Date: January 29th, 20—

Time: 10:39 am

Case File #10S – Personal Interview

Client: Salim

Salim (S): Now ain't this a motherfucking bitch!

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): Salim, my brother.

(Dr. Black embraced Salim's hand in a loud, echoing palm in the center of his office, pulled him close to his chest, both men all smiles; they gave each other a tight, brotherly hug).

(S): If it ain't the one and only...

(AB): Ah, you know when I'm wearing the therapy hat that I go by Dr. Anonymous Black, right?

(S): (Chuckles) No doubt. No doubt. (An inspective eye swept around the office, Salim gave a slight nod). Doing big thangs, family. Respect soldier. I salute. Every time we cross paths, I can't help but to think about how we came up, the struggle. Two levels of intelligence who rose up from that savagery in them streets, cutting up concrete, to falling victim, bidding in the belly. You take me back, my brother. Come to think of it, yo, you remember that lil badass correction officer that you were trading thoughts with? What was her name again, Rodriguez, Rivera? Something like that, right? Eva Mendez looking-like chick with the baddest body in the building. Whatever happened to her? You linked with her on the free cipher?

(AB): Come on, fam. Seriously? You're sharper than that. Don't buy into urban legends, street myths. None of what you hear, half of what you see, remember? Besides, that nonsense was a minute ago, a past life. Life evolved. I moved on to bigger and better things.

(S): You sure did. (Light laughter). Shit that I'm sure funded all of this. I respect game. I respect even more that lil gig you had going on with that clique out of New York. The Fucinno family, right? Or was it Pallentino? I heard you were doing some pretty good numbers with them. That is until…

(AB): Salim, again. All in a past life, my peoples. I'm not living like that anymore. I shed that coat of a hustler to slip on the jacket of a counselor, a negative for a positive. Which is the reason why I wanted you to come into my office and build with me. I wanted to ask you some questions.

(S): (Salim inspects Dr. Black strangely, stiffens, posture defensive). Why'd you tell me to come without Naomi? What are you talking about, what kind of questions? You ain't got no open cases, do you?

(AB): (Dr. Black laughs). Cut the shit. You know I ain't about that life. I'm not working undercover for the FEDS. No questions about the street game, or the mud we played in, washing dirty money trying to make it clean. I wanted to talk to you about your relationship. How you eventually settled down, and married Naomi.

(S): (Salim relaxes tense features) Just Naomi, no street life?

(AB): Of course. Remember how we used to pick each other's brains about all the shortys…excuse me, women in our lives behind that G-wall? Well, I noticed how you, a straight gangsta, a brother who not only had nuff women in the past, but had a crazy variety to choose from, when it came to settling down, out of all of them you chose Naomi. Why?

(S): I mean, it's a long story.

(AB): I'm your therapist, and we got all the time in the world. So let the long story begin.

(S): (Salim rests comfortably in a plush leather loveseat across Dr. Black). Naomi, what can I say? With her I just knew.

(AB): How?

(Dr. Black constructs a blunt, Kush, strawberry leaf, lights it, inhale...exhale, extends it to Salim).

(S): Mother Earth's natural therapy. Some things never change. (Salim smirks, took a heavy toke, grew more lax; two professionals echoing sentiments of times past). How did I know? To be straight up, I didn't know at first. She was like finding a needle in a haystack. Remember that brown-skinned cutie, TT, Taryn, I used to rock with? I thought she was official. Pretty, body tough as shit, ass fat as fuck, a career, only one child. But the longer I traveled with her on a mental level, the more I started to see she had issues. For one, she was suspect with her baby's father. I think she was still letting kid tap that ass on the low, late night. So I really didn't trust her for that. For two, she kept a couple of male 'friends' around her. Now you know I ain't insecure with mines, but come on now. All of them brothers taking her out, buying her gifts, clothes, jewelry, but y'all just 'friends'? Even if she was keeping it one hundred about how she felt about them, it's only common sense how they felt about her. That shit was tacky. The other females – too clingy, too money hungry, too angry, too annoying, basically psychologically fucked up from dealing with too many clowns in the past. Then the flip side: some either had a tough body and not a tough enough face, or vice versa; good face, not a tough enough body. Or, they had the looks, and the body, but wasn't about shit. Had her shit going on financially, but the mental, her whole relational psychology, was foul. Some with no ambition, and had they hand out expecting a hitter to take care of them just cause their throat was deep, they offered three inputs, and could put a porn star to shame. Basically, prostitution disguised in the form of a girlfriend. All types of shit. They just never seem to have the full package. That is until I hooked up with Naomi. She had it all. Face, body, sex appeal, ambition, was about her business, and was a straight feminine gangsta designed in dark chocolate flesh.

(AB): And the sex?

(The blunt changed hands).

(S): Shit! My dude, she put it down better than any other woman I ever had in my life. You know I had my fair share of sampling all different forms of flesh: white girls, my fair share of the sistas, nuff Spanish girls, you gotta love the medas. A few Asians, all of them chicks was tight as fuck. A couple Middle-Easterns. Even one lil badass exchange student from India. All tough in their own individual right. But when it came to Naomi, she blew every last one of them out of the water. You see, in my experience, for a female to be that good sexually, eight out of ten times, she done let half the hood run through her, and got that ass passed around like a Philly blunt in a cipher of goons to get that nice. And you already know what's coming with that – a crazy reputation, psychological issues, a fucked up view of men, topped off with the possibility that she probably gonna be that hoe, even if it's on the low, for the rest of her life. For Naomi, it only took three or four brothers, and years of experimenting and practice with me for her to get that nice.

(AB): How do you know? No offense, but that could be a bold faced lie. She could be lying to you about the numbers. You know what they say – whatever number a woman gives you, multiply that number by three.

(S): If that was any other woman, anyone, I would have thought the same thing. With her, I don't know. I just believe her. That was one of the other things that was different with her than any other female I've dealt with – we kept it one hundred with each other, no matter what. I lost track of how many times we sat down together, sparked a couple of them green things, went shot for shot on some of that brown juice, and just picked each other's brain. We talked about everything. Fam, everything. Past relationships. All the shit I've been through, the shit she's been through. What we like, don't like. What worked, what didn't. What we gonna do to get that money, our boundaries. Everything. And the more I traveled with her, the more I realized how much I was feeling her, and how I ain't wanna let that go. I ain't never felt that way for nobody else. You know what time it is. A brother used to run through them chicks like clothes, not giving a fuck if they stayed or left after I got that nut off, knowing it was another ten more just like her that I had on speed dial. Not her. I never felt that way about Naomi. Never. She was one of the ones I didn't want to lose. Couldn't lose. Refused to lose. Not only was she official in the sex department, but like I said, she was always about her business. When I was in them streets hustling cracks, my queen was always by my side helping me to bag my shit up till I copped that first kilo. All of the times she could have dipped into my money stash, and clipped me for some of my paper on the low, what ninety percent of them other chicks would have done, she never touched my paper, not even once. Which just made me want to spoil the shit out of her, which is exactly what I did. When I flipped that first kilo to cop two, she was the one telling me to think bigger than the game. Not on some preaching shit, but to be smart about it. Use that as a stepping stone cause I couldn't hustle forever. To stack up enough dough to get out, get a business, and go legit. She planted them seeds in my mind. She made me see the full potential and limitations of that dope game so clear it was like she was holding up a glass of water to the streets. Then when I took that fall and got knocked with that bid, she was the one to hold it down for me like a soldier, and trooped that shit out with me when damn near everyone else left me for dead. Then when I came home, and told her I wanted to try my hand at running a music promotion company, get out the drug game for good, instead of her even saying one word negative about that shit, like I couldn't do it, or where was I gonna get the money from, or anything else, she just had my back, one hundred percent. Shit, she even surprised me and told me she stacked close to fifty stacks from the work I was pumping before, gave it all to me, and told me she got faith in me. For that, my dude, I just fell in love with that woman and knew no matter what, I wasn't never gonna let that go.

(AB): You started talking about your sex life. How Naomi was nice under them sheets.

(The blunts exchanged hands.)

(S): The nicest!

(AB): That wasn't it. It was something else you were telling me that was special about her.

(S): Yeah, when we were building one day, she threw it out there that she not only fantasizes about getting it on with females, but she had a little thing going on in the past with one of her old college roommates.

(AB): What did you initially think about that?

(S): What do you think? I'm an official gangsta, my dude. One hundred percent street soldier. So you already know – I was loving that shit! (They both share a hearty laugh). When she first put me on, I thought she was stuntin'. Just by chance, we went out to this nightclub one night, and I was sporting her heavy cause I knew I had one of the baddest queens up in that shit. In my eyes, she had every female in there fucked up. The next thing I know, I notice how a few of them fallen angels were sweatin' the god. Well, I thought they were just sweatin' me. Come to find out they were sweatin' the both of us. That's when Naomi started asking me what I thought about them. I told you, we keep it one hundred with each other, all the way, so I kept it one hundred with her, and told her what I really thought. One vixen had a body so bananas – hourglass shape, fat chest, slim waist, thighs like tree trunks, Megan thee Stallion ass, twerk game on ten – that I told her a brother ain't got no choice but to smash that shit from the back. Another, with her lips so full and thick, we both knew what her specialty had to be. Then she started commenting on them. One that was so sexy even she couldn't take her eyes off her. How looking into the eyes of another, she could tell that she was a stone cold freak in bed. How one had this strut that was out of this world, like that queen who was glowing in neon lights was packing gold between her thighs. How one had moves that were so hypnotic on that dance floor that anyone with eyes could get lost in her trance. We just kept going back and forth pointing them out. My dude, it was like she was one of my goons, my homies, and I was just chopping it up with one on my team. That's when she asked me if I thought she could pull this chick that everyone in the club was drooling over. I told her I could bag her, but she couldn't. I guess she didn't take too kindly to me doubting her like that. She ran down on that woman, without hesitation, kicked her game at her, and we ended up inviting that fallen angel home with us that night. The rest is history.

(AB): Did it bother you? That she let you know how she got down?

(S): With her little college fling, at first it did, cause I wasn't sure if there were real feelings there. Having fun, exploring her sexuality, experimenting with a female is one thing. An emotional investment, dividing her heart between me and someone else, is something completely different. In the end, when I knew my wifey was only in love with me, and was only experimenting, naw. Shit, my dude, she likes what I like.

(AB): Did y'all ever have any issues with it?

(S): Issues like what?

(AB): The most obvious: she treats you to that lil redbone, or Spanish mommi, or lil chocolate cutie, then one night when Naomi ain't there, you and that other chick start getting it in on the low.

(S): My dude, again, if that was any other female, I would have used that as a license to be jumping that shit off left and right with them other chicks. But, and I know this shit may sound crazy coming from the cloth we were cut from, I wouldn't even disrespect my wifey like that. Not only would I be playing her after she went out of her way to bless me like that with another female, but I would be going back on the one thing she asked me not to do – never cheat on her.

(AB): Have you ever cheated on her?

(S): To be honest, yeah. I did, once. Not with someone we ever did a threesome with. I was smart enough to never play with fire so close to a bomb. My incident, my slip happened when I took this trip to Miami on a business trip. I met this lil badass Cuban chick. About nineteen, twenty, could barely speak a lick of English, straight off the boat, literally. Mommi was about five-foot-three, one-thirty, had skin the color of pure honey, jet-black, curly hair down to her ass, and a body like one of them specimens out of a 'Straight Stuntin' magazine – all tits, ass, and thighs, flat stomach, no fat, looking to make her come up in the modeling industry. Long story short, she was on the set of one of my promotions, I spit that thug's ether at her, got her back up to the hotel where I was staying, and kept my dick up in that lil young thang for the entire weekend. Strange thing happened though. When I was laid up in bed next to her, panting and sweating, thinking of all the wild shit we did, it finally hit me – I was in love with Naomi. Truly, genuinely in love. I know that may sound like the craziest time in the world to find out you in love with somebody – after a long weekend of doing the freakiest shit I could think of to a lil immigrant from Cuba – but that's just how it happened. All the shit I was doing with this stranger, was the same shit me and Naomi were doing. But instead of it just being an empty physical act, with me and Naomi, she took it to the mental, emotional, even spiritual. Not only that. Me and my wifey shared much more than just mind-blowing sex sessions. That's when I realized no matter how good the sex session, no matter how pretty, or stacked the other woman's body is, or how talented she could be in bed, it just wasn't worth losing my wifey over it. Sex, fucking, is only one thing, and can't balance on one side of the scale all of the other shit my wife had to offer on the other side. Besides, why lose my wifey by risking it with a fling when I could just put my wifey down, and we both get at her together? In the end, my experience with that Cuban girl left me wishing Naomi was there so we could have shared her together. After that day, I made a decision – I decided then and there that I was gonna give my wifey one hundred percent, being every other female that I dealt with before her only got a fraction of me; a few nuts here, a little time there. Basically, the leftovers from the other chicks I was cheating on them with. So from that day forward, I never cheated again.

(AB): You mentioned your desire to share that Cuban female with Naomi, being you knew she was into threesomes and other women. What if, after all of the looking out for you that she did, treating you to other females, that she wanted the same in return: another brother in bed with you both?

(S): (In mid-inhale, Salim choked on a mouthful of smoke). Is you...(cough…cough)...is you fucking crazy? Share...my wife...with another man! You sound crazy as all hell.

(AB): No disrespect intended. I thought that was a legitimate question. After all, I figure if she made the effort to invite women into the bedroom to please you, that if she wanted to indulge in that same form of pleasure with another man, that you would be willing to make the same efforts to please her.

(S): (Salim appears incredibly angry, the idea alone inciting mental images of death). First of all, me sharing my wife, not some lil ratchet, but my wife, someone I took vows with, someone I would bleed for, die for, with another man, is out of the fucking question. Never gonna happen. Ever! And it ain't got nothing to do with making that same effort to please her. I do please her, myself, well, and by getting it in with other females. But, if the cost of me indulging in a lil threesome every now and then with another female, was the price of letting some other hitter touch my shit, I would have never agreed to do that shit in the first place. You see, there's a big difference between the two.

(AB): Which is?

(S): Which is, she's bi-sexual and likes women. I'm not bi-sexual, I don't sleep with men. When we invite a female into bed with us, we can both enjoy her, together. It's a team thing. If we brought another... (shakes head, rolls eyes, dark thoughts circulating)...brother into bed with us, what would I get out of that? Nothing! It would be basically the both of us tag teaming and running through her. Just gangbanging her. When it comes to my wife, I'm stingy as fuck, and ain't down to divide her up with no other...man. Trust, my dude, you already know I was heavy in them streets, and indulged in all of the games the goons play. So back in my days, me and my team done associated with cliques of females that served the team just on the strength of who we were. I ain't just coming off the top of my head with this shit, I lived it. And every time we got on a sex session, and put one, or more, of them chicks through it, mostly a team of females getting down with our team on some mini-orgy, free for all type shit, wasn't nobody doing no shit like that with their wifey. Nobody!

(AB): You can't say nobody. You can only speak for yourself. Personally, I've talked to brothers myself who invited women, along with other brothers in their bed, who even swapped partners, to spice up their sex lives.

(S): Well, whoever them brothers is that you talking bout, them idiots is crazy!

(AB): Your opinion.

(S): Which is all that matters when it comes down to my wife – my opinion of her. Why, would you share your queen with another man?

(AB): (Dr. Black smiles ambiguously). Nice reversal, but this isn't about me right now. My opinion, and how I view my relationship with my woman is unique. I'm sure there's some things my significant other and I would do that other couples wouldn't think of doing, for their own reasons. Just like I'm sure, positive, there's some things they do we wouldn't dream of. That's why it's so important to choose someone who you're compatible with. Don't get me wrong, I'm not passing judgment on another brother who would share his woman with another man. I told you, I've met, and counseled quite a few couples who's into that – swapping mates, threesomes with females and males, participating in orgies. So I guess the better question I should have posed to you, which you already answered, is: what if she did ask you for something like that? A threesome with another man?

(S): Then I would know she wasn't the one for me. To quote a phrase you taught me: one of the most important things in making a relationship work is making sure we're both compatible. If my wife felt she needed to get trains ran on her by two, three, or more guys, then we surely wouldn't be compatible. Your credibility and word alone makes me believe you when you say some brothers might actually enjoy something like that. They may even feel a twisted sense of pride watching their woman take on two or three grown men, and handle them all to exhaustion. I promise you, I'm just not one of them. What I find pleasure in, what gets me off, is watching Naomi turn another female out. Watching her eat pussy, knowing for the rest of her life that chick will remember my wife's lips from the pleasurable head she gave them. Or, watching my wife thug a chick out, making them bless her, guiding their head between her thighs, how a gangsta would when a chick be sucking them off. Hearing her coach them chicks on how to bless her right, so within the span of one session, my wifey done taught them chicks how to be pro's at that shit. That's what I get off on. Women on women. No men. That's what me and my wife got in common, among many other things. Which is why I love her so much, and couldn't see living my life without her. (The blunt exchanged hands).

(AB): And with that, that's our time. As always, you know it was a pleasure building with you, giving me some time to pick your brain. Before I go, about that Italian family I was running with. You remember them Bloods that was selling them dirty burners on the north end? How could I get into contact with…well, let me shut this audio off being this interview is officially over, and discuss some matters of a more personal nature.

Audio Disconnected…

Case File #17 – Salim & Naomi

From the recliner in the corner of his bedroom, Salim had the perfect angle to watch Naomi's every move.

He sat with his legs crossed, left index finger on his temple, resembled the Malcom X portrait. Resembled it, but contradicted righteousness from what he held in his other hand – a burning blunt married between two fingers; a trail of squiggly smoke danced chaotically from the tip, a third of it consumed.

His focus intent, eyes intoxicated slits, a perfect combination of Kush and lust.

Naomi entered from the bathroom moments earlier, wrapped in only a towel. She headed straight for the closet. She paid little attention to her significant other camouflaged discreetly in the cut, although a sweeping glance to her side let Salim know she acknowledged his presence. She cracked a half smile. Salim didn't. He was too lost in thought. Lost in her whole aura, and what they established over the years, for him to take notice of the energy she projected towards him.

They'd been together for over a decade, but Naomi still had the power to incite certain feelings within him from just a visual. It had always been like that. But with time, it evolved to a level of perfect emotional harmony. Like every relationship, they'd been through their fair share of ups and downs. The true test came at the hands of the mother of his first two children.

