Authors: Risqué
Once they were all done, Lyfe went to their master suite and fell asleep while Payton saw to it that the glowing woman left as easily as she’d come.
Afterward Payton slipped into the bed beside Lyfe and admired him, like one does fine art. She was happy to have him, her own personal reincarnation of Adonis, or better, Zeus—because as she traced the outline of Lyfe’s muscular pecs down to his deliciousness, which had grown hard again, she knew that he had to be a gracious gift from the god of all gods.
F
lickering lights crowned the twenty-four-hour bodega’s sign and illuminated the rusted fire escape outside of Arri’s Brooklyn bedroom window. Vanity 6’s “Nasty Girl” flowed from the CD player on the nightstand and into the cool winter’s breeze, mixing in with the orchestra of nonstop traffic. The bass line of the eighties throwback set the mood and steadied Arri’s focus. She peered through the eyes of her vintage Mardi Gras mask and into her gentleman’s face and said, “I hear you’ve been a bad boy.”
He didn’t respond. He was too busy watching her beautiful D-size breasts that sat upon her chest like tasty melons with ripe chocolate peaks, thirsting to be sucked, licked, and played with. Arri’s curvaceous hips swayed like an ocean’s wave as she flicked the red leather whip in her hand against the hardwood floor and repeated herself. “I hear you’ve been a bad boy,” she said sternly.
He still gave no response; his eyes were too busy molesting her size twelve hips and wondering how he would save himself from becoming addicted once her thick hips rode the dick and creamed all over it. He studied how her thong rested between her luscious ass cheeks, the same place where his tongue longed to be. His eyes moved down her voluptuous thighs to her French manicured feet, covered by pencil-heel knee-high boots.
The clicking of her boots sounded like wind chimes as she flicked the whip again and said one last time, “I hear you’ve been a bad boy!” She peered into his eyes.
“I have,” he said, entranced by the way her hair fell over her shoulders in coils of ebony curls that hung to the small of her back.
“I want you to punish me,” he said, unzipping his pants and stroking his rock-solid cock.
“And what punishment do you deserve?” Arri demanded to know.
“Submerge my face; open your pussy lips and torture my tongue as it travels through the rivers and streams of unending, heated, and silky cream. Then you should kill me. Force me to drown in your overflowing sea of vanilla.”
Arri placed her right foot on the edge of the bed and pulled at the sides of her thong. “You don’t have to take your panties off.” He stopped her. “Just move ’em to the side.”
Arri gave a sinister laugh. Who the hell was this slave to tell the Goddess what to do? After all, he had no will. So, to remind him who had the power, she untied the strings on the sides of her thong and let it fall to the floor, completely revealing the slither of pubic hair that ran down the center of her vagina. She turned her ass—shaped like a perfect set of twin bubbles—toward him, slowly bent over, and revealed all that lay between her succulent cheeks.
He wrapped his massive hands aggressively around the shaft of his dick, squeezing, and holding it tight, highlighting the precum that shone like the morning sun on its swollen head.
She turned back to face him. “You are to obey my commands,” Arri said evenly, as she opened her silky mine, massaged the diamond glaze from inside and over the tiny gold hoop that hung from her clitoris.
He moaned in sweet agony and Arri knew his dick was due to explode. He bit his bottom lip, practically drawing blood.
Afterward he eased his hungry tongue from between his full lips, and though his eyes were closed he could clearly see her hard clit coming toward him.
Arri slid her finger over her silky pearl and felt his tongue run a marathon up and down her lava mountain, working its way through her milky sea as if it were a water snake caressing the cherries of her forbidden shores, forcing chills up her spine, and taking her body to the banks of, “Damn, baby!” “Eat it up!”
Arri’s legs trembled as together they forced her clit to become the hardest it’s ever been and then suddenly she panted, short of breath, and just as he’d asked for (and as he deserved), she drowned him in her sea of thick and sticky vanilla.
He wasn’t dead long. After all, this type of reincarnation was a quick bitch, leaving Arri with no choice but to ride and suck the life out of the dick. “Are you going to behave from now on?” She flicked the whip diagonally across the bed.
“Yes.” He licked his wet lips. “So does my punishment end?”
Arri paused and stuck her index finger suggestively in the corner of her mouth; her Cherries in the snow lipstick coated her fingertip. “Apologize,” she said, “for questioning me.”
“My apologies.”
“Not accepted. Now grant my wish to see that big dick.”
He removed his hands from his shaft. “What are you going to do to it?”
“I’ma suck it and then I’ma fuck it, the way I want to.” She eased one inch at a time into her mouth, licking each vein and bulging ridge like a maze of rock candy. The slurping sounds drove him wild, forcing him to scream, “Goddamn, I need you to ride me!”
“I will ride it,” she said coldly, “when I’m done making it cum.” She continued making music with her mouth and within a matter of minutes the liquid evidence of his pleasure skeeted out.
Arri knew the dick would take a few moments to recharge, so
instead of waiting she grabbed hold of the cold metal retractable pole in her bedroom, wrapped her legs around it, and embraced it like an Alvin Ailey dancer—poised and freakishly graceful. Arri clapped her ass and simultaneously climbed to the top of the pole. Once at the top she spread her legs into a spilt, slid down, and eased toward the floor; landing perfectly on the fully recharged and awaiting dick. Her pussy creamed like warm butter as she rotated her hips on the dick.
Arri knew there was no way he wouldn’t be pussy-whipped when she’d completed her mission. “You will learn,” she swerved her hips, “how to behave, or this big juicy dick will continue to be served with my punishment!”
“But you already know I’ma fuckup,” he moaned.
“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.
T
he 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 would 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.