she’d have to do him as part of the bargain. She wasn’t knocked out at the prospect but if duty called…
“Not me,” he said. “A friend and associate. A discreet gentleman who likes to meet quality ladies.”
I bet I know what quality he likes, Selena thought. “I like men who like quality,” she said as nasty as she could. “How do I get in touch with Mr. Deescreet Gennelman?”
“You don’t,” said Frog Face, pushing a napkin and a pen toward her. “Write your number down there, beautiful. You don’t call him. He’ll call you.”
“Bet,” she said as she wrote. “Hey! Whose ass I got to kick to git me another drank up in this heah mothafucka?”
Part IV
Margaret called her after she got home.
“Red alert!” she said. “We don’t have seven days anymore. The hearing’s been moved up. Gaddys is scheduled to testify within a few days in Washington unless you can stop him.”
Oh, great, Selena thought. A rush job. What if the mother decided to hold off calling her until he got back? Might just be easier to go by his house, knock him over the head, and kidnap him.
She had a restless night, and went out jogging in the morning.
When she got back there was a message on her answering machine. It was from Gaddys.
“My little mojo,” she said to herself, patting herself on the butt. “How could I ever have doubted you?”
At about two that afternoon she was sitting on a bench in the park near her condo as instructed, when a tall, dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks and a beard, dressed in coveralls and sunglasses and toting a backpack, sat down next to her.
“Ms. Epperson?” the man said, extending his hand. She knew that voice! It was William Gaddys, wearing a disguise. She tried not to show surprise.
“Yes?” she said.
“I am the gentleman Mr. States told you about,” he said. “You look surprised.”
Shit! “Well, I was expecting someone who looked a little more…”
“Like someone who owned a nightclub?” He chuckled. “I’m wearing a wig and false whiskers,” he explained. “I have enemies. Business competitors. I must take precautions when I move about.”
So you ain’t seen picking up chippies in the park, Selena thought.
“I hear you’re quite a dancer,” Gaddys said.
He was peering at her intently.
Selena was back in her fresh-meat bag, wearing a long-sleeved, high-collared white blouse that was buttoned up to the neck, a long black dress that reached down to the tops of her very sensible, clunky shoes, no jewelry or makeup, and a bashful, rueful expression.
“I’m so ashamed,” Selena stammered. “I can imagine what you’ve heard. You must think I’m a—trollop or something. Please believe me! I—I don’t usually act that way in public. It’s just that I—I’m so…”
“Lonely?” Gaddys said.
Selena bit her lip and looked away, playing the role to the hilt.
“It’s no fun, being alone, getting older,” she said, sniffling back a fake tear. “It makes you do desperate things Mr., Mr….”
“Gaddys. William G. Gaddys,” he said. “You may have heard of me.”
She purposely showed surprise this time. “You? But—”
“Ms. Epperson, we don’t have much time,” Gaddys said. “I am prepared to walk out of your life right now, and you can go your way and there will be no hard feelings. Your loss of self-control last night will never be mentioned to anybody.” He leaned close to her and said it as though it might be. “But I sense that you are a woman in search of new horizons. Knowledge. That you are a woman who wants to…learn. I can teach you, Ms. Epperson. I can be your guide. I can guide you to new vistas, new horizons where you can discover your true potential.”
Are you pushing Amway distributorships? Selena thought. I bet I know what kind of new horizons he means. Horizontal horizons.
Gaddys pulled a flat brown envelope out of his backpack and handed it to her.
She started to open it.
“Not now,” he said. “Wait till you’re home. Alone. Then peruse the contents. If you are intrigued, if you want to go further, call this number.”
He handed her a card. Oh, he was good. A cagey bastard. But Selena had more moves than a Russian chess master.
“If you don’t, it’s been nice meeting you.”
As he stood up, Gaddys “accidentally” brushed her knee. She made herself jump skittishly. It was the reaction he wanted to see.