He had two kids by her, both boys; fifteen and seventeen. He'd been through hell with her, not that she was the sole reason for the madness they called their relationship. Salim was knee deep in the streets, closing in on his upper thighs, working his way up to a full brick of fish scale at the time. A construction worker by day, by nightfall, laying the groundwork to become one of the city’s biggest heroin suppliers.

He barely wanted to deal with her on a level outside of the bedroom – or the reclined passenger seat of his Lexus, or in hotel rooms, or that one time he crushed her in the bathroom at his boy's house party – let alone start something serious with her. But once she had Salim, Jr., a small part of him figured he'd try out the whole 'wifey/relationship' thing.

Not one hundred percent commitment or anything like that, but claim her, make her his woman, instead of just the ‘sexy redbone with the fat ass’ he was fucking. A mere year and a half after getting an apartment with her, and sexing her virtually every single day, unprotected, led to his second son. That didn't mean there weren't other little flings on the side – by his recollection, easily a dozen, three of them being her own girls – but they were just that, side flings. She was wifey. A wifey who knew he was cheating, not nearly to the extent of how he got down, but cheating nonetheless.

This led to endless fights.

Less than two years after tackling the family thing, he fumbled, moved out. He took back to the streets with a vengeance, a kilo of heroin flipped to two in no time, grinded nonstop, and crushed everything with a cute face and a fat ass even harder from what he felt was lost time he needed to catch up on.

Within the midst of it all, Salim met Naomi. What he initially intended to be the 'just friends with benefits' package – because after dealing with his children's mother for those few years, he had no intention of jumping right back into something serious again – didn't work out that way.

Naomi started to grow on him.

He found himself spending more and more time with her. The few trips to the city to re-up on his drug packs, helping him to bag up, nursing him back to health after he got shot, taking the wheel as the get-away driver when he sought revenge in a drive-by.

Naomi, his new Wisdom, his new wifey, she was ride or die.

Then the court cases came.

All of the other females in his life left him for dead, especially after they heard what he was facing; fourteen to thirty-three years for attempted murder and carrying a concealed weapon. Before the fangs of a prison system swallowed him inside its belly, knowing he was facing numbers that could be branded on the back of a football jersey, Salim proposed to Naomi. Not one hundred percent on the up and up, more in line with trying to take advantage of the conjugal visits he schemed to get while on the inside.

Yet, something happened as he awaited trial for those charges. Stuck in a prison cell for twenty-two and two, faced with spending a little over three decades of his life behind bars, forced Salim to do some serious soul searching. He evaluated his life. Twenty-five. Two kids. No career. No real prospects. Countless failed relationships, mainly because he kept them all at a distance.

The revelation: Naomi.

She was a queen, loyal, committed. Always had his back, rode with him to the end, even trooped it out with him through those charges. Then the time came for them to travel mentally in letters. With her, he took it deeper than anyone he ever conversed with in his life, which led them to see just how much they had in common.

If anyone deserved to be given a chance at something real, it was her. Salim made up his mind to do just that. Fortunate for him, he beat the attempted murder charge; copped out to a lower charge, third degree aggravated assault; time served after four years and some change.

When he first came home, with the allure of beating those charges hyping his release, he fell victim. The threesome his man treated him with at his 'coming home' party, the few times he went to see his sons and stayed the night with their mother. The old flings resurfacing anxious to sample some fresh prison dick. Within a month of that crap, he shaped up to keep it one hundred, and give his all to Naomi.

That's when the problems began with his son's mother all over again.

$$ $$ $$

How could he love her? How could he choose that side bitch, Naomi, over her? They had kids together, a family, history. They were supposed to have a future together. Not commit, and have some beautiful future, with some side bitch.

Salim stood firm. Naomi was the one, especially after they had their first child together, a baby girl, his first girl, Aisha. The mother of his two sons wouldn't go away so easily. That's when his kids were used as weapons, pawns to push in her twisted game. Child support called on the daily as an attempt to cripple him. Even the unthinkable – she started sleeping with one of his closest friends, former friend, with rumors of their scandalous episodes floating around in cyberspace; videos in which she allowed him to violate her in every way, just for spite.

Through it all, Naomi stood by his side, had his back.

All of those trials and tribulations led to a deeper bond, especially after she received her BA in Business Management, and pushed him to get his own degree. She believed in him, which led Salim to believe more in himself, outside of his survival skills in the streets. Five years later, Salim owned one of the top promotions companies in his state, all with the help of Naomi.

A few unruly ashes were tapped in an ashtray on a nightstand. Salim raised the blunt back to his lips, his every move deliberate. A heavy cloud of the most powerful piff on the market fogged his features, soon obliterated by a thin trail of white smoke blown so smoothly from his lips. Bloodshot eyes locked onto Naomi. She moved with the same grace as her unknowing counterpart.

The plush white towel wrapped around her body was thrown on the edge of the bed indifferently. A visual of her nude body from behind creased a slight snarl on the corner of Salim's lip. He was a full-fledged ass man, and Naomi, his wife, sure had one. One of the best he ever had the pleasure of visualizing with his very own eyes. Unquestionably the best he ever had the pleasure of playing in.

So round, like a perfect half-moon, attached to a set of powerfully thick thighs and a slim waist. Naomi made sure to keep it that way, especially after their daughter, by hitting the gym three to four times a week to keep her figure in tiptop shape. She rifled through one of the top drawers, fished out a sky blue G-string, and a matching bra.

"I want us to go out tonight," Salim said as if the thought just came to mind.

Naomi wiggled those panties up over her dark chocolate thighs, jiggled her ass a little to squeeze the material up in her, sighed, "Go out where?" peeling off the silk head wrap tying her hair down; it was wrapped in a tight beehive, a wave brush laid down a few unruly strands.

"To get something to eat."

Naomi tied her hair back down, turned around to spot the look Salim gave her, said, "Sa, it's late. I just put Sha to bed. If you want something to eat, I can make you something real quick. Or better yet, let's just order in." Naomi crossed the room, spotted the blunt between his fingers. "Yo ass just got the munchies." She plucked it from his fingers, and took a few tokes herself. Maybe not the best decision; a few pulls could put her in the same position of being infected with the munchies herself.

"Get dressed. We're going out to eat. TGIF. Naw, Applebee's."

"Sa, look at the time," Naomi gestured to a digital clock on the nightstand, "it's after ten."

She slid under the sheets on her side of their king-sized. Salim ignored her, walked over to the closet, plucked out a mini-skirt, a half-shirt, and Naomi's pink and white Air Max's.

"I'm bout to call my sister, tell her to babysit for a couple of hours."

"Sa, for real, go without me," Naomi whined, "Just make sure you bring me something back."

She snuggled herself up under the sheets tighter, made herself comfortable. Salim reached for the phone. When the call connected, when Naomi heard him talking to his sister, she sighed heavily. The covers were thrown off her body with a pouty huff.

"I swear, sometimes I feel like punching you right in your face!" Naomi cursed, slicing him razor thin with a playful roll of her eyes.

$$ $$ $$

After a huge meal, something Naomi knew in the next couple of days she would live to regret, Salim managed to pull her out of her insipid shell. Applebee’s had a uniquely distinct way of doing that. By the time they moved on to dessert – with several Long Island Ice Teas downed in between – Naomi melted off her previous frost to be feeling no pain.

"Where are you going?" Salim noticed how Naomi drove past the street they would normally make a right on to get home; the street slowly vanished in the back window. "You know my sister got her college classes tomorrow, and said she was only going to watch Aisha for a couple of hours. She sitting in the crib waiting on…"

"Negro, will you shut up," Naomi sighed, "I just wanna get a couple more drinks. You're the one that wanted to get me up out of my nice comfortable bed to go out. So now we're out. Just a couple more drinks at a bar, maybe a game of pool. Don't worry, we'll be back before twelve, or one. No later than two."

Salim opened his mouth, only for Naomi to give him the hand, and continue on course with her midweek entertainment. Salim shook his head with a lighthearted huff under his breath. Maybe that was his fault. Not maybe. He did get her up out the comfort of their bed to insist they go out to eat. What type of equality would it have been to shut her down now that she was on a roll?

She increased the volume on the stereo.

Rick Ross' 'Blowin' Money Fast'.

“...I think I’m Big Meech, ungh!...Larry Hoover, whippin' work...hallelujah!...”

A deep rumble of bass vibrated from the trunk to resonate throughout the cabin. Naomi, in sync with the Teflon don, quoted the song, verse for verse, as if he wrote those lyrics specifically for her.

The apparel she wore – white, fitted, NY Yankees hat two sizes too big, tipped to the side over her left eye, underneath a white do-rag, the tail tied up in a loose knot, loosely strung Nikes, tight jean mini-skirt, pink hoody – she played up the persona of a 'Street Queen' to perfection.

"This chick really think she gangsta," Salim thought.

He sat in silence, enjoying the sights and sounds of his wife spitting lyrics, 'gangsta leaning' with a smooth nod in the driver's seat, to whipping his head out the passenger window when a familiar visual caught the corner of his eye.

"Turn around," Salim blurted.

"What? What happened?"

"Turn around. The bar we're going to is right over there."

Naomi didn't question it. A drink was a drink no matter where she got it from. She hugged a quick U-turn at the next intersection, headed back in the direction where they just came from. Before she got within a block of where Salim instructed her to go, she could see what his sights were set on. The car rolled at about ten miles per hour as Naomi approached a huge, flashing, neon blue sign: Seduction.

The caricature of an extremely voluptuous woman in the same neon blue flashed off and on in five stages – back arched, progressing to her whipping her hair back wildly, breasts pointed to the sky. Underneath this prominent display, there were several eye-catching advertisements: nude, lap dances, private shows. Naomi turned up into the parking lot.

"Why'd you come up in here? I was talking about that other bar across the street," Salim said sincerely. Naomi turned to him, noticed the hint of a smirk behind the stone face exterior he tried to maintain.

"Yeah, I know," she squinted at him, and twisted up the corner of her top lip, "Put it all on me." Naomi parked in the closest space she could find. "This is all me. You had nothing to do with this."

They tumbled through the dual front doors of that strip club like a couple of rowdy teenagers – Salim pinching her ass, Naomi jumping from his playful ribbing, giggling, shoving away his light carousing. It wasn't until they made it through a small sea of scattered tables, and took their first sight at the front stage, that they calmed down.

Salim had been there before, almost two years prior. The place changed, made some new upgrades. Even in the dimly lit atmosphere, he could make them out; newly lighted mirrored stages, ceilings, new poles, sounds, big screens. On that Tuesday night, there weren't that many patrons, mostly males at the bar, some lined attentively around a t-shaped stage; at least another three couples amongst them.

Salim and Naomi paid little attention to them, more concerned with a buxom blonde built like a brick shithouse in the middle of her routine. Conquering just one of four stages, she gyrated her body under flashing strobe lights to the sounds of Big Sean and Nicki Minaj's 'Dance A$$'.

Salim cut a glance at Naomi on his side, read her, noticed how that female left her just as entranced as him. The blonde was a dead set knockoff to the voracious vixen Coco. Luxurious, natural blonde hair, tracks added, two feet long from her scalp, braided in two pigtails with cute little baby blue bows at the tips. Baby blue, thigh-high fishnets. Six-inch white stilettos. Topless, bottomless, titties, ass, and pussy out on full display. She danced on the center stage, spaciously sandwiched by two other girls on each side; one Spanish, one Asian.

No one would have even known they were there.

'Coco' was immaculate. A trillion degree sun amongst cold, dead stars.

She hijacked the attention of nearly every eye in the room. Her physical, her aura, her movements, poetry in motion. She swayed in perfect synch to the beat, popped her ass oh so seductively at just the right moment, and had enough sex appeal to distribute healthy servings to each girl there, and have some left over for at least three more.

Salim and Naomi navigated themselves through the dimly lit, smoke-filled, sexually charged atmosphere, found the perfect location, and sat tableside with the perfect view to soak in her hypnotic performance. What might have been foreign to another pair came quite natural to them. They both had uniquely similar tastes, and set their sights on feeding them.

"Shit! That vanilla bitch is built like a fucking Mack truck," Naomi said thickly, glued to the blonde's every move. "Her body is out of this world." She kept a furtive eye on her husband, and watched his that were locked like heat-seeking missiles on the blonde. "Look at you. Damn motherfucka, blink! And close your mouth," Naomi laughed. "You love that shit, huh?"

Salim snapped out of his lust-induced trance, slurred, "White girl is thick as a motherfucka. Stacked up in all the right places. Shit, she close to battling it out with you up in this piece."

He tried his best to suppress a smirk, knew his snide remark would get a good charge out of Naomi. It took a few seconds…five...for his little…four...comment to...three...hit...two...home...

"Oh, it's like that?" Naomi finally peeled her attention away from that Caucasian seductress before them, and gave it all to her husband on her side. "You think that fake shit right there, is fucking with this real shit right here? That that little plastic surgery, cosmetically-constructed, Barbie doll can hang with all of this natural, back to Africa shit right here?"

Naomi didn't hesitate.

She rose from the table, the zipper on the front of her hoody came down. Salim tried to concentrate on the blonde on stage, but couldn't deny the little strip tease his wife performed for him less than a foot away.

He wasn't the only one.

By the time Naomi stripped that hoody from her back, swung it like a lasso a few times above her head, and kicked her thick, chocolate thigh over Salim's waist to sit on his lap, face forward, she attracted the attention of at least a third of the patrons there; Cardi-B & Megan thee Stallion's 'WAP' took over to grumble through the speakers.

"You really think Miss blonde Barbie doll over there can knock me out of the box? Negro please." Naomi squirmed, danced, and twerked on Salim's lap to the beat. She leaned over into his ear, sucked on his earlobe, and whispered, "That bitch can't handle all ten inches like I can. You still ain't learn that yet?"

Naomi moaned, purred, simulated sex noises in his ear, and sighed like she had the 'D' deep up in her at that very moment, "Ain't no other bitch ffffucking with me. You know that, boo. You ever had another bitch...ummmm, suck on that black candy stick like me? Or, ummmm...swallow all of that Egyptian sweetness like I love to swallow? Or, have another bitch...ummmm, take all that dick, soooo deep, like I can take it, all up in her?"

Naomi purred every word, and taunted him with a slithering tongue in his ear. His jeans tightened underneath her in seconds. The bulge of his erection pushed up a powerful tent, strained for release. Salim instantly forgot all about the blonde, or any other scantily clad or nude woman vying for attention around him, solely focused on the show Naomi performed for him.

She spun her fitted hat backwards, nodded to the beat. Her hands fell to her chest. She hit Salim with a seductive look through lust-slit eyes, began to boldly rub her breasts. Salim reached out to embrace her fleshy thighs. Coarse hands caressed baby smooth, milk chocolate skin. Fingers kneaded, explored, worked around her slim waist to embrace her huge ass.

"Um, don't touch me." Naomi smacked his hands away. "Why are you even watching me? Watch that bitch. After all, she is battling it out with me up in this piece, remember?" Naomi reminded. She got a wicked kick out of torturing him like that.

"Battle with me? Please!" Naomi thought.

She did tricks on his lap that even had the other girls impressed; she spotted them passing subtle glances at her, curling their lips, rolling their eyes in envy. By the time she spun around, bent over with her hands on her knees, and performed a breathtaking twerk routine, one of the bouncers walked over.

$$ $$ $$

"Chocolate deluxe, you can't be serious. You can't do it all like that up in here. You don't see what you doing? You got most of these motherfuckas up in here watching you instead of the other working girls," the bouncer said, gesturing to the audience she attracted. "Look at them. These motherfuckas just waiting to make it rain, for you. I don't know how long I can hold them back, or the ladies in here. Shit, every girl that works here wanna kill your ass right now." He couldn't help but to chuckle at that.

"Soldier," he turned to Salim, "I don't wanna have to throw you, or your beautiful black queen out, but she gots to calm all of that shit down, or talk to management, get on that payroll, something. Cause with those looks, those moves, that face, and that body, she sure enough got a bright future ahead of her, and behind her," he ended, with a purposeful glimpse at Naomi's huge ass.

The bouncer gave them a look that spoke of his hands being tied; a well-dressed gentleman at the bar, who appeared to be the owner, watched him and that couple's every move. Naomi trapped the tip of her index finger between her teeth, became an innocent schoolgirl, and continued to defiantly twerk and bounce in the most obscene manner all over Salim's lap like the bouncer's words had no effect.

She popped her ass on his erection, simulated sex with their clothes on, imaginary fucked him reverse cowgirl, until the bouncer had enough. He shook his head after a clearly prolonged moment of enjoying her moves himself, and reached for Naomi's arm, but immediately stopped short. He turned to Salim, and retreated when he noticed his features darkening, noticed him on the verge of attack at the mere suggestion of another man attempting to touch his wife.

"Ok, ok, ok, Debo," Naomi raised one hand to the bouncer, placed the other on Salim's chest, calmed her husband. "I'll be a good little girl." She hit him with innocent, doe eyes, which strangely enough, were not so innocent at all, and added, "Only if you tell Miss Blondie to come over here when she's done." The bouncer studied her with unsure eyes, her husband with death in his, hesitated. "I just want to talk to her, ask her a question. Damn, I ain't gonna hurt her. Well, unless she wants me to."

The bouncer smirked, nodded, more out of respect for her husband, saluted the general, and walked away.

Naomi crawled from over Salim's lap, and snatched up her hoody that landed a few feet away. By the time she situated herself back in her seat, the blonde finished her set. The bouncer held true to his word; from across the room, they could see him whispering something in her ear, pointing them out.

"Give me some money," Naomi said urgently. Salim lifted a single eyebrow at her. "Hurry up. Take some money out for her. Speak the language that she understands."

Naomi didn't give Salim much time to respond before she was digging at his pockets. She helped herself to his knot of bills, peeled off a twenty, and waved it with an exaggerated flip of her wrist in the air at the blonde. The greenback caught Coco's eye like a beacon; a language she understood.

"Something is really wrong with you, you do know that right?" Salim said amused, watching Naomi doing her best to grab the blonde's attention. He knew when his wifey was 'turn't up' like that, on a mission, it was almost impossible to turn down, and derail her.

