Decadence (29 page)

I looked at Prada, asking him to do the same, or to let me do the same. He shook his head. He saw my fire, my need, my out-of-
controlledness
, and denied me, used that to establish his moment of control. I rubbed his erection. Then I unzipped his pants and hurried my hand inside. He tried to move my hand away, but I grabbed his lingam, held it, refused to let him go. Prada kissed me. I stroked him as I kissed him, sucked his tongue, felt his strength wane, and now I was back in control. I took his lingam in my hand and I stroked him, stroked him as he watched the lovers in the bathroom. I pushed him back into the wall and I raised my skirt and I made him be still, gave him a stern face, a dangerous face, a challenging face, and he submitted, and that submission made me drip, made the blood rush to my yoni, made me swell, throb, ache, and he allowed me to ease him inside of me.

He was very self-conscious. I found that arousing, corrupting him, making him uncomfortable, angering him, and introducing him to something that pulled him from one compartment to the next. He sounded like he had died a thousand little deaths a thousand times.

I said, “You have wanted to be back inside of this sweet Caribbean yoni for so long. You waited years to get a taste. Now you have flown for twenty-four hours to feel me again. If you want it, take it. Take it.”

“Why do you do this to me?”

“Take it now. Take it.”

His breathing in snorts, like a bull, he began stroking me, mean-stroking me, but he stopped. Now breathing like he was suffocating, he held me so tight I knew my flesh would be bruised. I moved against him, wined like my ancestors from Trinidad, a mild dance that changed into the wilder
wukkup
they do in Barbados, danced on his sex. It was too much; he pushed me away. I laughed. I ran my hand through my hair, leaned against the towel rack and laughed. The other libertines in the bathroom, they laughed too. Laughed and applauded me.

Prada didn't laugh.

I eased my dress down and smiled at him, a well-dressed man with his lingam engorged. I had expected him to rush it back inside of his pants. He didn't. He left himself exposed. Straight. Long. Veins like ropes. Thick head. He inhaled and exhaled over and over; hands opened and closed. The industrialist who ruled many people, he was suffering. He was in purgatory, not in heaven, too close to hell, in the heart of misery. The others looked at his suffering, studied his arousal.

One of the women said, “You have a remarkable tool. It looks like a piece of art.”

The other woman said, “My God. Are you a porn star?”

He didn't hear her. His skin was flushed. He was on fire, every nerve in his body alive, tingling. That was how I woke up so many mornings, how my sleep was interrupted so many nights, feeling as Prada felt now, in distress, in severe need. The shower turned off. The couple stepped out soaking wet, exhausted. One of the couples took off their clothes and went inside of the shower and began.

I touched the side of Prada's face, whispered, “Are you okay?”

Eyes closed, he touched my face gently, ran his fingers through my hair tenderly at first, then without warning his hand became a fist. He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled my face to his and he kissed me. He was rough, dangerous, delivered a powerful kiss. He grabbed at the skirt of my outfit, became more than rough, and pulled it up. He lifted me, and my legs wrapped around his hips. With the absence of guff, he forced himself back inside of me. He had never felt this large before.

He held my weight, held my ass, and as I reached out a hand and held the wall, he bounced me up and down, forced me to take all of this overengorged lingam, forced me to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. Others came inside of the bathroom. Others watched us. I opened my eyes long enough to see Lola Mack and her lover standing in the crowd. Then I closed my eyes and gave two angels their wings.

But Prada didn't finish. He refused to finish. Refused to come for me. Refused to come in public. He put me down, eased me down, each of my legs now feeling like a stick of jelly. Hardly able to stand, breasts rising and falling, sweating, I leaned against the wall. He forced his erection back inside of his pants. It was a battle he refused to lose.

Then he looked at me as if I were the devil.

Still struggling to stand, I smiled at him as if I were.

He turned around and walked out of the bathroom.

Women in the room made comical comments, chortled, shook their heads. A long moment later I followed. Chandra and her lover were on the bed kissing, tongues dancing, flavors being shared as he finger-fucked her. She was close to orgasm. She announced that she was coming. Prada wasn't in this room. I moved by the Watchers and Doers, went to the next suite. Others were there. Now Lola Mack and her lover were there as well. She straddled her lover, facing his feet. Her friend was in the same room. Carmen Jones was on her knees and her lover was behind her. She and Lola Mack had swapped partners.