“Have a nice day,” he said. And then he was gone.
Back home, Selena opened the package and found it contained a document of several pages and a book. The title of the document was “Agreement between Pupil and Instructor” but it was your standard B&D master and slave contract. Probably changed the “hereinafter referred to’s” out of deference to African-American sensibilities—even the most masochistic sistah ain’t gon’ let nobody call her no slave!
The book was a copy of The Story of O. Oh brother. Not only had she read it, but she’d written three or four under her pen name, “Whippi” Goldberg, that made it look like Mother Goose.
So we like to play rough, do we? She laughed to herself. Well, baby, I hope you got your kneepads on!
Part V
“Well, Ms. Smartypants,” Selena whispered to herself. “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
It was the next evening. She was naked, spread-eagle, and tied to a bed in Gaddys’ house.
Well, she wasn’t really tied down. Her “bonds” were red silk ribbons with cute little bows in the knots. Not very tight. She could have ripped loose anytime she wanted to.
Her surroundings were rather pleasant, really. She was in a bedroom with ornate pink-white-and-gold-inlaid wallpaper. There was a mirrored ceiling, of course. The comfortable, king-sized bed was made up with scented black silk sheets. Soothing music played on the box, romantic stuff. The air was thick with sweet perfume and incense. Several cut crystal vases holding red roses sat around the stuffed room.
Earlier she and Gaddys dined on pheasant under glass and had sipped expensive Cristal champagne in a sumptuous dining room, using gold plates and flatware.
He had then led her to a luxurious bathroom with a huge marble sunken tub, where she had stripped and bathed alone in warm, herbal-scented mineral waters.
After that they’d necked a little in his spacious living room, and then he’d led her to the bedroom and asked had she read The Story of O.
“Yes,” she’d replied.
Did she want to go further, he’d asked. You can leave now with no questions asked. No hard feelings.
She had nodded. Only then did he have her sign the contract.
Oh, he was good!
He’d then gently peeled away her bathrobe, then lifted her up and laid her down, naked, on the bed and fastened her wrists and ankles to the bedposts with the red silk ribbons.
He was good, all right. A sistah could get to love her some of this B&D, ’cuz this was the shizzat! Maybe he was too good. She was so comfortable, full,
and warm, she felt a little like taking a nap.
No time for that.
Gaddys was standing at the foot of the bed, naked but for a black silk Japanese kimono, and sipping from an expensive antique crystal brandy snifter full of vintage cognac. He was looking all debonair with one eyebrow raised like he was B’wana Dick or somebody. If she fell asleep on him now, he’d get so miffed he probably wouldn’t be able to get his little peter stiff.
C’mon, Selena, gurl! Try to tremble with fearful expectation a little! You got to make him miss that plane to Chocolate City!
“Well, Ms. Epperson, my pupil,” he whispered. “Are you ready to walk through the joyful gates of wisdom?”
Ready when you are, buster, she thought. “Yes, master,” she whispered fiercely.
“No no, Ms. Epperson, my darling pupil,” he chided her gently. “None of that vulgar ‘master-slave’ action here. No doubt you have heard many things about our discipline. Our life. Many ugly rumors. Superstitions. “Like that book The Story of O. I gave you that only to test the limits of your commitment. Look about you! You see no whips, no branding irons! No instruments of torture!”
Only your corny-ass rap, she thought.
“Your bonds are merely symbolic. It is the voluntary surrender of your will I desire. Your unforced submission.”
“Will it hurt bad?” Selena forced herself to whimper.
“Pain? No! By no means! We will not make you trod the paths of pain, we will trace for you the thin, white-hot line between pleasure and pain that leads to ultimate wisdom.”
We? Who the fuck else is up in here? What a cornball!
She sighed audibly and trembled as though it was the thing she wished for most in the world.
“Are you ready, Ms. Epperson, my little star pupil?”
Chocolate Flava Page 17