"Shut up. So you can have your fun, looking at all this tits and ass jiggling around here, but I can't have mine?" Naomi said rhetorically. "Speaking of fun, go get us something to drink. A bottle of..."

Naomi turned to her side at the approach of a petite, brown-skinned female boldly invading their personal space. White, pleather, thigh-high boots. A microscopic G-string. Star-glittered pasties barely concealed her nipples on her firm C-cup.

"I saw you two over here earlier, you dancing. You guys look like so much fun, and I was wondering if you two wanted some company." They barely heard her soft voice over the thumping music, but did notice the mischievous glint in her eyes that she mainly kept on Naomi. Salim smirked, and stepped off; he left them both at that table, alone.

"We are. Fun that is. What do you have in mind, cutie?" Naomi asked enthusiastically. The girl was cute, but there was no mistaking where Naomi's attention was directed. She made sure to keep her eyes on the blonde, a signal that conveyed she was their first choice.

"I was thinking maybe I could dance for the both of you, one song a piece. After that, I'll give your sexy ass a lap dance for free," the stripper said, soaking in what she viewed as a chocolate object of feminine perfection in her eyes.

When the blonde noticed one of the other girls at the club zeroing in on that dark-skinned couple who beckoned her earlier, and knew there was a strong possibility at losing her money, she snatched up at least three hundred dollars in small bills from her set, and rushed over in their direction.

"You could, cause you are a lil sexy ass chocolate drop, but you're not," Naomi said flatly. "Different tastes for different nights. Chocolate, butter pecan, Asian cuisine. Tonight I'm in the mood for a little vanilla in my cocoa." She brushed that brown-skinned stripper aside who dropped her warm smile, and shrunk a few inches in defeat at the diss.

"You were asking about me?" the blonde said to Naomi, more to announce her presence to the competition. She had singles, tens, and even some twenties stuffed down four garter belts on her knees and naked thighs; easily over two hundred, including the two fistfuls of dollars she clutched in both hands.

Clearly a hot commodity.

"I was. My husband and I noticed you, and we like you."

Naomi soaked in that blonde up close, and was even more impressed than before. Despite the dark room, smoky atmosphere, and fast blinking lights, Naomi could see that the blonde had an immaculate shape. Silky flawless skin. D-cup that stood out stiff behind nipples the size of dimes; definite implants. An incredibly slim waist, extremely flat stomach, pierced belly button, coke bottle hips, muscled thighs, firm calves, huge, round, ass-shot inflated ass, one hundred and sixty pounds of some powerful blonde pussy, all held up in some six-inch, white and clear fishbowl heels.

There was only one tattoo on her whole body – a small pair of cherries on a stem, right next to a tiny upside down triangle of blonde pubic hair – as if anything further would tarnish a completed work of feminine art. To top it off, 'Coco' had the most piercing shade of light grey eyes Naomi had ever seen on another human being; eyes so exotic they were more fitting for a cat. Naomi literally felt her mouthwatering at the visual before her.

"Damn! You are fucking sexy as hell," Naomi said thickly. "You were exactly why I decided to come here. I was hoping you could dance for me, with your beautiful self. Oh, and my husband too."

Naomi rose from her seat to slide up next to the blonde. With those heels, the blonde had the advantage; almost a half-foot over Naomi. That still didn't stop Naomi from embracing her wrist, and easing that blonde close on the aggressive like some average street thug.

"Thank you," the blonde sighed behind an innocent blush, "and dance for you? From what I just saw a few minutes ago, I should be asking you to teach me some of those moves." She licked her lips deliciously at Naomi, while at the same time, took inventory herself of that extremely dark chocolate powerhouse of a vixen sweating her with eyes that screamed the feelings were mutual.

"How about this," the blonde leaned over suggestively into Naomi's ear, brushed her huge breasts against Naomi's shoulder, taunted her with those flesh globular headlights, purred, "let me go put these tips away, and we can hang out in one of the VIP rooms. Fifteen minutes. I'll meet you back there, ok?" The blonde hit Naomi with an inviting smile. When she got a wicked smile out of Naomi in return, she hit her with a quick wink, and made her way through that dusky setting towards the back.

"Don't tell me your crazy ass scared her away," Salim said, approaching Naomi toting two bottles of Nuvo, noticing her glued on the blonde walking away. They both couldn't seem to peel their eyes from the way the blonde's fleshy ass swayed in cadence with each step, like a slow moving see-saw lava lamp rolling with the wave, until she disappeared from view.

"Little ole me?" Naomi held her bottom lip pouted out. She finally gave her husband her undivided. Well, more to the two pink bottles of bubbly dangling from his hands; she relieved him of one, and chugged a hearty mouthful. "Never. In fact, in fifteen minutes, we're gonna put your lil smart ass to the test. Time to find out if you still think Miss Barbie can knock me out of the box."

$$ $$ $$

With a third of a bottle in Salim's system, and another third in Naomi's, they were both floating on cloud nine. The bass thumping like therapy in the main room was muffled – sounded like Drake, something off that 'Visions' album – but it still traveled through every morsel of their being, along with the energy of fruity flavored liquor coursing through their system like liquid crack.

The VIP room wasn't all the club hyped it up to be. Nothing but a tight back room, with dark, wood grain walls, one completely mirrored taking up one side of the whole room, a brass pole affixed to the center adjacent a plush leather, eight-foot couch, and a questionably clean matching recliner off to the corner that was clearly tucked in the shadows for nefarious reasons.

They'd only been in that back room for a little over ten minutes, but alcohol, high-strung hormones, a sexually charged atmosphere, and their mutual desires led to the obvious – they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

Naomi sat face forward, straddled across Salim's lap on the center couch cushion. Her tight mini-skirt was hiked up around her waist, rolled up around her slim midsection like a belt, every inch of her fleshy ass exposed, that G-string all up in her, lost in her nature. Salim's hands were all over her, palming her rich, dark chocolate flesh in firm grips.

She ground herself lewdly on his lap, massaged his crotch with hers. She sucked Salim's tongue softly, savored his saliva, sucked him deep in her mouth, and gave that little wet part of him head. She moved to the beat, couldn't keep still, and mewled out a sexy, whimpering moan with both hands embracing the sides of Salim's head.

"My...queen, let's get...let's get right," Salim panted between excited breaths. Naomi hardly let him up for air; she dove her tongue into his mouth, feasted on him, sucked on his bottom lip. "Sit up. Let me take my shit out…slide it up in you."

"Un ung," Naomi hummed with her mouth still on his, subtly shaking her head no. She peeled it away only long enough to twist his ear inches from her wet lips, and purr, "Ummmm, not gonna happen. I don't even think I'm gonna let you fuck me tonight. You'll be lucky if I even let you taste my pussy. You've been a bad boy, so no goodies for you tonight. In fact, no, I changed my mind. That’s all you're gonna get tonight. You licking my pussy, eating me, while at the same time, eating your own words, thinking about that Dallas cheerleader that you claim is close to battling it out with..."

They both turned at the implosion of music pouring into the tight room when the door sliced open. They froze, deer caught in the headlights, both stuck on the blonde peeking her head around the corner.

"Is it safe?" she inquired, interrupting that feisty, married couple mauling each other on that plush sofa. She quickly stepped in, and closed the door behind her; she made sure she blocked that nosey bouncer's view who he stood just a few feet away on the other side of that door, on post.

"For now." Naomi had to forcefully peel herself from over Salim's lap, and playfully slap his hands a few times from his determination to keep her close. "But I won't make you any promises."

Naomi floated across the room over to the blonde, gently embraced her hand, and led her over to the couch. From the main room, the blonde slipped on a white G-string, and a matching bikini top that was so tiny she might as well still be wearing nothing at all. Her make-up was reapplied to perfection. She looked like an actual Barbie doll, in the flesh, down to the hair she let down, no longer in two braids.

"Drink?" Naomi posed, more as a statement than a question.

"Maybe just a sip." She raised the fresh bottle to her lips that Naomi handed her. She took a few light sips, only for Naomi to help her out by tilting her head back with the bottle.

"Don't be shy. Get your drink on," Naomi said, giddy as a schoolgirl. The gesture forced the blonde to down a few large mouthfuls; drops of it spilled down the corners of her mouth, beads showered her neck, and rolled down into her cleavage like alcohol rain. "That's what I'm talking about. Yeah, I want to have some fun with you tonight." Naomi's speech became slurred, her body swayed freely, a corollary of hard liquor and dark thoughts conquering her senses.

"I'm Naomi, and this is my husband, Salim. What's your name, beautiful?"

The blonde could see that the milk chocolaty, midnight black female before her with the infectious aura, pretty white smile, fitted hat, do-rag, Nikes, and gangsta swag was clearly buzzed, if not bordering on the edge of a full-on drunken stupor. The sight of it amused her.

"Persia. Do you guys come to the club often?"

"No. But now that I know you're here, maybe we will," Naomi said shamelessly flirting. "When I first saw you, I knew I wanted to spend some one-on-one time with you. See some things for myself, and prove some things to others." Naomi eyed her from head to toe. "No doubt about it – you are one badass motherfucking bitch."

Naomi returned to her seat on the couch, snuggled up next to Salim, and nestled herself into her husband's loving embrace. Tucked away in the VIP, with that attractive, black couple sitting as anxious spectators on the couch, the blonde didn't have to be told what time it was – she switched into seduction mode, got her mind right, began her routine.

Her hips came to life. She moved in perfect synch to the muffled beat in the main room, and to the beat in her head. Her perfectly manicured, French-tipped fingers circled gracefully around to grab the pole. She danced around it, made that prop her bitch, seduced it, and ricocheted the same seduction that beautiful African American couple radiated onto her, hotter than the sun.

She left Salim and Naomi completely mesmerized.

The way she backed up on that pole, swallowed it between her fleshy ass cheeks, literally make it disappear, how she clapped all fifty inches of it up and down all over the length of it, from a standing, bent over position, all the way down to the floor, as if she was using the material between her crotch to polish the brass, or massage her clit with the ceiling high fixture, how she climbed mid-range, dangle upside down, only to scissor her powerful thighs around it to perform tricks five feet from the floor, upside-down, was bar none.

She did it all. All of her tricks on full display.

Once she knew she had them nice and primed – she finished her impressive pole routine to stand before them less than a foot away, looked them both directly in their eyes, smirked, gave them her back, peered over her shoulder, winked, innocently trapped the tip on her index finger between her lips, smiled again, bent over suggestively lewd, and performed the grand finale, down on her hands and knees, slowly twerking her massive ass in circles, side to side, up and down, culminating each cheek on command, left cheek, right cheek, left...left, right...right, transformed her body into a flesh vibrator – she returned upright in her position of dominance to peer down on them.

"Who's first?" she asked, cutting confident eyes between them.

"Her," Salim said without hesitation. He turned to Naomi to see her staring back at him; a mischievous smirk floated across her lips. "I just want to watch, see y'all battle this out."

The blonde smiled herself, oblivious to that couple's secret experiment, accepting that invitation as her husband's chivalrous gesture to be a voyeur with his wife and another woman. The blonde used two fingers to tug at the micro-thin, spaghetti string strap of her bikini top around her neck; it rolled away from her milky skin. The string behind her back came next. Each gesture played out smooth, deliberate, and sensual, to produce the desired effect.

Her G-string, just as tiny, nothing but strings and a triangle crotch the size of a bookmark, was peeled down in slow increments over her curvy waist, thighs, calves, everything done with grace and finesse. She danced herself over in a few steps to straddle Naomi's lap. All it took was a few moves to get a reaction out of Naomi.

"No, no. No touching," came her soft, sexy warning. "I can touch, if I like, but you can't."

The caveat came a little too late – Naomi already filled her hands to cop a good feel on those huge breasts jiggling in her face. The blonde took pleasure teasing her, she was shameless with it. She allowed that chocolate vixen that she tormented to explore those money makers before she removed, and lowered Naomi's hands, several times, to keep them at bay.

Hands that instantly made their way back to her chest, felt up, and explored every time the urge hit her. Hands that had to constantly be removed, time and again, to keep them within club standards after Naomi freely felt up. Hands that the blonde finally agreed could remain on her thighs and ass. She thrust her huge breasts in Naomi's face, shrunk away, leaned back, giggled, and laughed after Naomi flicked her tongue out to swipe it across those pea-sized nipples – they grew hard and firm as a result – and resisted the urge to reciprocate from the way Naomi licked her lips and blew kisses at her.

The blonde was having so much fun, playing with, and teasing the wife of that couple, getting herself equally, and undeniably hot in the process, that she didn't even notice her husband on their side peeling off his jeans till they were down around his ankles.

It caught the blonde completely by surprise when she took in that first clear visual of his thick, veiny, jet-black, ten inches standing proudly erect from his waist. A distraction that diverted her attention to a second, more nefarious surprise when Naomi casually slithered her hand up between her wide spread thighs, and tickled her silky, wet petals.

At first touch, Naomi could feel that that blonde was soaked, literally dripping.

"Fucking tease," Naomi thought, with a wicked smirk, and an arch of a single eyebrow.

Naomi knew how to play that game too – well. She tickled that blonde's velvety pussy lips, targeted her erogenous zones with two fingers, until her mouth fell agape, and left her eyes rolling hazily in her head.

She panted a pathetic, "You…you got's...to chill. Gurl, you can't be...you're not...supposed to be... be...oohhhhh...that feels so...so good. But...but, you're not...supposed to be...doing that," failing to convince anyone that she really wanted Naomi to stop.

Naomi looked up into that blonde's face, her sheer ecstasy, her bliss. Her top lip snarled. Naomi knew she was fucking her up. Two talented fingers, and an experienced thumb, on just the right spot, the other hand squeezing and spreading her left ass cheek to hold her open from behind, Naomi knew it would only be a matter of time before the blonde melted like white chocolate under a hot lamp under her touch.

$$ $$ $$

"Oohhh...chill...hold up. Oh...noooo. Damn, bitch, you bout to...to make me...oh shit! If you keep ...doing that...you're gonna make me...make me fucking cum."

The blonde's whole body tightened like the tips of Naomi's fingers sent a jolt of electricity through her. She sunk her nails into Naomi's shoulders, squeezed her tightly, braced herself, and let out a throaty sigh when that burst of warm liquid spilled from her center.

Naomi turned to Salim, gestured to her husband like her handiwork was child's play, and said quite causally, "How bout it? Think that dick can turn this bitch out as fast as I just did?" sure of herself when she knew she had that blonde under her complete control. Salim didn't answer her. He simply stared at them both with lust-filled eyes, watching his wife at work, turning that blonde out.

"How about you, Barbie? You wanna get on that right there?" Naomi posed to the blonde.

Her head was thrown back to the ceiling, she panted excited, shallow breaths. It took a moment to clear the clouds of a post climatic haze fogging her senses to slice her eyes down on it. The sheer sight of such a strong piece of black virile flesh conjured up in her the most primal of desires.

Salim sat back proudly, confident, cocky, literally, showcasing the pride of his African manhood. It stood up proud, almost a foot from his waist, hard as a flesh rock, and thick as a cucumber. The blonde parted her mouth like she was on the verge of saying something, but nothing came out. Nothing more than a few weak moans behind excited breaths; Naomi didn't stop her busy fingers for a second.

The blonde didn't have to say a word, not for Naomi to hear the fascination spoken in those light grey windows to her soul. The look in the blonde's eyes alone, the way she stared hungrily at that throbbing piece of flesh between her man's thighs, was one of the main reasons Naomi loved entertaining the inclusion of another woman.

"Cat got your tongue? Ok. You snooze, you lose." Naomi shrugged, she removed her wet fingers from in between the blonde's thighs. "I'll show you how to take care of that right there. Your ass gotta be this fat, thighs this thick, and pussy this tight and deep to climb up on that ride anyway."

Naomi eased that blonde up off her lap after she sensed how she really didn't want to move, or peel her eyes from her man's manhood, and stood before them. The few articles of clothes Naomi wore fell to the floor in seconds. Naomi stood completely nude in new Nikes hidden away in that VIP, proud, just as proud as her man. The twinkle in the blonde's eyes as she soaked in all of that chocolate flesh reflected how she was definitely impressed. A look down at Salim's dick to see him harder than he'd ever been told Naomi she crushed her in competition.

"Barbie's battling it out with me, huh?" Naomi posed rhetorically, standing side by side with the blonde.

To Salim's left – the naked blonde, her milky white flesh, and curvy features, propped up in heels.

Pan to his right – Naomi a half-foot shorter, still with her fitted hat on, backwards, her midnight chocolate flesh, curves much more defined and firmer than her lighter skinned counterpart, ass naked with an unbelievable aura of sex appeal and confidence.

Salim was left speechless.

Naomi wasn't.

"Tell me when I'm done if she's still battling it out with me, smart ass."

As if they were acting out a script – which in actuality was a spur of the moment affair – Naomi turned to give Salim her arched back, propped her hands on her knees, twerked smoothly, danced as if rhythm was injected into her intravenously from birth, and positioned herself to hover inches over his waist.

Reverse cowgirl.

He was familiar, knew the drill, loved it when his wife blessed him with it.

"Take mental notes. Peep the technique. Trust me, Persia, I promise you, you'll want to use this move one day," Naomi said to the blonde.

Salim anxiously reached for her. He guided her waist to him, gripped two palms full of those fleshy cheeks he fell in love with at first sight, ass cheeks that couldn't stop swirling in rhythmic circles, couldn't stop twerking, and eased her thick frame down on him to nestle himself in an incredibly wet, incredibly tight, incredibly warm snug home in her womb. A throaty moan poured out of Naomi's lungs behind a wicked smile.

"The trick...to mastering...this technique right here is...control. Complete control. No matter...how much...he tries to...no!" Naomi spit harshly, cutting her 'reverse cowgirl class' short to peer over her shoulder back at Salim. "What are you doing? Don't move. We're…entertaining our guest right now."

Her harsh scold, and flinch that signaled the cease of that tight, wet pussy keeping him nice and warm, calmed Salim; he ceased screwing it up in her, and simply sat back to enjoy the ride. Naomi playfully rolled her eyes at him.