I moved by the few people in this suite and ventured into the next.

Prada was there. He sat on the edge of the bed. I approached him as if he were a wild horse. Took easy steps. Made sure that he saw me. I kissed his dank neck. Kissed his lips. Sucked his tongue.

Hand sweaty, hair wild like the wind, I whispered, “I'm not done. So we're not done.”

I undid his pants, pulled them down to his shoes, then I raised my beautiful skirt and I sat in his lap, sat facing away, sat looking at the others, my heels on the carpet. I put my hand between our legs, my fingers where two became one, then I touched his testicles, rubbed his balls. My spot. He was back on my spot. He held my waist and my hands moved to his thighs. I put a palm on each thigh, moved up and down on him and I couldn't stand it. I leaned forward, my head between my legs, my chest close to my knees, and he held my waist, pulled me back into him over and over. He went deeper. I pulled myself back up and he held me, held me tight, bit my shoulders, touched my breasts, put his hands all over my body. Again he stopped moving. It was feeling too good to him. He didn't want to come in public. I took control, I wined on him, moved up and down, squeezed my yoni around his lingam. He surrendered, worked his hand between my legs, fondled my clitoris while I danced, while I bounced and set free singsong moans. He came. He came hard. He came choking on his own saliva. He came drooling. He came telling me how much he loved me.

The room applauded.

Back in his suite,
when we were alone, when he had ripped away his clothing, after he had pulled away mine, Prada grabbed me by my neck, manhandled me, accosted me in the bathroom door frame, fucked me standing, my hands pushing the frame, my body bumping into his. I hadn't been choked in a long time. Alone, he was once again a sexual beast. It turned me on. It made me come. Soon he held my ankle, dragged me across the room, gave me carpet burn on my backside, panted and forced me onto my knees in a chair. He took me from behind, and again I challenged his every stroke. It was a beautiful battle. It was a glorious fight. It was a test that I refused to fail.

There was a rule, a rule called Ericsson's 10,000-hour rule, a rule that said to become one of the elite in any field you didn't repeat what you knew, but you engaged in deliberate practice, you constantly stretched yourself. That was how you became an elite musician. That was how much time an athlete had to spend to become an Olympian.

Or that was how you became as good in bed as a man like Prada. He had put in the time. He had challenged many women. He had experience, and not from repetition with the same partner. Making love to one person would be like playing the same team over and over. He had played many teams. He had been to championships. And he had won. It showed. He was a sexual outlier.

He said, “When I tell you I want to make love to you, you refuse.”

“I did. I lied to you. You lied to me about being abroad. You played some silly game, so I lied to you. I give you what you give me.”

“And now you want to have me, so when it's your desire, I should follow.”

“Shut up and make me scream. Stop talking and fuck me.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, forced me to straddle him and took me that way, and when I leaned forward, when I became weak and almost fell off his lap, my hands reached for the floor, my body balanced on my palms. He didn't stop. He stood up and made me walk on my hands, made me wheelbarrow and walked across the room like I was a child in a game. He kept me like that, on my hands, kept me in a position where I couldn't challenge his thrusts. He walked me, fucked me, walked me, did that until I sweated, until my arms began to burn. He remained strong, lifted me up by my pelvis and I gripped his waist with my legs. I tried to walk to a table, but I couldn't get that far. I went back toward the bed with him dancing inside of me, making me want to come. I was going to pull myself up on the bed, rest that way, let him do the work while I recuperated from having sex on the run. I struggled to keep my balance while he held my waist and grunted and continued his madness. He fucked me down into the carpet. When I couldn't hold myself, when I eased myself down, he followed me, never stopping, never slowing. His body was on top of mine and I pushed back into him. He slapped my ass a thousand times. He spanked me as if I were a rebellious child. I still moved. Hands on my waist, my ass in the air, he went into me up to his balls. His eyes were closed and I imagined that was his face of masturbation, as if he were calling upon erotic memories. He was so urgent with me, so rough with me, as if he were trying to destroy me by making me come over and over, my refractory period seemingly nonexistent because as one orgasm ended, a better one began. He went fast, hard, deep, panted, growled, sweated, paused, slowed down, caught his breath, then picked up the pace again, fast, hard, deep. I covered my mouth to muffle my moans and he moved my hand away, as if he wanted the world to hear me being punished, fucked, loved, pleased. He loved me. He hated me. He grew. He pounded me and grew. My orgasm was loud and dramatic. And that giving of wings aroused him more. The Leo in him roared at the Gemini that lived inside of this body. He roared and owned me. I couldn't move. All I did was accept and beg him to come, beg him to free me from this magnificent cruelty. He grunted and swelled inside of me. He lengthened. I was so loud. I was so fucking loud that it sounded like I was on the brink of death. And in response my insides grew, opened up, and lengthened to accept his elongation. He spewed. I loved the feeling. This was the way we were designed.