"Back to what I was saying," Naomi returned to address the blonde, her body came back to life, "Control. This is our motherfucking position. Boss Bitch shit. A bitch that know how to get her shit off, first, take a motherfucka down, make him your bitch, take control. Boss bitch all over this fucking dick. You see, ninety-nine percent of these...brothers, especially these…big dick ass Negros, hitters that know they packing heavy weight, don't have the...discipline to...just sit back...and enjoy the...sensation of some warm...wet... tight...juicy...delicious pussy...swallowing them in sooooo...fucking deep. They just gotta try to take control... and dig it all up in you, especially...when it starts to get goo…good."

Naomi closed her eyes. The rhythm, the sensation, the feel of melting her wet flesh into her husband's rock hard flesh took over, controlled her, while she struggled to hold true to her own edict, and remained in control herself.

"Because...hitting all this dick...from this angle..." she worked her hips up and down, swirled in a circle, up and down, swirled in a circle, up and down, swirled in a circle in perfect harmony with an ecstatic wave consuming her, in perfect synch with muffled music, five minutes, straight, adding minutes, "...being able to...control right where it...goes. How much...or how deep...sliding it...all over..." Naomi's voice cracked, her body trembled, lip twitched, "...all over this fucking clit...beating on this clit...to also hit...to massage...to stimulate your g-spot ...will be sure to...to... to...oh yeeeeeah...that's it...that's it right there, daddy!"

A sharp burst of warmth Salim knew all too well showered over him.

Naomi didn't stop bouncing and dancing all over that flesh stick.

She handled him as if she was test-driving a Bugatti on a racetrack. She shifted through every single gear, tested the shocks, the speed, the handle, ripped through the transmission, zero to two hundred in under five minutes, until she maxed out, full throttle, and fully worked that earth shattering orgasm out of herself.

"There. You see. Our ride," Naomi pronounced victoriously, breathing lightly, glowing in a light sheen of ecstatic sweat. "Are you ready?"

She nestled herself comfortably in Salim's lap to thoroughly swallow his thick, ten inches deep in her belly. Did that mainly to show that 'opposite of her' in every way how it was supposed to be done. How a strong black sista knew how to take down, control, and handle a strong black dick.

"Did you take notes? Think you can handle it? Because I'm warning you, you see it. My hitter packing a fifty caliber, loaded with hollow tips, and know how to break some shit off proper. He knows how to 'body a bitch'. Leave a bitch laid out like a crime scene on a king-sized. Make a bitch rethink, reanalyze, and question her whole sex game. Fuck around and make a bitch have to take it back to the drawing board."

The blonde bit the corner of her bottom lip innocently, cut a few nervous glances back at the bouncer guarded door and club full of unknowing patrons on the other side, then subtly, almost timidly, nodded. Naomi cracked her notorious textbook smile.

"Got her!"

"Just like I told you..." Naomi instructed, lifting all the way up with a slight moan; she stepped aside to display Salim's thickness drenched in her essence, and reached into his pocket for a Magnum condom, "...control. Don't worry, I'll coach you through it. Cause trust me, once you get it right, baby girl, once you learn how to boss bitch control some big shit like this, you'll learn how to give yourself, and him, more thrills than any ride Six Flags ever built!"

Date: February 17th, 20—

Time: 11:41 am

Case File #10N – Personal Interview

Client: Naomi

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): Naomi. What the deal stranger? You looking good.

Naomi (N): Thank you. You ain't looking too bad your damn self. What have you been up to?

(AB): Same ole thang. Aside from me building up my counseling services, ain't too much change.

(N): Yeah, I see. Come to think of it, you studying to become a certified sex therapist isn't surprising at all. I remember how you had all of them pretty ass girls chasing you down in the past, when you were living in the past, so I know you got nuff...experience in that department. I do admit, a part of me can't get over all of the rumors. I heard how you used to get down in the past. You were a boss, a major player, getting that big money. The cartel, right? Running with them…

(AB): Um…that was, like you said, a life in the past. Besides, you know you can't believe everything you hear in them streets. The streets like to talk. They made me a legend before I even became one. Enough about that. Let's get serious. I'm sure you know I didn't call you in here today for all of that, to talk about me. I called you in to talk about you. You and Salim.

(N): I know. That's what you said earlier. I also noticed how you wanted to speak to us separate.

(AB): Yeah, in my experience, I like it better like that; (mumbling, 'Get a one-on-one with your thick, extra chocolate, Asiatic, Kenya Moore looking like, sexy ass...').

(N): You said something?

(AB): Uh, naw. I was just saying how a one-on-one would give me a better grasp of what really makes your relationship work. You both have been together now for what, six, seven years?

(N): I've actually been with Salim off and on for the last twelve years now, since I was nineteen. We didn't make it official till only five years ago. And I mean, what do you want me to say that we haven't already talked about before?

(AB): What makes the both of you work? You and Salim were one of the first couples I had the honors of counseling, sharing some of my psychological jewels with. At the same time, you were also one of the few couples that came to see me with a previously established powerful bond. Outside of what we discussed in our previous sessions, how did y'all do it?

(N): (Naomi thinking). What makes us work? How do we do it? To begin, I really can't speak for him, but I know for me, I had to do one of the hardest things I ever had to do when it came down to relationships – I had to start thinking like a man. When I was in junior high, high school, I went through what I think nearly every female goes through when we start dealing with guys; the scheming, the lying, the cheating, just bullshit. When I was younger, I didn't know how to see through a lot of that ole childish bullshit, so I fought against it. I constantly argued with all of the guys I talked to, went against the grain. Part of it was my fault. I portrayed a certain role that I thought I had to play. I wasn't confident enough in myself to be who I truly was.

(AB): When did you become confident enough to do that?

(N): I would have to say it started in college. I just started dating Salim seriously, but he got caught up with that street life shit, and had to do his tour of duty: about four years locked up behind that G-Wall. That was still my man, I was holding him down, but I'm still human, and got needs. Salim knew what time it was, so we basically had a 'Don't ask, Don't tell' policy. At the same time, he was still my baby, so the one guy I did start messing with, I let him know from the jump: 'you're only physical relief every now and then till my baby comes home'. I had a roommate there, Monique. She was from Brooklyn. She was crazy. (Naomi pauses, smiles warmly on the reminisce). Everyone used to call her 'Killer-B'. I knew her a 'Nique Da Freak'. We went to this house party one time, and after this chick started talking crazy, not knowing she was fucking with the wrong one, Killer-B fucked around and sliced that bitch up all in her face for running her mouth not knowing KB stayed with a box cutter. From then on out, she became my rider the whole time I was there. We studied for class together, hit up the clubs, the house parties, got our drink on, and broke night I don't know how many times just kicking it. She knew I was still talking to Salim, writing him, visiting him in jail, and about my lil creep on the side, just like she told me all about her life. She also told me another interesting thing about her – in high school, she came out that she was bi-sexual, and even dated a female for her whole sophomore year. She started asking me about it. You know, if I ever thought about being with another female. I confessed to her that I had. Never gave it too much thought, but I always thought they were pretty, mainly their lips, their eyes, if they had a nice fat ass, and the different mannerisms between the sexes. I just never acted on it. This, of course, led me to notice how sexy she was. Long story short, after we came back from the club one night, with both of us high and drunk as fuck, tripped out on 'E', we got that shit on and poppin. From that night on, for the better part of two years, she could have been classified as my girl, cause I cut the guy off that I was seeing, and all I did is fuck with her, a woman. For a hot moment, she had me questioning myself from the way I loved it so much. That's how much that girl had me open. She really turned my ass out. But after the fantasy of thoroughly getting myself familiar with another woman's flesh, I knew the reality is I still needed that feel and touch of a man. That was something my body craved, something I still fiended for. Not to mention Salim got me open from the way he used to freak me. So it was then and there I knew I wasn't a lesbian. I was bi-sexual. I learned to appreciate the differences in both sexes. With men, I love the hardness about them. Rugged, aggressive, that thug loving. How a straight gangsta got the strength to throw you around, be rough with you, manhandle and bully the pussy, but at the same time, be gentle, soft, delicate, kiss away the pleasurable pain. Fuck the shit out of you and punish the pussy one moment, in the next, wrap you up in his embrace, make you feel like he can protect you from all of the bad in the world, and just make you feel so feminine. A real man knows how to make a woman feel like a real woman. With a woman, it's the complete opposite. Women are softer, more delicate, they take their time, pay attention to every single little detail, and are much more passionate, sensual. A woman can lick you, kiss you, touch you, and caress you for hours. Men typically focus on pleasing the body, while women typically focus on stimulating the mind. I've never met a man, Salim included, who could touch me exactly the way a woman touches me. And I've never met a woman who could fuck me like a man, due to the simple fact that she doesn't have a real dick. I hate that artificial, fake, plastic shit. I'm a real woman all around the boards, head to toe, mental to physical, so I don't want anything fake around me. Bottom line: give me real dick, or no dick at all. Anyways, men and women, they're just different. And I love the differences in both. Once I accepted that, it was like a revelation to me. I started to see things clearly – how guys move, how females move, and how I should move when I dealt with the both of them. Once I began to understand myself, accepted myself, started to understand how both sexes think, how I responded to each of them in, and out of the bedroom, I became confident in how I had to move around them.

(AB): How did Salim feel about that? Did you tell him?

(N): Not when he first got home. I didn't want to dump too much of my life on his plate, although I don't think I really had to. I think he knew before I even knew, on a subconscious level.

(AB): What do you mean?

(N): Well, when he first came home, I just graduated, so that window of decompressing from school, to finding work, gave us the perfect opportunity to 'catch up'. Shit, I was almost scared of that motherfucka from all of the energy he had fresh out. We were going at it every single day, easily three to four times a day, for the first three months after he came home. His freaky ass barely let me get any sleep. Yet slowly but surely, after six or seven months, after he got all of that 'catching up' to do out of his system, things went back to normal. Then he started to notice it. We spoke more freely about other females than when he went in, how I checked them out with him. I have the same kind of intuition like most women do: when we're out with our man, we can sense when he's trying to steal his lil looks whenever the next chick comes around, especially if she's pretty, or has a nice body. The big difference with me is while some of them other females get on some insecure shit, or feel like they are being disrespected, I kinda liked it. Not if he's staring them all down like a stalker, but a man just briefly appreciating another beautiful woman. Shit, I was checking some of them out right along with him. I didn't get jealous, mad, or start beefing and arguing with him. I found it amusing. For one, he was just looking. For two, it's not like he would do it all disrespectful, and just start staring at some chick like I'm not even there. It's a thin line between admiring a physical work of art, feminine beauty, and disrespect. A line, that luckily for him, he never crossed. For three, and the most interesting thing for me, is by noticing which females were the ones to catch his eye, I could learn to see what really attracted him. I gave him free reign, never questioned him, or beefed with him because of it. Then I started to see it: looks, race, hair, body type, style. It was like I was studying him to figure out what he found interest in. Not just him, all of y'all. Men that is. And when I started to do that, I started to see a pattern. You see, at first I used to naïvely think that all a female had to do was be pretty, or have a nice body, or be freaky in bed, or be a rider for her man, loyal, or other individual things that I felt a brother would like. I was wrong. Not only was I wrong, I was only skimming the surface. I had to go deeper. When I did, I thought I figured out the secret to men.

(AB): (Smiles) Word? Put me on.

(N): The secret is y'all motherfuckas really don't know what the fuck y'all want, and it take for a woman to tell y'all what y'all need! (They both laugh). Seriously, I learned that men like all of that shit, but at the same time, they are all different. Does that make sense?

(AB): Perfect to me. But for the sake of clarity, explain it.

(N): Ok. Well, obviously everybody is different. Raised different, different races, sizes, ages, what interests them, their background. At the same time, I haven't met a heterosexual man yet that doesn't like a beautiful woman. The key is how that beautiful woman thinks. For one, I don't think enough women out there really have heartfelt conversations with their men. And I think the ones who do talk to them, they do just that – most of the talking. Then you have some who hear their men, but they don't really listen to what they're saying. The bottom line is I listened to what my man was saying, really listened to what he was saying, without necessarily saying it, and I figured out what he truly likes.

(AB): Which was?

(N): Well, before I get into all of that, let me just say this. We are in a new millennium, a new era. I say that to say I personally believe that traditional relationship shit is dead. Others may disagree, some of my girls even think I'm crazy, and that's on them. This is just how I see it. Think about it: why is it that so many people now-a-days can't seem to stay in a long-term relationship, yet they all claim to want one? I know what Salim likes, what I like, and know what would keep our relationship fresh – variety. Yet, this variety that I'm sure Salim would be sure to enjoy, wasn't solely for Salim. I was getting something out of it too. As I said earlier, I'm bi-sexual, so inviting another woman into our bed benefited me just as much as it did him. Let me make something clear, and why Salim and I can do something like that, and it works for us – it's because I control the time and tempo of when we have our ménages. I know other couples who tried to get down like that, and it was a straight nightmare, and ended the relationship because one or both of them didn't know how to move right. Some brothers got on some straight idiot shit. They started creeping with the chick 'one-on-one' when that was supposed to be a 'team thing' after they girl looked out for them. When they get the next chick in bed, in the excitement of it all, he doesn't even think about his girl. He pays all of his attention to the next chick who is supposed to only be entertainment. He makes his girl feel left out, not knowing if he worked with the entertainment, if both of them paid all of their attention to his girl, and took care of her first, that soon enough the tables would turn, and both females would pay all of their attention to him. If there's rules involved he breaks them, like eating the chick pussy, one of my rules for Salim, his tongue will never touch another woman's kitty but mine, or tongue kissing her, or making love to the chick. Basically getting romantic and intimate with a chick that was supposed to only get a piece of the dick, not the heart. Giving emotions to a nobody bitch, when those emotions were supposed to only be reserved for his girl. That ole bobblehead, immature, unswagger-like, offy shit. You see, it's rare for a man once he's in that position – in bed with two naked women with raging hormones and a rock hard dick – for him to remember any rules, any restrictions, or what his main objective should be: making that a pleasurable experience for him and his girl. So for those who can't follow the script, it's bound to be problems, problems that me and Salim are miles ahead of.

(AB): Is there anything else that you like about the whole idea of inviting another woman into bed with you both, aside from the obvious?

(N): (Naomi smiles shyly). Since we're on the subject, and since I'm being honest. (She arches a single eyebrow). A part of me enjoys seeing him with other women. No. A part of me loves that shit. To see how attracted women are to him, how they respond to him, how each new encounter allows him to keep his game sharp. I know what time it is with Salim. To put it bluntly, that negro's pipe game ain't no motherfuckin joke! About ten inches, thick, got nuff mind control, and can work them hips with better rhythm than a salsa, meringue and reggae dancer combined. The night we did our first threesome with this girl we met at a club, I found myself so turned on by that shit. He was already an experienced lover when we first met, but I also taught him a lot of shit – how to take it slow, tease, when and where to touch. So when I sat back and watched him put the shit I taught him down on the next chick, how many times he made this lil brown-skinned cutie explode and cry out the name of God, how he had complete control over her mind, body, her pleasure, watching it alone almost made me orgasm. He broke her lil ass off something serious, and left that girl with her legs shaking like she was having a seizure – almost twenty minutes after they were done. He turned her ass out. That shit felt lovely to see my man rep like that. Then when I did the Double-Dutch and jumped in on the action, shit! Once me and my hitter got on a session with that chick, after she spent one night with us, together, I would bet money it ain't ever gonna be another sexual experience she'll have for the rest of her life that will compare to us.

(AB): Does that ever make you nervous? That because Salim is so good, and that these females now know it, that they may approach him on the low, that he may start creepin' with them?

(N): Not for a second. You see, the one thing about doing something like that with Salim is I also get an opportunity to view the competition in action. I told you, I don't hold the same view people hold for traditional relationships. I view it more like a war, a battle, where it's me against every other female – on this planet. When I said to you that Salim's pipe game is vicious, and ain't no motherfucking joke, what I failed to mention to you is how phenomenal my sex game is. My head game, how wet my mouth can get, how hard or soft I can suck, how I massage that dick in my hands and mouth, simultaneously, how deep my throat is, I have no gag reflexes, none, gone, zip, nada, fineto. Then there's the pussy I'm packing between my thighs. How virgin tight I am, how wet I get, dripping, how I know how to squeeze and release, pull and swallow, Kegal-game on fleek. How I twerk, dance, spin, grind, twist, corkscrew, snap, and fucking Zumba dance all over that dick. Shit, between the pussy and the throat, they could both be considered somewhere up there with the great feats of Rich Armstrong first walking on the moon, and the mystery of the Pyramids at Giza. Don't even let me begin on what I let him do to my ass, how I can actually cum through anal stimulation alone. And if that ain't clear enough for you, to put it bluntly – my sex game is the shit! I paid attention to how Salim reacted to those women. I also paid attention to how he reacted to me. As of date, I haven't met another woman out there that could come close to doing to him what I do to him. Why? Because I learn. With every experience, I learn at least one new thing, one little trick they may have – attitude, moves, tricks, looks – and add that to my arsenal. In the end, it's like I take their power and make it my own becoming all of those women – in one. The more I learn, the stronger I get. The stronger I get, the less of a threat I feel any woman is between me and my man. How could one woman compete with me with my man after that? I know my man so well I can run laps around any of them without even breaking a sweat. So what's there to be nervous about? I know what I got in my man. That's why I love him, and go out of my way to please him and make him happy. At the same time, Salim knows what he got in me, and knows what will happen if he fucked that up – he would lose me, the realest bitch on the planet, and the next hitter would have all of this. He wouldn't be that stupid to risk all of the shit we built up over the years just for some lil one-night stand, no matter how blazing the girl may be. Not when he could have just called me and put me on. And if the chick don't get down like that, then the bitch gots to kick rocks, barefooted. I'm confident with mines in that, and confident that my man wouldn't play me and the shit we established. So now that I think about it, the competition that I spoke of earlier with every other female doesn't exist. I'm the only one.

(AB): You spoke of looking out for Salim, blessing him with the gift of inviting other women to bed with you. You mentioned how you get something out of it by learning what he likes, watching him with other women, and even enjoy them yourself. It seems as if the pleasure is more for him. What if the tables were turned?

(N): (Naomi looks confused). What do you mean?

(AB): You gave him other women. What about another man? Have you ever thought about it? And if you did, do you think he would be willing to let you have that?

(N): You talking about letting two men run a train on me? (Naomi looks repulsed). Hell fucking naw! First of all, no, I ain't never think of no shit like that. Having some hitters run through me like I'm some project THOT? (Shakes head disbelievingly). For two, I would never, ever disrespect Salim like that. Like I said, with them other chicks, I control it. I thug them bitches out. The only other gangsta up in the mix besides Salim is me. With another man, aside from the fact that he would be running up in me, possibly cumming up in me, or thinking I would be sucking his dick, him cumming in my mouth, is it would be too much testosterone going on up in that shit. Lastly, I'm bisexual, so I get to play with the both of them. Salim isn't. So it would basically be the both of them just running through me and savaging me out. Naw. Never.

(AB): No disrespect. I just thought if the shoe was on the other foot…well, you know. Because I interviewed other couples who indulged in such activities. Both ways that is, inviting men and women into their beds.

(N): None taken. And I'm sure you have. It might be some brothers out there who may enjoy that. I just know Salim isn't one of them. Just like I'm sure it's some women out there who would love the idea of being in bed with two, or even more than two guys, having them hit her at both ends at the same time. Shit, I even met a couple of females who love to get down like that; women who love to give oral, and take that pipe from the back at the same time. I love it too. I'm just not getting down like that with no other man. So as far as me and Salim is concerned with that, we have the perfect little thing going on. Shit, if Salim did want to do something like that with me, I would look at him differently. My husband being turned on by another man running up in me? (Naomi shakes head disbelievingly, curls top lip). Nope. I'll pass.

(AB): And with that, you know it's always a pleasure building with you. There's no question you're one of a kind, and Salim is a very fortunate brother. (They both rise to shake hands).

(N): Yes I am. And yes he is.

Case File #19 – Salim & Naomi

For the first time in years, Naomi found herself warped with that nervous, fluttering, butterfly feeling in the pit of her gut. She sat glued on a plush leather loveseat in their living room, in her hand, her cell phone with a text displayed across the face.

"Mimi, n town. Dner @ 8. KB the Dragonslayer."

That message alone was enough to unravel feelings from a former life, and jam a monkey wrench into the gears of her perfectly synchronized system with Salim mere minutes after her lunch break. Two more messages followed within the hour – one, on her drive home from work, the other, minutes before she stepped into the shower. Both were inside taunts reminding her of her secret love affair while she was away in college.

The last two were overkill; the first was more than enough to put her on-point for their encounter.

The last time Naomi spent any time with the infamous Monique, aka, 'Killer-B', aka, 'Nique da Freak', had to be close to eight years ago, four months after Salim came home from prison. Monique knew Naomi had no intention of leaving Salim, even in the midst of their year's long love affair. Not the way Naomi adamantly held Salim down to the fullest, and voiced her every intention of ending their associations the day he got out.

At least those were Naomi's original intentions.

What she never took into consideration was the unappreciated, deceptively strong feelings she built up for Monique over those time-cherished moments they spent together. It only took one call from da freak those few months after Salim got out for Naomi to appreciate the thorough hold Monique had on her life.

When Naomi and Salim first sat down, and Naomi confessed her relationship with Monique while he was in prison, instead of beefing and dwelling on the past, it became established then and there how their relationship was to proceed: open and honest, void of any secrets, and mutually exclusive from that day forward, with any entertainment in the form of a fly-by-night fling being done under the mutual consent of the other.

For Naomi that was no problem.

Over a year and some change of nothing but straight pussy, with Salim fresh home intent on catching up for the years of sex they hadn't had, kept Naomi more than content on trying to keep up with Salim, and all of his fantasies, instead of expending any energy on trying to set up rendezvous with her former college girl on the low. That is until Monique called her to explain how she planned to fly overseas for a few years on a job she accepted in France; she wanted to meet Naomi for one last outing before she left.

Naomi couldn't quite remember how it happened, only fragments of making up some lame ass excuse to Salim – which he never thought to question due to the trust they established – and met up with Monique at a presidential suite for a full night of reliving their tumultuous sex sessions from the past. That was the only occasion Naomi snuck out on Salim, and cheated on him behind his back.

That was close to eight years ago.

What was the big deal now?

Eight years. Eight long years.

Monique, aka, Nique da Freak, aka, Killer-B, aka, the Dragonslayer was out of her system, completely.

Naomi sat with her cell phone in her hand staring at that message. With it closing in on seven in the evening, Naomi knew why she felt those fully blossoming monarchs fluttering within her after all that time – Monique wasn't completely, absolutely, fully purged from her system. Like a form of sentimental cancer that went into remission, those texts revealed that the Freak's protoplasm still lie dormant, still circulated through her bloodstream, resistant to the antibody of even her own husband, Salim.

She wanted to see Killer-B again.

$$ $$ $$

"Queen, you made those arrangements at Chuck E. Cheese for Aisha, right?" Salim asked.

Naomi never heard Salim come in. She snapped out of her trance from staring at her cell phone and sat up at full attention; she quickly cleared the screen.

"Chuck E. Cheese?"

"Yeah. Chuck E...." Salim was on his way, making a b-line straight towards their walk-in closet at the edge of the living, but stopped short at the sound of indecisiveness in Naomi's tone. She was given a curious inspection. It hit him. "Ah, come on, ma. It's in two days, and you know how bad Aisha's been looking forward to that."

"Shit!"

Naomi was supposed to handle the reservation at Chuck E. Cheese for their seven-year-old daughter's birthday. That was the only thing she was supposed to cover on her end; Salim assured her he would take care of the rest. The invitation to her friends, Six Flags the following day, arrangements of the presents, everything. About two weeks ago was the time she was supposed to get it done.

She forgot.

How in the hell did she do that? Oh yeah, that's right. Too concerned with putting a new kit and rims on the Jaguar coupe she began leasing a month earlier. Day after day passed, all with Naomi telling herself she would take care of it. Earlier in the day at lunch, she gave herself a mental note to get it done. Too bad that call from Monique distracted her yet again.

"Double shit!"

"Salim, I swear, I'm sorry. I'll check on it right now." Naomi bustled over to a laptop on a desk in the corner, she quickly folded open the screen.

"What are you doing?" Salim doubled back, tossed his jacket on the corner of the sofa.

"I can do it online. I'm sure I can still find a slot, even if it's a little later in the day," Naomi said, tapping keys with a mien of guilt twisting her features; for more reasons than one.

"On a Saturday?" Salim said incredulously.

"Think positive. Damn! It could still be one. Four hours, the last four hours. Fuck it, I'll take two," Naomi whined, "as long as we can get it on…"

"Saturday?"

Naomi lifted her eyes from the screen to see Salim holding out a Chuck E. Cheese receipt between his fingers. "You did it? You already got it?" Naomi asked with a nervous anxiousness cracking her voice.

"I asked you to do one thing. One. And your not-knowing-how-to remember ass couldn't even do that," Salim huffed, shaking his head.

Naomi lit up, a huge smile rippled across her face. "Thank you! Thank you!" She threw her arms over his shoulders and smothered him with kisses. She snapped the receipt out of his hand to read he made reservations for Saturday between one to five. After the excitement waned, Naomi playfully shoved him on the shoulder.

"Why did you get me all worked up and nervous knowing you had this shit on you the whole time?" Another shove found Salim's shoulder after she noticed the prevailing grin creasing his lips.

"Cause, it serves your ass right. I knew you weren't gonna know how to act after you got that car. Now look at you. Your head is so far up in the clouds you can't even remember your own daughter's born day."

"For the record, I did remember her birthday. I just forgot to make the reservations for it," Naomi related, her voice trailed off.

"Well, I just hope that's what you were thinking about when I came in, cause you sure the hell was lost on something. Got your conscience eating at your ass a lil something, huh?" Salim joked; he turned off from her to make his way to the kitchen.

Naomi paused, she didn't follow him. Salim was right about one thing, her conscience eating at her. He just had no idea it had nothing to do with forgetting their daughter's reservations. More in line if she was going to break her years long streak of remaining loyal to her husband, and sneak off with Monique for what she knew Monique specifically called her for – a sweaty, sticky, hours long fuck session.

Wait a minute!

What the fuck was she thinking about? It wasn't a hard decision to make.

Not really. Well kinda. Just a little. Who was she kidding? Yes, it was.

Naomi knew Monique was the only one who had the type of power to make her question herself. No other woman, or man, had the power to rattle Naomi out of her comfort zone like that. Maybe it was because Monique was the only other person in her life, outside of Salim, that she had a serious relationship with. There were a few other guys before Salim, a few high school flings, nothing serious. Nothing where there were even labels attached.

Salim was her first real boyfriend turned husband.

Monique, her first female fling turned girlfriend.

A moment in time she wasn't sure she got out of her system.

Only one way to find out.

$$ $$ $$

Naomi approached Salim from behind carrying her cell phone. Salim paid little attention to her. He was more concerned with stacking a few slices of lettuce, and a couple of tomatoes, on a turkey and Swiss sandwich; he topped it off with a squeeze of mayo and a dab of mustard on a pumpernickel bun. He did an about-face, stuffing a huge bite in his mouth, to see Naomi extending her cell phone to him.

"Whaf…fiss?" Salim asked with his mouth full, barely legible between bites. Naomi stared at him blankly. Salim chomped down with his mouth full, stopping only from stuffing another quarter of the sandwich in his mouth from the intense look Naomi gave him.

"What's going on?" Salim used his index finger to clean a smear of mayo from the corner of his mouth, he received the phone from her. He read all of the messages. Nothing stood out to him. At least not anything in his opinion to push Naomi to react that way. "Ok and?"

"It's an old friend from college." Naomi tried to reach for Salim's sandwich; he pulled back to take another bite.

"So," Salim said unconcerned, "it's a friend from college. So what?"

"Not just a friend. My old friend." Naomi reached for the sandwich again; Salim pulled back for another bite. "Sa, stop playing. Let me get some," Naomi whined. She struggled to get her hands on the sandwich Salim lifted in his arm to keep out of reach. After one final bite, Naomi finally managed to wrestle the remainder of it from him; less than a half of it left. "It's my girl, Monique." She filled her mouth, her eyes still locked into his.

Salim still didn't make the connection, mainly because it was so long ago, and he forgot all about her.

It took a moment – processing...processing...processing – for it to finally...

"Oh, your girl girl. Monique from college," Salim sighed, finally catching on. The messages saved in those texts were read over for a second time. "Mimi, hmmmm. Dragonslayer? What's that all about?" Salim inquired, reaching for the last bite of his sandwich. Too late. Naomi quickly popped it between her lips.

"What do you think? Think about it. A dragon, long tongue. I'm not even going to go into the other nickname she used to go by."

Salim smiled at the analogy, chuckled, then noticed Naomi's peculiar demeanor.

"So you really had a lil thing for this chick, huh?"

"Shaddup," Naomi said dryly, she playfully rolled her eyes. Salim reached out to caress his hand over Naomi's flat stomach, couldn't help but to notice how she couldn't stop cheesing it up.

"What's going on, my queen? What's the matter? You wanna go and see the Dragonslayer?" Salim continued dramatically.

"She knows about you. She knew about you the whole time. I told you that," Naomi said, bobbing and weaving the answer.

"You did. You told me all about it. But you still haven't answered my question. Do you want to go and see her?" Salim said, noticing the swift evasion.

"Do you want us to go and see her?"

"Do you? Or do you want to go and check her on your own? Get a little one-on-one time with her?"

"Negro, don't play with me."

"Who's playing? She wanna meet up with you for dinner at eight. Go ahead. That's your old college friend. What am I supposed to do, say no? I trust you. What, you can't be around her by yourself without shit popping off? She had a hold on you all like that?" Salim said light-hearted, having no clue how accurate he was with his assessment.

The idea of seeing Monique, alone, did make Naomi nervous. Nique da Freak. Monique knew her, her mind, her body, all of her secret spots. Hell, she practically taught her where all of her secret spots were. Those endless moments they spent nights on end allowing their creative juices to flow, exploring every aspect of their femininity to learn every intricate secret about each other gave Monique the advantage.

Yeah, Naomi had good reason to second-guess an almost ten-year reunion, and a night out on the town with her, one-on-one. Just the thought of there being a slight chance of Monique causing her to deviate from what she held onto so dear for so many years began to tip the scales against Monique. The decision was made as far as Naomi was concerned: no reunion with Monique, no opportunity for Nique da Freak to freak her.

That is until she heard Salim chant, "I got a better idea." He scooped up Naomi's cell phone. "I'll just text her back, and tell her to meet us for dinner – here. Meet this infamous Dragonslayer that you had such a crush on back in the day – in the flesh."

The text was sent before Naomi could utter a single word in protest.

"Shit!" Naomi cursed under her breath.

Salim smiled.

Done deal.

Deal done.

$$ $$ $$

A thousand thoughts raced through Naomi's mind for the last hour.

What did Monique look like after all those years? She was beautiful, her body tough as shit back in college – sexy, flat stomach, thick thighs, hips for days, ass for weeks, an ass that was huge, firm, round, easily one of her best physical assets, a firm C-cup that didn't even require a bra, light chocolate skin softer than a newborn's – but what about then?

Naomi thought about her personality, how she developed as a woman. Has she ever dated men seriously? Got married? Had kids? Continued down the same road of same-sex relations to blossom into full-fledged lesbianism? Or was that simply a phase through college, like her? A phase that she abandoned altogether, and returned to that flesh stick – literally?

Strictly licky, or strictly dickly?

Maybe both.

Maybe she adopted the same ambidextrous sexual appetite as Naomi.

Then there was the most pressing concern: how would they meld together in the presence of Salim?

Salim never knew just how much of that cocky bravado came as a direct reflection of the confidence Monique instilled in her. Had no clue the intimidation factor that played on her psyche from witnessing Monique punishing females with her knuckle game, or her trusty box cutter. How Monique symbolized the apex of gangsta femininity in Naomi's eyes, a personality Naomi adopted, perfected, hijacking that Brooklyn-bred swag, the author of her unique sexual artistry, down to a science.

Salim had no clue how the balance of sexual dominance behind closed doors always tipped in Monique's favor. How she topped Naomi, the aggressor to her passivity, dominated her, made her submissive, a progression over the months where Naomi did most of the licking between Monique's thighs, the sucking, the bowing down and blessing.

Monique being the thug, Naomi, her gangsta girl, being thugging out at Monique's leisure.

Lastly, her confidence.

A confidence, and other character traits, Naomi perfected over the years to claim and call her own.

Would a reunion of the unspoken author of her style create a clash of personalities? The sensei and the pupil. Naomi really didn't want to find out. Which was one of the main reasons why she tried to convince Salim to call it off.

Ha! Picture that. He wasn't having it.

The text had already been sent, dinner arrangements made, a reunion confirmed.

As far as he was concerned, done deal, deal done. Especially when he went out of his way to get his sister to baby-sit Aisha, and took the time to quickly chef up one of his specialties; Harrissa Chicken Shawarma wraps, buttered shrimp over spicy dirty rice.

Naomi did find it a little amusing how enthused Salim was over the whole idea of finally meeting Monique. His wife hadn't talked much about Monique over the years, yet the few conversations they did end up having revealed a good chunk of their times together. A policy of brutal honesty, which they held sacred, became a secret aphrodisiac for Salim, and the few tales Naomi did share of their episodes always capped the night off with them locked in an impassioned sex session.

Yet, Monique always remained just that: an elusive fantasy. A spoken about apparition. A blast from her lesbianonic past. How would Salim react to her in person? It didn't take much longer for Naomi to realize she was about to find out.

The doorbell rang.

"Showtime!" Salim announced. He made it a point to scurry past Naomi from the kitchen, blurted, "No, no I insist. I got it," when she rose from the sofa in the living room.

Wasn't too difficult, it wasn't like she was rushing off to answer the door anyway. At the back of the door, he paused, mainly to gauge Naomi's reaction. There was no mistaking the anxiousness in her eyes.

"Ain't this about a bitch?"

She was really antsy, visibly nervous. Salim reveled in the sight of his wife really out of her comfort zone. He cracked the door, took a step back. From the center of the living room, Naomi stood frozen. She took in the first sight of Monique entering through the foyer after a little under a decade. A quick handshake was given to Salim, and an even quicker inspection of the lavish amenities of where they lived, before Monique spotted Naomi across the room.

"Mimi!" Monique chanted. She lit up, all smiles. She doubled stepped it over to Naomi, arms spread wide, and embraced her in a tight hug. Monique's scent was strong, perfume top-shelf, a fragrance completely foreign to Naomi, which was rare, considering she was an exotic oils, perfume whore. Dying to ask what it was, the country of origin, the price. Can't. Not so early.

Damn!

And so it begins.

"Step back. Let me take a good look at you," Naomi said, releasing Monique from a hug that was much more sensual than cordial.

From first appearances, Naomi could see Monique packed on a few pounds; her previously proportioned one hundred and thirty something pound frame ballooned up to dance around the one hundred and sixty pound mark. She put it on in all the right places. Monique wore a pair of skintight, dark blue pinstripe slacks that accentuated her every curve; the bell bottom cut revealed traces of sure to be expensive black leather heels; Choo's from first glance if Naomi had to guess.

The matching blazer was just as form fitting, underneath, a white dress shirt; both unbuttoned a little too much to showcase an ample amount of cleavage on a perfect set of D's; D's Naomi was sure she had to get done. There was no way her chest was that huge in college. Not the way they swallowed a single one-karat diamond on a diamond accented platinum necklace.

What did it the most for Naomi was the haircut; something short, highlighted with dark red streaks at the tips. Something very similar to herself. A far stretch from the shoulder-length locks Monique used to perm and straighten religiously back in her heyday. There was no question about it: Monique aged gracefully. In fact, Naomi couldn't imagine her looking any better.

"So, what do you think?" Monique questioned, styling off with a few exaggerated poses; hand on her hip, front, side, a quick spin for, of course, the back shot.

Naomi passed subtle glances at Salim. There was no mistaking what his eyes instantly focused on – Monique's ass. Salim was a self-proclaimed, devout ass man, and Monique was sure enough packing her fair share of it; at least forty-five inches, at least, on a slim, twenty-six inch waist. Naomi squinted slyly at him, and threw him a slight smirk.

"Killer, I can't even lie. You killing em' right now, and that's for real," Naomi said thickly, giving Monique one final run down from head to toe.

"Killer. Do you know how long it's been since I heard that?" Monique chuckled lightly, "And I gotta say, you know your cute ass is still killing em' your damn self."