We rested an hour.

Until his refractory period should have ended.

So I crawled to him again. I gave him soft kisses. He returned soft kisses. Gave me bottled water before he hydrated himself.

And again he began making love to me, arousing me, fucking me, touching me, and making me feel extremely sexy.

He sat facing me as I sat facing him. We scooted toward each other and I put my legs outside of his. He eased himself inside of them, wriggled toward me, and leaned forward. I leaned back, used the palms of my hands to brace myself. I was slick like ripe papaya. He moved in and out of my body, took my wetness, my heat like that, stirred me with the tip, the head, then gave me a little more. I used one arm to hold myself up and touched myself, masturbated myself while he moved in and out of me. He bucked, and held my hair, and came growling, a dignified man set free from his conservatism. He collapsed and lay in bed in silence for a long while. He held me in his arms. Held me tight.

I said, “Ready to answer me, to tell me about all of your women.”

Sweaty, his breath hot, he said, “None compares to you.”

“At least you are admitting that there have been women.”

“None compare to this night.”

I lay with my legs crossing his. “I still want to know. In detail.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a woman. Because I am not a fool. Because it might arouse me. Because I might actually feel envy. Because I need to understand my id and ego and I want to understand the id and ego of a man like you. Cognitive behavior interests me. Because group behavior intrigues me. Because I want to know how much of what we do is instinctive, if seeking new lovers is innate and if culture is getting in the way of nature and creating an unwinnable conflict and if that imbalance and fear is what makes us engage in deception and extraversion, if that is why so many sneak from wonderful relationships and continue looking to the outside world, to other people for stimulation.”

“You have deep thoughts and a rich vocabulary.”

“I guess.”

“Vocabulary can be a key to success. Americans seem to take that for granted, shun it even.”

“My mother and stepfather made sure I was prepared.”

“You have a vivid imagination. Your film proves that.”

“Thanks. That imagination lives inside of me. If I rejected it, I would not be creative.”

“You have excellent ideas. You are quick to understand things.”

“I'm not as quick as you. Not as brilliant as you are. The world of business doesn't interest me. If it did I could've gone to Yale or Harvard and graduated and stepped into the offices of my stepfather's well-oiled company. I have never lived in his shadow. As I have avoided living in my mother's shadow.”

“At times you use difficult words. Words that are even difficult for me, I must admit.”

“The words that I use are not difficult to me. I love words and I choose my words, change my vocabulary, change languages to fit my mood, move from French to Spanish to slang to proper English, dress my speech the way a woman dresses herself to suit her mood. Words are my wardrobe and my closet isn't near being full. Intellectual. Profound. Angry. Silly. Whimsical. Or ready to engage in a battle that I will refuse to lose on a mental level. I use words that are accurate to describe a moment. The problem with being educated at times, and I don't mean this in an arrogant or boastful way, is that you assume most of the world is the same way. If the government keeps the masses uneducated, they can appeal to people on an emotional level, on racial levels, on divisive levels, and that's why they have won. The last thing the government wants is a country filled with people capable of thinking on their own.”

“Do you reflect on things?”

“All the time. It's part of my design. I think too much.”

The winter rain returned. The winds blew through the night. I dragged my fingers across Prada's skin. He kissed me and went to sleep. Jet lag. Sexual exhaustion. But I refused to let him sleep.

Prada had assumed that he was done coming, assumed that he was finished, assumed that I was done stealing his power, but I took him inside of my mouth. The oral massage I gave him was a settling of scores, a sucking for the orgasms that he had given me, my need to show superiority. He went insane. He came like the Susquehanna. His orgasms were amazing, powerful enough to river across the room. I felt his reluctant orgasm in my nose, in the back of my throat. I choked. I choked like I had done in college, as I had done with Chris, memories of that moment of failure engraved in my mind. But I didn't stop. I recovered, mastered my breathing, my gag reflex, and continued. Never in my life had I devoured a man in that way. Never had I felt a man go insane and come that ferociously under the power of my hands, lips, tongue, mouth. I never would have thought that I would have loved sucking lingam as much as I did.