Naomi didn't feel quite as confident in her appearance as Monique represented herself to be, mainly because she really didn't go out of her way to jazz herself up. A white tank top, pink jean shorts, booty socks, her short hair pressed down in a beehive around her scalp. She may have been underdressed compared to her old college counterpart who looked to have just stepped out of a business meeting, but what she lacked in stylish apparel, Naomi knew she more than made up for it in physique.

Pound for pound, body for body, style for style, they were almost a mirror image.

Monique detected it within seconds.

"Yep, still got it."

"Monique, allow me to formally introduce you to the man I spoke so much about, my husband, Salim." Naomi had to divert her attention from the look Monique gave her, so reminiscent of their old times together, to pull Salim close to her side. "Salim, this is Monique. My old college roommate."

Salim took Monique's hand for the second time, that time not being brushed off by a Naomi-directed Monique. Her shake was firm, masculine, dominant. Her posture aggressive, confident.

"It's nice to finally meet you. I heard a lot about you."

"Same here. Mimi spoke about you all of the time when we were in college," Monique said, examining every particular detail on Salim, "Now I see why. You were right, Mi. This brother is finer than a motherfu..."

"Uh, why don't we…see what my husband cooked for us to eat," Naomi blurted, stepping in between them to sever a connection gradually building momentum.

The look she gave Salim, he may have not understood the significance behind it, but Naomi did.

Every time that particular glint reflected in Monique's light hazel windows, her mind had already blotted out all of life's trivialities to pinpoint on a single train of thought. Naomi just never witnessed her train of focus directed on anyone else but herself. Now, close to a decade later, she finally experienced those eyes, that body language, the voracious appetite again clearly directed at her husband.

"Shit!"

$$ $$ $$

Salim served them his authentic dish, being the most cordial of hosts. Not too far reaching, not too reserved, but Naomi could detect he was definitely adding a little something extra to his normal self to impress Monique.

It was working.

He kept her laughing. She loved his food, the dessert he whipped up, and continually commented on how lucky Naomi was for landing such a successful, good-looking, intelligent, street-hardened, articulate husband who came with the added bonus of being a good cook.

"Remind her again, cause sometimes I think she needs a little refresher on that," Salim said lightly. He returned from the living room with three expensive crystal tumblers he removed from a corner bar, a little brown juice splashed in each. Salim handed them around in tune. He sat back at the head of the kitchen table.

"Don't act like I'm the only one who should be appreciative of what they got at home," Naomi returned, good heartedly. She took a few light sips, licked her lips deliciously. "I don't think I have to remind you how fortunate you are too, and how many…luxuries you enjoy having a wife like me." Naomi locked eyes with Salim, the reflection, and her tone speaking to a degree much deeper than any culinary specialties.

"I could only imagine," Monique intervened with a casual sip of her own. Both Salim and Naomi broke from each other to peer over at her. "When we were in college, Mimi was one of the closest friends I had. We did everything together. She had my back through it all, thick and thin. You should hear half of the shit we've been through."

"Should I? Talk to me. Don't hold out on me now. Just give me half, your half," Salim said, loving the evolution of how the night was unfolding.

Naomi forked on the last few bites of her slice of blueberry cheesecake, literally stuck in the middle of Monique giving her husband the rundown of some of their tumultuous times together. Monique continued on about their most memorable times, cutting not so inconspicuous eyes at Naomi at the apex of each story, eerily on point on how to embarrass her in explicit detail; each quick tale flashed as a vivid reminder of the passive role their associations reduced Naomi to.

By the time she reached the third story, second full tumbler devoured, chipping away at the third, Monique kicked off her heels, and sneakily extended her leg to dance her stocking-clad foot up and down Naomi's calf under the table. Naomi tried to keep her cool, tried not to look directly at Monique, fearful of the obvious – the revelation of their clandestine flirting done right under her husband's nose – until it became too unbearable to resist.

"What are you doing? Stop playing. Nique, chill the fuck out," Naomi said without uttering a sound; she said it with her eyes. When Monique continued on to the point where Naomi was sure Salim started to get hip to what was going down, those same sly eyes dissolved from their reflection of intrigue to harden in desperation.

"I'm serious. Fucking stop! My husband is right here. Please!"

Monique wasn't listening. She continued on, detailing their elaborate tales above the table for her ever-inquisitive husband, while at the same time, stroking Naomi under the table, proving that even close to a decade later she still had complete control over her.

But a strange thing happened. Even though Monique didn't listen (she actually danced her foot up higher from Naomi's nervous reaction) Naomi didn't shy away. Naomi had it in her to pull back completely, be the one to recoil in timidity, coldly shut down the flirtatious petting Monique seemed to find so much pleasure in dishing out, but she didn't. Something in her refused to give Monique the satisfaction.

To do so would have been the old Naomi. The passive Naomi.

The Naomi Monique had complete control over.

The Naomi at the time, the one who sat at that dining room table with her husband by her side, began to take in stride the secretive strokes Monique dished out, determined to prove she wasn't the same little docile college girl from a decade prior. To shy away would have been construed as an act of weakness, the old her.

Not anymore.

She set out to prove how she evolved. With her mind made up, Naomi leaned into Monique's caressing foot, and even cast a subtle, arrogant smirk at her.

"You wanna keep fucking playing? You don't run shit anymore, I do! Let’s play." Naomi said in her mind as if Monique could actually hear her. "Who do you think you're fucking with? I ain't that same little toy you had wrapped around your pinky finger back in the day. The one you learned how to control with your tongue, or your fingers, or your aggression, or that sweetness between your thighs, or that tough, gangsta talk with your head between mines. Bitch, you better recognize. Today, I might fuck around and get your ass strung out on this good-good…oh shit!"

Naomi's eyes widened.

On her other leg, the top of her right thigh, she felt Salim rest his hand on her.

Naomi froze, swallowed hard, grew stiff.

"You never told me how much you and your girl used to wild out in college, Mimi," Salim said, having fun with the nickname Monique pegged her with. "I mean, you did tell me some of the shit y'all used to go through, but not all like that." He squeezed a handful of her naked flesh, rubbed her knowingly, and slowly, and gradually, worked his way up into the warmth of her inner thighs.

"Whaaaat?" Monique drawled, "Me and Mimi used to get it in. You ain't tell him about us, Mi?" Monique ran her foot up and down the back of Naomi's calf, up to the crux of her knee. A little higher, she rubbed Naomi's outer thigh. If she kept that up, she would be sure to brush up against Salim's hand.

Closer...closer...closer.

$$ $$ $$

When they closed the distance within a half foot of each other, Naomi popped up from the table, stuttering, "Let's...let's go into the...the living room." She stepped away from them, tilting her head back to knock down more than half of that full tumbler in one gulp.

Monique giggled. Salim smiled as well.

When Monique entered the living room, she stripped herself of her blazer, and tossed it across the face of a black leather ottoman facing a matching love seat. Next, the rest of her third drink was savored with a delicious smack of her lips.

"So, just what else did the two of you do in college?" Salim asked. He rested comfortably in the center of their massive, eight-foot, plush black leather sofa. "Mimi told me a little about it, her side. But being that we have the one and only, legendary Monique in the flesh, I would love to hear it from you, more from your side."

Monique went straight to the bar. She took her time standing with her back to them, something they could both detect was done on purpose, fixing herself another drink; her fourth.

"What exactly did Mimi tell you?"

Monique purposely kept her back to them, allowed them all the time they needed to luxuriate in that full visual of her from behind – that snug dress shirt, those tight, dark blue, pinstripe slacks bending to define incredible curves – before she smoothly rolled her head over her shoulder to confirm what she allowed their covetous little minds to soak in. Salim and Naomi kept their eyes glued to her every move. Monique finally turned around at the bar, full drink in hand, sipped lightly. She scanned between the two of them with considerably glossy eyes.

"What do you think she told me?" Salim posed, ricocheting her ambiguous comment right back at her.

"I don't know," Monique took long strides to float smoothly across the living room, sank into the plush material of a recliner, sensually folded one leg over the other, "did she tell you about...oh, ok. I got one. This is a really funny story. Did she tell you about the dance contests we used to get in?"

Naomi lit up. "Don't do that. Don't you dare," she blurted. Out of sheer discomfort, she moved away from Salim to the bar to fix herself another drink. "Don't try to sit up here and embarrass me like that."

"How is that embarrassing? We were good. Well, I was always better, but we were still a good team. We used to tear that shit down," Monique said lively.

"Yeah, how is that embarrassing?" Salim said, finding the whole course of events beyond entertaining. He never witnessed Naomi so uncomfortable in the presence of another woman. To witness her uneasiness became the most appealing thing to him, appealing enough to urge, "Dance contests? Finish what you were saying. What was that all about?"

"Well," Monique sat forward, wet her lips again on another mouthful of her drink, "around the college we attended, some did the karaoke thing, the bar thing, the nightclub thing. But there were also these dance contests they used to hold at this one spot. Steppers, Crunk, Hip Hop. We didn't do any of those." Monique sliced squinted eyes at Naomi who'd taken her seat back next to Salim on the sofa. "We used to do the strip dances, to win prize money."

"You're really gonna go there, ain't you?" Naomi said, conflicted at another skeleton falling out of the closet.

"No this bitch ain't doing this shit."

How could she stop it?

Should she scramble for damage control, derail the train slowly rolling in, or allow Monique to pull up to the station where who knows what other skeletons would flood out of the terminal?

She already stole the show half of the night by taking Naomi out of her comfort zone, using the leverage of their past ills to keep her off balance. Now what was that bitch up to? Naomi knew she couldn't take much more of it. No more of that chick taking the wheel and determining their destination. If Monique wanted to go there and play that game, she wasn't the only one who knew how to play.

"Alright, Miss Dance contest. Go ahead, tell him all about it since you are so determined to go there," Naomi said, finally revealing traces of her new confident self. "Two can play at this game."

"Tell him? Now what fun would that be?" Monique knocked back the rest of her drink. "I thought it would be more fun if we showed him." She made her way over to their entertainment center. "Well, that's if you still have the moves." A few wobbly steps spoke of how those drinks punished her senses. "Let's see here." Monique scanned through a wide selection of songs programmed into their digital system.

Bryson Tiller's, Don't Get Too High.'

"Ok, this'll work."

A slow sway of her hips, her huge, round ass rolled perfectly to the rhythm in tight circles like the uninterrupted seconds hand on a Presidential Rolex. They had an ideal view of Monique from across the room, her body moving slowly to the beat. Naomi peeked at Salim out the corner of her eyes. There was no mistaking it, he was mesmerized, trapped in her aura, his eyes glued to her every move, specifically the isolated movements of her waist and ass.

The way she moved, gyrated her voluptuous frame, arched her back, it made that squat-sculpted bubble she hauled behind her appear even fatter than before. Naomi hated to admit it, but for the first time since she could remember, the first time in years, she knew that feeling slow roasting her on the inside could only be one thing: envy. That unadulterated, green-headed monster of jealousy attacking her esteem like a rabid pit-bull.

Monique was statuesque, her curves sculpted, her movement's hypnotic. Her aura the epitome of confidence. Her personality magnetizing, infectious. Her sex appeal borderline illegal. Three-sixty, from head to toe, mind to body, Monique was so well rounded, the complete package, that she was the kind of woman that made even the most confident women uncomfortable. By the time she rocked herself back around in an about-face to take in the two sets of eyes locked into her every move, she had a wicked smirk curling her top lip.

"I remember we had this one move…" Monique made her way to the center of the living room, "…we always crushed the competition with it. Do you remember it, Mimi?"

The glassy haze swimming in Monique's eyes spoke of her state of mind.

"I do," Naomi said with a hint of attitude, "How could I forget. It's the one I taught you."

She broke away from the warmth on her husband's side to approach Monique, stood less than a foot away. Their eyes met, an intense stare down. Salim watched them from the sofa, unsure if their mental standoff was a part of their act, or the exoneration on Naomi.

"If I'm not mistaken…" Naomi listened to the beat, her body awakened, she started to get into it, the tempo, the cadence, the rhythm quickly took her over, "…the way I taught you how to snap it like this…" her hips started to pop in a circular, reggae tick-style motion, "…then make it clap like this…" she arched over quite lewdly with her ass thrust out, braced herself with her hands on her knees, and began a slow twerk/booty-clap to the beat, "…this always knocked any bitch out of the box that thought she could fuck with me. Any bitch!"

Naomi passed brief glances over her shoulder back at her own ass giving each in the room a standing ovation to the bass line of the beat. The lascivious position Naomi contorted her body in, the lewd dance she performed, sucked in the flimsy material of her tight shorts up into her crotch like an inhale. Her milky, dark chocolate ass cheeks spilled out the back, camel-toe became more pronounced.

It didn't stop her.

It did the opposite – it became her fuel.

"This what you wanted? To bring this out of me? Ok, watch and learn, and bow down to your new leader."

The intrigued look on Monique's face only provoked a more animated spectacle out of Naomi. That shit was working. Turn the fuck up. Mouth parted, a wet tongue danced deliciously across Naomi's top lip, a sly smirk followed when she noticed the bold show of attention Salim previously directed at her girl becoming completely lost on her.

Monique smiled, nodded, said, "Pretty good, pretty good. But I think your memory is off a little something, because if I'm not mistaken, I'm sure I was the one who taught you that," totally unfazed.

Monique mimicked Naomi's tune with a quick display of the identical moves – made it clap a little louder from the extra meat she hauled behind her, followed it up by rolling her fleshy ass cheeks – just to finish Naomi off by making them bounce up and down together in synch like a Chevy 64' on sixteen switches.

"Oh, I didn't teach you that one, did I?" Monique said haughtily.

Just that quick, Naomi got upstaged – again. Just like their former days in college. Just like the stage on those dance floors. Just like with all of the other guys. Monique won again. Fed up, Naomi knew that would be the last time she ever got upstaged by Monique again.

"You didn't. But I also didn't teach you this one. The grand finale."

$$ $$ $$

Naomi reached out to run her fingers through the spiky tips on the back of Monique's hair. Naomi guided her close in the next breath, their lips met. The spontaneity of Naomi's sudden move caught Monique completely off guard, threw her off balance. Naomi took advantage, the momentum shifted in her favor.

"Now what? Didn't expect that, did you? Well, what about this?"

Naomi slithered her arm around Monique's lower back, and eased her close in a tight embrace, the other arm coiled around her to fill it with Monique's round, firm ass. Naomi tongued Monique down with a passion, palmed her ass with both hands in firm grips, and thugged her out on some feminine gangsta shit, identically reminiscent of their former college days. Only that night, it was different.

The Manolo Blahniks were on the other foot.

It wasn't hard to tell Monique wasn't expecting such a dramatic role reversal, for the turning out to be turned on her. Not that swift. Not with the watchful eye of her husband seated only a few feet away watching their every move. She could only fall helpless under the spell Naomi instantly put her under. Before she knew it, the large leather belt on her slacks fell to the floor, her zipper sliced down with a whiiizzz, the tight material of those designer slacks peeled down over her thick thighs in a blink.

Soft, mewling moans vibrated from Monique's tongue into Naomi's mouth when she slithered her hand down into her panties between Monique's thighs. She searched like she was digging for gold, hit pay dirt. A few trademark curls of her fingers, a well-placed thumb. Monique squeezed Naomi's shoulders, instinctively inched her feet out wider for deeper penetration, and rose like levitation to the tips of her toes when Naomi's fingers entered her. Shallow pants popped in Monique's chest, she tore at that form-fitting tank top hugging Naomi's top half.

Salim couldn't believe it, was left speechless.

There they were in the middle of the living room, ripping each other's clothes off like he wasn't even there. Under normal circumstances, indulging in a ménage a trio with his wife usually incited the typical thrill – a normal sense of excitement from the indulgence of another 'flavor'. For the specimen to be the one and only Monique, from the legendary light Naomi painted her in, it was almost surreal.

Monique's white designer dress shirt. Naomi's shorts. Monique's slacks. Thigh-high black stockings. Both of their bras, panties. Articles of clothes flew one by one from those determined vixens to rain all around the living room. They remained locked in a passionate tongue kiss the whole time.

By the time they got down to their dark bronze birthday suits, it became painfully clear to Salim that they were still in competition with each other. Naomi, the one woman he viewed above reproach, the most gangsta female he ever had the luxury to make acquaintances with, spent years with, wifed up, put a ring on, exposed the first signs of being intimidated by her old college roommate, who was coincidentally an identical image of herself.

From Salim's perspective, despite the slights, Naomi was handling it well. She continually built up her confidence, added layer upon layer to her esteem from the moment Monique walked through that front door close to three hours ago to the present. Especially when she took the reins, blindly guided Monique back a few feet, and nudged her lightly; she fell with a heavy bounce in the center cushion of the sofa right by Salim's side.

"I gotta admit..." Naomi stood before them, more in front of Monique, "...you taught me a lot when we were younger. I told Salim all about it, about us." Naomi folded over to spread Monique's legs apart, she lowered herself between those baby smooth, honey-tinted thighs. "How you were my girl. My girl girl. How we used to get it in..." Naomi ran her manicured fingernails up and down the sensitive flesh of Monique's inner thighs, planted a few kisses on the left side, right above her knee, moved over to the right, "...how you used to thug me the fuck out, and had my lil ass wide open on you. I can't front, I owe nearly all of the tricks and stunts I learned because of you. Almost all of them."

Salim couldn't take his eyes off them. He felt like the show was moving faster than he could keep up with. He immediately went to work, stripped himself of his own clothes, all with them appearing to be oblivious to him. Naomi set out to prove that she obviously overcame any hang up's Monique previously held over her, and she was doing a damn good job at it.

That wasn't the first time Salim watched his wife lower her head between another woman's thighs, though it was rare; she preferred to play the dominant role, enjoy the sensation of being blessed by pressing the back of that feminine head down on her, instead of playing the passive, and doing the blessing.

Salim knew Monique wouldn't remain in that position all night – Monique slouched deep in the sofa, ass hanging off the edge, legs spread wide, Naomi's face buried deep within – only until Naomi finished working her. Until Naomi had her way with Monique first. Until she finished breaking her down, melting her like putty, enough time to make sure she flipped the script.

The way Naomi took her time with her old college friend – teased her unmercifully with a soft, tickling tongue, ran it up and down her inner thighs, massaged her soft flesh passionately, made sure to lock eyes with her in the most determined manner – Salim could see that her seduction far exceeded simply savoring the taste of Monique's fleshy petals; petals which were flush, soaked, and glistening in a shiny film of her essence.

"I got your ass!" Naomi thought, then dove in, head first, and went on the attack like a savage beast.

She was determined. Salim could see it – she was gonna turn Monique the fuck out!

In no time, less than two minutes of curling her two fingers directly under the hood of her wet flesh, massaging her g-spot, a circling tongue on her clit, soft sucks, her lips pouted into a small 'O', gave her clit head, she did just that.

"Mimi...Mimi...Mimi," Monique panted in shallow breaths, close to hyperventilating, "Oh, you don't know...how much…I missed this shit. How much...I missed that pretty face...between my thighs... that tongue...licking and sucking on my ...ohhhh, shit…shit…shit…yeeaaahh."

Salim seen enough.

Naomi, with her head buried in between Monique's thick brown thighs, licking, sucking, and munching on her girl's pussy, on her hands and knees, face down low, ass up high, invitingly open, gave him the green light to get in on the action.

He inched in close, took his position behind his wife, spread her fat ass cheeks open wide, lewdly, as wide as he could, exposed her, left her utterly vulnerable, lined himself up, zeroed in on his target, and took aim at that tight, wet opening. All it took was three quick strokes…one quarter...pull out...halfway… pull out...two/thirds...to bury himself in balls deep.

"Damn!"

Naomi was wet as fuck!

Wetter than he could ever remember her being so early in the first quarter.

He held a tight grip on the top of her slim waist, held himself stiff, grinded it up in her for good measure, kept nine inches of thick, rock hard dick deep up in her. A hand circled around her waist, two fingers reached up underneath her, found her secret, tickled Naomi's clit.

The 'reach-around' trick.

He pressed in, then up, tickled her pleasure button, pressed in, then up, tickled it again. He long dicked his wife's pussy nice and slow, from the tip to the balls, with a passion he knew would set her heart afire, while at the same time, tortured her clit with that pressure rub....pressure rub...pressure rub rhythm.

"Sa…Salim...aagghhhh...what the...what the...ffffffuck. Why’d would you...do...do that," Naomi sighed like she was on the verge of crying, instinctively screwing her ass back on him, hard, like a whore in heat to swallow in and feel every inch.

That move, his secret weapon, worked on her every time. He knew it, and she knew it. A move that made her weak, turned off all inhibitions. A move that turned her into the ultimate freak, into a stone cold, dick hungry, private porn star. A move that made her beg for dick in her mouth, cum in her mouth, cum down her throat, cum in her face, cum in her pussy, cum in her ass. A move that made her cum, hard. So hard it made her squirt.

"Baby...no! Don't fucking...do...this...to me. Not...ohhh...not yet. Not until...until...wait."

Just as quick, she came to her senses, and quickly inched herself away to separate that thick slab of throbbing flesh from her womb, and disconnect his fingers from her clit, as if she remained in that position just a second longer she would be helpless to resist.

"Not yet. I got...a little something else...in mind for my girl."

Like some perverse circus ringmaster, Naomi coaxed Monique from the sofa down to the carpet with her. She hovered over Monique, took in the sight of ecstasy painting her beautiful brown features, and couldn't help but to swarm down to tongue her down again. She gave Monique a taste of her own climatic honey glazed over her tongue.

Monique drank it all in, sucked on Naomi's tongue, lips, letting out a disappointed, "Noooo," when Naomi cut her short to disconnect her tongue from hers. Naomi rolled from over her, smoothly spread herself out across the carpet, then spread her legs wide.

"Since you were so intent on showing my husband how we used to get down in college, I figure it's best to show him exactly what role you used to play," Naomi said with a firm hand guiding Monique's head down between her thighs. "I can't remember how many nights we used to break night, playing with each other. You know how much you used to love tasting me. And I've been waiting years to feel that soft, wet, hungry tongue on me again."

There was no hesitation on Monique's part. The meal of wet flesh between Naomi's thighs was a dish Monique was well prepared to savor. It had been one of her favorite delicacies in their heyday, one that she patiently waited almost ten years to partake in – and she did, with mouthwatering anticipation. She dove right in, exhibiting the same kind of delicacy and patience she knew turned Naomi out in the first place.

"Ohhhh, that's it, Nique. There you go. Yeah, you still...you still got it. Show me...how much you missed tasting me," Naomi breathed from deep in her chest.

What Monique didn't expect as she set out to show her old college fling just how much she missed her, was for Naomi to breathe out in an impassioned breath, "I've been waiting years to get a piece of you again. But it's also been years since I wanted you to get a piece of an experience, and a sensation, that I learned to enjoy, even more than this."

Monique kept her mouth and tongue firmly attached to the reservoir between Naomi's thighs, despite Salim's presence inching up behind her. Monique knew what time it was – that cocky shit she pulled earlier led to the consequence of taking some real cock. She knew she was fucked – literally! The main dish for the evening, and Salim and Naomi were starving.

Naomi noticed the look in her husband's eyes, and it was something else. She held a wicked smirk at the sight of him sizing up over forty inches of ass, the ass of her old college girlfriend, bent over, back shot, down in that doggy on the middle of their carpet in the living room. He lifted lust-filled, squinted eyes from that beautiful foreign visual to stare up at the beautiful familiar visual of his wife.

"Negro, you better tear that ass the fuck up! Give this beautiful, cocky bitch that dick – for real! Punish this bitch like you ain't never punish another bitch before!" Naomi said without words.

Salim filled his hands with all of that ass, his large mittens appearing unusually small in the face of such breadth. He massaged the hide of that feminine stallion, and with almost a foot of rock hard dick aimed at her entrance, sighed, "Oh, don't worry, I got this shit. I got just the trick for some shit like this," and slowly slid it up in her.

Just the sight of Monique's eyes widening, and the muffled, almost pathetic cry she bellowed when her husband slid his thick, fleshy stick up in her lifelong friend pushed Naomi to climax.

"Yeeeeeah! I've been waiting years to get you in this position, to see this. That beautiful face of yours, twisted up, licking and sucking all over this clit, moaning in ecstasy, eating my pussy, with my husband's long, thick, black dick all the way up in that pussy, deep," Naomi purred, holding a firm grasp on the back of Monique's head to keep her face pressed to her pussy. She lifted her eyes to her husband, sighed, "Ba...baby, give her that...dick. Make her...feel what I...fell in love with."

Monique barely remained focused on the cunnilingus she was so determined to exhibit, not when all of that thick, rock hard dick disappeared inside her, to the hilt, hitting her from all the right angles. She muffled her pants of ecstasy in Naomi's pussy, whined, and squirmed, when that husband and wife team in the form of her former college roommate and her significant other, took her, and her erogenous zones, on a journey to another dimension.

Naomi held her old girlfriend's face deep in her garden, stifled her cries, felt Monique licking harder, sucking, slurping, drinking, moaning, held a wicked smirk watching her husband's handiwork, sighed, "Don't...run from in. That's it. Take it, baby girl. Get that tight, wet, sweet pussy used to that big black dick. Trust, my hitter bout to...get that sweet ass pussy...open, and once he start...tagging that ass right, Nique, you gonna be...begging for him to never stop."

Salim remained on one knee, lifted his other leg to plant his foot on the carpet, a position that increased his range of motion. He spread Monique's meaty left ass cheek, held her open, stroked that pussy from behind, reached up underneath her, found her clit. The same 'reach-around' technique he pulled on his wife, the same move he knew turned his wife's freak meter on ten, he unleashed it on her old girlfriend.

Monique's tight body gradually relaxed, loosened, found his rhythm, moved with him. His fingers on her clit, rubbing, massaging, pressure rub...pressure rub...pressure rub, press in, then up...press in, then up, his thick dick deep in her womb, stroking, punishing her g-spot, those pussy walls, exploring from all angles, getting that pussy deeper, Monique fell victim. The freak in her came out to play, inhibitions gone. The bad girl in her took center stage. She arched her back deeper, propped that ass up higher, squirmed back on that dick, spread her knees out wider, thirsty, anxious, and sucked on Naomi’s pussy even harder.

The way Salim secured a firm grip around her slim waist, hooked her tight right on the top of her sweaty thighs, and started to long dick that pussy, belting out a few, "Yeah. I'ma...tear this shit up...dead right, ma. Trust! This killer...that used to kill shit...is about to get bodied...by this dick!" slamming it up in her, up and down, side to side, digging her out from all angles, Naomi knew it was just the beginning of a long night of tag teaming her lifelong friend.

A long night, and a final milestone that came as a testament to prove the bond she shared with her husband, no matter the person, trial or tribulation, could never be broken.

Date: March 14th, 20—

Time: 10:27 am

Case File #20M – Personal Interview

Client: Malik

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): What the deal my dude?

Malik (M): Chillin', chillin'.

(AB): I'm glad you could make it in today.

(M): Oh, you already know. Whenever you schedule that appointment for a sit down, I'm here. Now that I'm here, I see that you wanted to change up our sessions a lil something. I can dig it. Shit, with the advice that you've given to me and Tanisha since we've been attending your sessions, I'm always willing to take heed to the jewels you got. You're one of the main reasons why Tanisha and I still have such a strong bond today.

(AB): Good look. I appreciate that. Nuff love. And yeah, I did have a little something else different in mind for today. I wanted to speak to you personally, one on one, instead of reviewing and going over you and your wife's episodes together to see if there's any continued progress, or lack thereof. In my experience, speaking to couples individually, after a certain stage in our counseling sessions, tends to be more enlightening. Although, as you know, I'm a strong advocate of couples keeping it one hundred with their significant others, I tend to sense a slight air of tension when couples are being interviewed together. There are benefits in both. Today, I just wanted to speak to you dolo.

(M): I can understand that. I can dig it. (Malik reclines comfortably in a leather loveseat). Where do you want to begin?

(AB): Well, why don't we start at just that, all over again, like we're back to the beginning.

(M): The beginning. (Malik basks in a warm smile). That was a long ass time ago. As you know, I met Tanisha back when we were both in high school. I'm not sure if I mentioned this in a previous session, but what's so funny about the whole thing is I didn't even have my eye on her at first. I was actually checking her girl out. She used to hang with this lil badass, blazing ass light-skinned girl, Robin. I think she was mixed with Indian, or Spanish, or something. It was the hair. Her shit was all long and wavy, that natural, good hair. (Dr. Black twists his face subtly at the reference). That girl was so, so fucking pretty. Not the best body, a little too tall and skinny for me, like a model. But her face? Shit! She was probably the most beautiful girl I've ever seen at that time in my life. No bullshit. It wasn't just that though. Word going around the school was she was letting brothers get up in them panties, easy. That's crazy, right? Damn near backwards. To be that pretty, but that easy, that's normally the repertoire for fat, ugly chicks. But that was the rumor. Two, maybe three times out, spend a few dollars on her, a couple outfits, probably some shoes, expensive sneakers, and she was letting brothers bust them guts wide open. Shit, the right brother comes along, he might not have to spend a penny. With his talk game right, he could have whispered those panties right down those slim, red ass thighs, and got up in that ass on the first night. And you already know, at sixteen, seventeen, the only thing going on in a brother's mind at that time is who's gonna let you tap that ass the quickest, right? Right? (Malik smiled lively, nods heavily.)

(AB): (Dr. Black returns a subtle nod of his own, no smile; the 'natural, good hair' reference still unsettling in his psyche.)

(M): Long story short, I went after her girl, Robin, cause I definitely wanted to get a piece of that, add that to my résumé. We had this little after school spot where we used to all chill. Me and my boys knew they would be there. What I didn't know was that two of my boys was already scheming on her too, worse than me. So right when my boy, Tray, saw her, he ran down on her before I could even get a word out. Bitch ass motherfucka. He bagged her. Motherfucka had to blow a grip on her, buy her clothes, jewelry, I even heard he was responsible for the down payment on her Audi A8, but he got her. I was tight, but not that tight. Cause that day, her friend, Tanisha, who I never really noticed before, was looking exceptionally good. I mean, real, real good. I'll never forget it. She had on this lil white top. It was so tight, it made those D's she got look so nice. (Malik's eyes glaze over, reminiscing). Most of the brothers I know are into asses. Maliah Michaels. Nicki Minaj. J-Lo. The queen of all asses, Serena Williams. Me, I'm a chest man. Not no fake shit. I'm talking a set of real, nice, fat pillows that are so soft, but firm, I like that the best. And Tanisha's chest was looking perfect that day. I was on her. On her, even though everybody knew she wasn't giving up the pussy – to nobody. My boys told me I was wasting my time. "Fuck you want her for?…She ain’t even all of that…She's a bitch, think her shit don’t stink... Stuck up…Trust me, she ain't giving up shit. No head, no handjobs, definitely on pussy. Nothing!...It's a waste of time, bro, keep it moving." My own boys were going at me hard. I thought they were right at first, especially the way she was acting the first few times we hung out. I didn't know shit about her, but apparently she knew all about me, my crew, our reputation. We were the top players on our high school football team, on our way to college. So you already know our names got around, and we were getting more pussy than a little bit. Because of that, she had her radar up on me from the door, made it that much harder for me. But once I started chillin' with her, as crazy as it was for me to accept back then, it wasn't all about the pussy no more. Come to find out, she was a real cool chick to hang around with. She was lit, and chillin' with her was like chillin' with one of my boys. She was the first female I ever took an interest in to get to know as a person, as a friend. Then when the day came and I finally got the pussy after close to...(Malik chuckled)...a year, no bullshit. She made a brother wait a whole year, she had a brother hooked! Can you believe that shit? A whole year! I gotta admit, she did teach me a few things. Mainly, that when a female don't give it away all like that to everybody, when they bottle it all up and keep all of those thoughts and desires on the inside, when they finally let it out...whoa! She was like a damn nympho when she finally let the animal out of the cage. She had me hooked on her little ass ever since.

(AB): So you've been dedicated to her? Loyal?

(M): Hell naw! I mean, not to say it all like that, but not in the beginning. For the whole year when she had me waiting, I still had my other little friend on the side. I ain't know where me and Tanisha were going, so I wasn't bout to cut off a sure thing for something unsure. My lil friend, Rachel, used to sneak me into her bedroom window every other night when her mother and brother went to sleep for us to get it on all night. I can't lie though, after I really started to get to know Tanisha, half the times I used to fuck Rachel, I was really thinking about giving it to Tanisha like that.

(AB): So why did you cheat on her after y’all got together? I could make sense of you keeping Rachel on the side before you found out what was really good with Tanisha. But after you got with her, from the way you made it sound, like you generally liked her style, her personality, enjoyed hanging out with her, and she even blew your mind sexually, why would you still cheat on her after that?

(M): For several reasons. For one, I didn't think about it all like that back then. I knew she was going to be wifey, that out of any of them other chicks, I had no shame and was proud to claim her as mine. At the same time, like I said, me and my crew had nuff girls sweatin' us, so I really didn't have the discipline or control to turn down all of that ass back then. Them chicks were throwing the panties at a brother like boxing blows. For two, you gotta remember, my first real connection was with Rachel. That chick was in my system. You know how that goes. Because we got it in so much, I had sex with her easily two to three nights a week for my whole senior year, it would have been real hard for me to just cut her off, even if I tried, which I really didn't. We had an agreement: she didn't question me about who I dealt with, and I didn't ask her about what she did. All I knew is when she made that call between twelve-thirty and one, and said 'come through', I was over there with the speed, fucking her most of the night till the sun came up. Outside of that, I realize when I was that age, late teens, early twenties, I was still finding myself as a young brother. I went through phases because of that, different tastes. I always loved black women, always my first preference, but I gotta admit, I went through my Spanish girl/white girl phase, mainly them snow bunnies. My boys who had a couple of them used to tell me how them white girls got down, how they was freaky as fuck, love to suck dick. I ain't believe them at first, thought it was a stereotype. Sure enough, in my experience, they were telling the truth. The 'Becky's' I encountered really do love to suck on that dick. They be getting that shit in too. Deep throat, swallow, tricks, play with it in their mouths, for hours, all that shit. The bad part is, I really ain't have nothing else in common with them outside of that. So aside from some good sex and even better head…did I say they head game was phenomenal? I, personally couldn't take any of them serious. No diss to them, that's just me. The mommi's, that's a little different. They were more exotic, real sexual, true freaks. Get them in bed, and they start talking that 'meda meda, papi chulo' shit, they'll get a brother wanting to fuck them all night. But in the end, I came up dating primarily black women. It ain't nothing like my sistas. So after I went through my phases, and got it all out of my system, I came to see Tanisha was perfect for me.

(AB): The way you describe your experiences sounds more like high school, college. Experiences as a younger man, not fully developed. If you went through your phases, sown your wild oats, why do you think you started having problems?

(M): I think it had something to do with our first child. She was in her first year of college, didn't believe in abortion, so she had to drop out to have our son. I wasn't trying to have her struggling on her own like that, and the little part-time job I had when I was in my first year of college wasn't cutting it, so I had to drop out, and get a full time job myself. Two actually. I was never into the gangsta, drug-dealing style of life, so I got a part-time and a full-time job. We did the 'family thing' early, got an apartment, two bedrooms. I can say now that neither of us were really ready at the time for all of the responsibility. We argued a lot, over everything. Bills, how to raise our son. I was laid back, she was more strict, our families. Oh, and going out. I still wanted to chill with my boys, hang out with the crew. She didn't want me to. Because of all that pressure, I kinda went back to my old ways. That's when she started catching me out with the females I got up with on the side. She was like the fucking Feds with that shit. I couldn't get away with ninety percent of the shit I got away with living with my parents when we moved in together. Through it all, we still had our second son, and got married. Honestly, we came this close (holds index finger and thumb less than an inch apart) to breaking up. The recession hit so I lost my job, both of them. That put a big strain on us cause she was carrying the load for the whole house. She put on some weight, about forty pounds, got into mother-mode, and just seemed to turn into a bitch. The same bitch my boys tried to warn me about in the past that I didn't see. Oh, you better believe I seen it then. We just started to grow apart. She ain't want to do nothing but work and take care of the kids, wasn't really into sex no more, and just seemed to be mad all of the time. Sorry to say this, but I cheated on her worse then, than when we first met, and I only had Rachel and a few random 'one-night flings' on the side. If it wasn't for the kids, we would have both agreed to call it quits.