I enjoyed the power. I enjoyed making a man weak.

This time I didn't ingest his nectar. I snowballed. I gave his nectar back to him. As I kissed him, I force-fed him the drink of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses, fed him his own sweet liquid. He was surprised that I had done that. His eyes told me that it was something that no other woman had dared to do. I could tell. After a mild battle of the egos, where making love was a romantic competitive sport, after he had once again displayed his sexual showmanship, I was surprised that he had accepted that offering. But I had made him do so many things. I had made him partake of fleching. I pushed him to a new limit.

He swallowed what had been returned. I swallowed that which had been left over. That was what he got for choking me, for dragging me across the carpet like he was a caveman. He raised the bar. I raised the bar even higher. Then I stood on my head, again like I was dancing the head-top, my back against the wall as support, and he gave my sex his tongue, the blood rushing to my head as I came, as I almost lost consciousness. He caught me before I fell to the floor, held me as I trembled. He picked me up as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the bed. I hadn't realized how strong, how powerful he was.

Then silence.

I was satiated. Hooks couldn't keep my eyes open.

In a sexually drunken voice I whispered, “You're quiet.”

“I'm reflecting on things.”

“Which things?”

“Everything that has happened since I entered this hotel.”

More silence. We were in the spoon position, his arm around me.

My cellular sang. It was my mother sending a text. She asked if I was coming home tonight. I told her that I wasn't. I told her that I was with Prada. She told me that she was going to send me clothing.

I thanked her.

I put the phone away and whispered to Prada, “Tell me you love me.”

We spooned again, then he did. He told me over and over and over. He said it once for each season that we had known each other.

I whispered, “Time flies.”

He had judged our affair by the days we had known each other.

I had judged it by the number of times we had been face-to-face.

Or conjoined the parts that made him man and me woman.

He nodded. “I wanted to bring you a fantastic ring that I had seen.”

“A ring?”

“From Dubai. But first I wanted to meet your parents. Well, your mother.”

“You're joking about a ring, right?”

“I am not one to joke. Meet your mother. Ask you to marry me. That was what I wanted to do. It's time to enter the next phase of life.”

“Under pressure to take a bride.”

“This is my decision. But it is time to consider having a family.”

“You need a woman with good breeding and good eggs.”

“You should want a husband. Like me. A man who respects you and doesn't fear you.”

“What would you expect from me as a wife?”

“To be faithful. I would expect honesty.”

“Honesty is not the friend of love.”

“My love would require honesty.”

“And what would you give me as a husband? Would you give me the same?”

“Would you continue to partake in the hellfire club?”

“We could. We could be monogamous and partake. We could enjoy. Many of the libertines are married. Happily. Like Rosetta.”

“Would we have to share?”

“Up to you. But I would be the greatest gift that you have ever received for even if I didn't get to relish in the pleasure of other lovers, it would excite me and bring me joy to give you other women, to bring women into what we have, to give you a level of stimulation that made you realize how wonderful sex can be when you open the door to other possibilities. We could make beautiful women our whores. We could tie them to beds and make them wait and see what we would do to them. We could praise and defile beauty.”

“You could be faithful.”

“I could be as loyal as you would be. I would follow the leader.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Your actions will set the standard. You would be the rule maker.”

“My heart wants you forever. And with you I have a selfish heart. A very selfish heart. When you love someone so deeply, it's that way.”

“I want that, maybe need a man who wants me that way. A man who wants me, only me.”

“I don't want to share you with any other man.”

“I will be the same way. If I give myself to you in that way, I will want the same. You will not be entitled to a mistress; there will be no woman with a Janet Rossi apartment waiting her turn. We're talking about settling on our religion, seeing where our spirituality lies, and having separate yet equal finances. And we are saying that this yoni and this mouth and this ass will be the last orifices you will experience from now until one of us breathes no more. And I will be an administrator on your Facebook account. I will approve your friends and be able to see all of your communication and delete anyone I disapprove of.”