(AB): So that was the reason why, the kids? If not, what changed?

(M): We both decided to take a break, get separated. I think, no, I know we both needed that, some time apart because we were drowning each other, became nothing but anchors in each other's lives. For the first couple of months, I was good. I got an apartment, got back up with some of the old team, started hitting up the clubs again, got in touch with a few flings from my past, Rachel included, even met some new chicks. A funny thing happened though. After several months apart and living my life, I went to this club one night with my crew, and everything changed. (Malik collects his thoughts). It was the grand opening. I was in 'Mack-mode', ready to meet something new, or at worse, call Rachel at the end of the night for a little, late-night booty call. Then what do you know. Who do I see up in there? Tanisha! I barely seen her since we got separated; I picked up the kids from her mother's. So that was one of the first times I got a real good look at her. I had to make sure it was her because she looked so different. It was. She didn't see me at first. When my boys finally recognized it was her, and her old crew, they were ready to bounce and hit up another spot, for me. I was ready to leave too. I wasn't for the drama, but I wanted to see how she got down when she didn't think I was around. When I did, I started to see her in an entirely different light. I later came to find out right after we got separated, she started working out to lose some of the weight, got a new hairstyle, new clothes, and wasn't just hanging around the house all day like she used to when we were together. She got back up with her girls too, just like I did with my boys, and was back up in the clubs looking good. I mean real, real good. So good I damn near didn't even recognize her, and that was my wife! That was the first time. Almost a month later, I saw her again. She had the nerve to be dancing and hugged up with this brother who I knew to be an animal at this 'high school reunion' type party. I was familiar with him, chilled with him a few times, but I really only knew him through one of my other boys. From what I knew about him, he was quiet with his, but everyone knew he sold heavy weight in drugs. Blood money that he hid behind, and washed, through the companies he had. I also knew he was fucking more pussy than a little bit, getting all of them girls strung out on him too. This was the motherfucka who my wife was all up on. That was it for me. I knew then and there I didn't want to lose her. The fucked up part is, she didn't make it easy for me. She had the nerve to resort right back to the old 'hard to get' Tanisha. Give her some space, she said. We both agreed to take some time apart, so let's take that time apart, she reminded. Then she went right back to dancing with him, grinding her ass all over him, letting him feel her up, drinking, and having a good ole time, knowing that shit was killing me. By the third song, I ain't even gonna front, I started feeling some type of way. I caused a scene, the bouncers kicked me and my boys out. I didn't leave though. Fuck that! The thought of her up in there with a brother like that all over her, hearing the rumors of how he put down that pipe, knowing how she got down in bed, knowing that was still my wife, knowing she ain't have no sex since we separated, at least she better not have, hell fucking naw! I wasn't going anywhere! While me and my boys sat in that parking lot waiting for the club to let up, all I could think of was how I didn't even recognize her to be my wife. She was like a completely different person, and I refused to let her go. I wanted her back.

(AB): And that's what motivated you to get back together? The thought of her being with someone else?

(M): That was part of it. Maybe even a big part. Another part was the chase again. The one thing about Tanisha is she can be stubborn as hell, and once she sets her mind to do something, she normally won't stop until she does it. I guess what she wanted to do was show me what I had, so she sure enough made me work for it. It started out with her saying we should take things slow. I barely saw her for the next couple of months. It's like she fell off the map. Eventually we began to hang out every now and then, on the weekends together with the kids, as a family. She was still my wife, so slowly but surely, after several months, we began to have sex again after we put the kids to bed. The thing is, it was different. It was like those few months we weren't together, she turned into a bigger freak than ever. I don't know what she was doing, I assume holding it all in and building it up, but it was like she was an entirely different person. She saw how bad I wanted her, but she still ain't take me back. She said before she would even consider getting back together, officially, that we should go to some type of marriage counseling. No offense to you, but the first time I heard that, I was thinking she done lost her fucking mind. I thought only white people did shit like that. Then someone mentioned how your counseling services were different, how you were like some real 'down to earth, street connected', type of therapist. Just the sound of that alone sparked my interest. So I figured I'd give it a try.

(AB): I appreciate that.

(M): No, I appreciate you, for what you did for us. In a nutshell, you saved my marriage. First, by me agreeing to come here, which she insisted that I do. I told you how stubborn she could be. And second, from the advice you've given us. After our separation, she started to come out of her shell. Then after a few sessions with you, you gave her enough confidence to not give a damn what anybody else thought, outside of her immediate loved ones, and to be fully confident in who she wanted to be.

(AB): Which was?

(M): Every female! In one of our first meetings, you gave us a session where we were supposed to have an open and honest discussion about our most memorable lovers. No names, nothing really explicit, just the things that turned us on the most about them. It was mainly a one-sided session, being Tanisha had only been with two guys, but I shared on my end all of the things I truly remembered about those females, what I liked the best. From Rachel, her being really freaky and daring, like fucking all over the house while everybody was sleeping, even one time right on the floor in front of her mother's bedroom door at the risk of her waking up and coming out to catch us. Of course, the white girls, how they were so freaky and loved to give head, like they were getting more out of it than me. That was one of the good ones. One Tanisha latched on to, committed to, I think from her subliminal refusal to accept that a white woman could do a better job than her, a black woman, at pleasing a black man. But it's like after I expressed that to her, Tanisha set out to become a pro at sex – and she is, especially with the head. She practiced so much on me, telling me to instruct her on how to do it perfect, that now, my wife gives better head than any other female I've ever had in my life. Hands down, no question, a bona fide head monster. Arrogant little bitch knows it too. Then it was my confession of the girls who like to get it on in public. I can't lie, I put my lil spin on that one, exaggerated a little bit just to see how Tanisha would react. She was with it. Fast food bathrooms, driving, every seat in both of our cars, in the park in the middle of a sunny day, everywhere. It was like we were trying to fuck in the most obvious places, where we both knew we would most likely get caught, without actually getting caught. That is, until we actually got caught, right in the middle of it. It was by her sister. We went out to Chicago to visit Tanisha's sister and her husband, and her sister just walked in the bathroom to catch me wearing Tanisha's ass out, bent over the bathtub. She said she heard us, but she had to use the bathroom for the last half hour, so she just sat there on the toilet, and started pissing – right in front of us. We froze when she just busted in on us, Tanisha bent over the tub, gripping the rail, my rock hard dick still deep up in her. We was already caught, so when Tanisha started to shake her ass on me, urging me on, said her sister was fucking our groove up, and to just ignore her, I said 'fuck it', and went right back to work, beating that shit up from the back right in front of her sister. She watched us for a minute, giggled, said we were crazy, some freaks, then left. Why in the hell did she do that? That just opened the door for us. From that day forward, we made it a point to fuck in places where we were bound to get caught. It became our little thing.

(AB): Voyeurism.

(M): Yeeeeah. (Malik nods, melts into a wide smile) The thought of leaving complete strangers with a story to tell of some wild ass couple became one of the biggest turn-ons for me, her, us. We got off on that.

(AB): Have you ever thought about exploring any other forms of unorthodox sexual practices?

(M): Like what?

(AB): Threesomes, S&M, role-playing?

(M): (Malik laughed). A threesome? With Tanisha? (Laughs again). First of all, I know you gotta be talking about with another woman, cause it ain't no way in the world I would ever voluntarily let another man even look at my naked wife, let alone touch her. As for another woman, I know that would never happen either cause Tanisha would never go for something like that. She would never want to share me with another woman. And even if she was down for something like that, I don't think I'd be down to do something like that with my wife. Not with my wife, the mother of my children. Maybe with some other random chicks where we can get crazy freaky, have them freaking each other, then I get into the mix, but not with my wife. The shit I'd be having those girls doing, I wouldn't be able to look at Tanisha the same after that. Call me bugged out, but that's just me. S&M? Sheeiit! I know I ain't letting Tanisha tie my ass up, not with all the dirt I did to her in the past. She might fuck my ass up if she ever got me in a position like that, run, get a bat, and beat my ass down – for real! And I know she ain't letting me tie her ass up. Not to say we don't like to get a little rough when we get it in. I be tearing her little ass up. I mean, fucking punishing her – and she be taking it. Spanking that ass from behind when I be hitting that shit doggystyle, hard. Throwing her little ass around, all over the bedroom, like a ragdoll when we get in that type of mood, cause she ain't nothing but five-something-feet, and weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, soaking wet. But nothing crazy like whips and chains, or red balls in the mouth, wearing all black leather, zippers on the mouths of masks and shit, leading people around on their hands and knees on leashes. Being a little rough, I think most couples are into that. Role-playing, now that's whassup! No outfits or anything like that, but with Tanisha acting as different people. When we spoke of the different personalities of different women I've been with, that's when Tanisha started to mimic those different personalities. She got this one personality, Veronica, who's like this nympho who loves to get kinky as a motherfucka. I love 'her' cause I can do anything to 'Veronica', and I mean anything. I can't front, sometimes I'm a little scared of Veronica. When Tanisha becomes Veronica, I don't know what to expect. Then there's Sandra. Sandra loves it in public. I mean 'public' public. Like in the middle of a crowded nightclub public. Sandra also loves to give head. Loves it! There's others: Jackie, who's more of the aggressive thug type; Amber, the innocent virgin who doesn't know anything, so she needs me to teach her everything; Stephanie, Tanisha's best friend creeping behind her back after she heard how I got down. Plus a few others.

(AB): What do you think about them?

(M): I love them, all of them. It's like I got every woman in one woman. With that, I couldn't ask for more in my wife, sexually. As for our finances, that's another story all together.

(AB): A matter that is clearly beyond my expertise. (They both laugh). And that's about our time. As always it was a pleasure.

(M): You too, brother.

(AB): Until our next session. (They both rise to give each other palm). Tell Tanisha I said whassup.

Case File #25 – Malik & Tanisha

A perverse smirk continued to crease the corner of Malik's top lip.

He stood in front of their mirrored dresser in their bedroom, struggling, fighting the urge to slice his eyes up to his reflection, knowing just a visual of himself, and the thoughts that tickled him so deliciously, would render any attempt to wipe it away futile.

Instead of warring against the inevitable, Malik continued on with the task at hand – rummaging through one of the top drawers, plucking out individual articles, and stuffing them in a bag he sat on top. He was so lost in thought he barely heard Tanisha when she entered the room.

"Where's the kids?" Tanisha asked.

She carried in with her a few unopened items: lotion, baby oil, deodorant. They were neatly placed alongside various other toiletries across the dresser. She got no response from Malik. After situating the items in a nice, neat line along the back (she was a stickler for order) she glanced over her shoulder back at him; he continued on with the packing of his black duffel bag.

"What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Malik could almost predict her movements down to a ten-minute window whenever she headed out to the store on a Saturday morning, like clockwork. Not the whole monthly stock up thing, not on that day, just a few knickknacks, leaving him the perfect window of opportunity to get the kids out of the house.

"Where are we going? You'll see. As for the kids, I hustled them up together, and got them over to my mother's..." Malik zipped two of the compartments closed, "...for the entire weekend." He didn't have to stop what he was doing to sense how the latter part of his answer stopped Tanisha dead in her tracks.

"The weekend? For the entire weekend?" Tanisha returned, her voice got lighter and more energetic with each word.

"Yup." Malik put the finishing touches on the bag. "Wanna know why?"

"Who the hell cares! You got us the whole weekend without them. However you did it, and for whatever reasons, big up to you," Tanisha cheered, all smiles.

She gave him a high-five. A faded grey Nike 'Just Do It' t-shirt was peeled from over her head, and tossed on the corner of a small foot stand by the closet.

"But since you obviously put some effort into whatever you got up your sleeve, so much so that you gotta pack a bag for it, just what do you got going on in that creative little mind of yours?"

The thought of what Malik had planned for them on that sunny, weekend afternoon didn't appear to hold her as much as the three wigs displayed on their own headstands on one of the larger dressers. Malik followed her with his eyes as she approached them, one in particular, in only her bra and a pair of snug, grey sweatpants.

On her five foot few inch frame, they were practically at eye level. A few unruly splints on the third one, a short bob, got her attention. For one hundred and twenty dollars, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. They better be. She removed it from its stand, inspected it closer.

"One of the things we talked about before. I figured instead of us continuing to talk about it, we just do it."

"Which is?" Tanisha asked, clearly paying more attention to the wig than him.

"Which is something you're just gonna have to wait to see for yourself." The strap of the duffel bag was slung over his shoulder. "So get dressed. Nothing too fancy, something comfortable, and let's get the fuck up outta here," Malik ended, giving her a nice, firm, playful slap on the ass.

$$ $$ $$

Malik made it his mission to keep under wraps whatever he had planned for them.

From the time they rolled out of their driveway, and for the whole two hours they'd been floating down the highway, Malik was doing an excellent job of remaining tightlipped about their afternoon…well, at the time, evolving into their early evening escapade.

"Are we going out of state? Am I underdressed? Should I have packed an overnight bag?" Tanisha popped questions like shots in the air, her signal flares; they all fell back down to earth like slowly dying flames to fall on deaf ears. Malik gave her nothing.

Her next attempt: the bag Malik packed.

When Tanisha tried to reach for it, figuring if she couldn't get anything out of him, her investigative tactics would give her some clue from the contents of the bag, he coldly shut that down too.

"Damn nosey. Just sit your impatient ass back and relax. Here, you want to do something? Enjoy." Malik pushed a brown paper bag at her.

A six-pack of strawberry-mango wine coolers.

The sight of the strawberry-flavored bubbly washed all of Tanisha's concerns away. Fuck it. No matter. It was a beautiful, sunny, eighty-six degree, lightly breezy summer day. Tanisha sat back, nursed the first bottle, absorbed the scenery, figuring whatever he had in store for them, she was going to enjoy it.

Close to three hours and five wine coolers later, Tanisha sat up a bubbly bundle of energy in the passenger seat when Malik pulled off the interstate. She had a really nice buzz going on, and took in with anxious eyes the wooden plague of what looked like a huge state park.

Nature's Escape.

"The kids are that bad that you don't even want to take them to the park no more?" Tanisha said with a light chuckle.

The first thing that came to mind: a family outing at the beach several years prior. Nine-year old Jayden threw a mean temper tantrum most of the day, courtesy of his younger brother reveling in the torment he could see his harassment incited in him. At the time, Tanisha was too preoccupied with the baby, two-year-old Shadrika, to tend to the nonsense. Handling the boys, that became Malik's job.

"Damn near..." Malik returned, "...but that ain't why they couldn't come. This right here, this is our day. A day for grown up's. A day just for us. Trust, the shit I got planned, the kids can't be around for that."

His tone, demeanor, the mysterious look Malik wore all morning like a mask throughout most of the drive, gave Tanisha a nice, little, tingly feeling inside. Not just from the visual of her man looking so sexy, so handsome, so confident, or the magnetic energy radiating from his being less than three feet away from her that drew her in like gravity, but more in line with the unfolding evolution of what she knew to be her husband.

For the past year and some change, he'd really been a bundle of surprises when it came down to springing things up on her in an attempt to spice up their marriage. First, it was the adult videos – a progression from couples, to threesomes (Tanisha secretly loved those the most, for her own little furtive reasons), to hardcore, full-blown gang bang orgies – to a plethora of spicy toys, to their latest adventures in role-playing.

Tanisha was more than enthused to jump on board; after a decade and a half of marriage, they were both in desperate need of a pick-me-up to add a little spice in their love life. The whole role-playing routine became a phoenix rising from the ashes to revitalize the monotony of their slow dying marriage. Who could have imagined taking on the persona of any femme fatale her freaky little mind could think of would stimulate her with such an exciting sexual charge?

Reenacting those videos awakened a side of her that remained dormant, and became the perfect ingredient to revitalize her imagination. That made her a match for Malik, equaled the playing field, being he was usually the initiator of their newfound sexual adventures, springing, and executing, ideas on her faster than she could keep up with.

At least he used to be.

The nightclub, the façade of being strangers equally complicit in a spontaneous affair on their significant others – all Tanisha's work. The persona of a seemingly insatiable character on a threesome video – a petite, brown-skinned vixen, fat ass, big chest, a little hefty, quite like herself – planted a perverse seed in her psyche to emulate that fantasy in the flesh.

Welcome to the birth of Sandra.

Tanisha loved playing the role, the role of what she felt reversed the rules of engagement between the sexes: a sexually uninhibited female taking on an uncaring masculine persona indifferent to societal standards.

The idea of getting thoroughly fucked like that, right there in the tight corner of that nightclub, knowing full well the numerous unbelieving eyes who took in the spectacle of what they thought were two total strangers, and that little pint-sized, bombshell with her legs spread wide on that barstool taking all that dick with no shame, and loving every second of it, almost pushed Tanisha to orgasm the moment he entered her.

Then there was the drive home.

Tanisha had every intention of continuing to play out the role of the adulteress, lean over, drop her head in his lap as he drove, and suck his dick to climax, even swallow his cum to really play up the persona, only to be overcome with a spontaneous urge to drive him all the way home – literally. Yeah, that whole night, the meeting at that nightclub – all Tanisha's work. The brainchild of what her creative little mind put together.

Yes it was.

The spontaneity of it all drove Malik wild. She knew it would.

It also drove him to the subsequent – to try to outdo her. Which is why when Tanisha spotted them rolling up into a row of hotels structured in a retro, log cabin design, neatly shrouded in the concealment of acres of greenery, she knew it was time to get her mind right.

$$ $$ $$

"This is it, momma."

Malik snatched up that black duffel bag from the back seat, and was out the door before Tanisha could get a word out. Tanisha casually rose from the passenger seat, removed her large round sunglasses. She found herself enamored by the scenery. Perfectly manicured foliage, neatly trimmed grass, a rainbow of flowers lined the walkway to the main building, birds singing in a cacophony of songs on such a beautiful summer day.

Three couples traversed the grounds; all in their mid to late thirties, early forties. A light breeze danced over Tanisha's skin, tickled the naked flesh between her thighs, and kicked out the truffle on the back of her flowered sundress. She shivered pleasurably, found herself growing hot at the warm sun enriching her brown skin, the wine coolers she knocked back on the drive there, and the lure of what Malik had planned for them. Tanisha interlaced her fingers into Malik's, and eased him close by her side; they walked side by side to the main building.

"Well, good afternoon," the receptionist said quite bubbly at the main desk. A young brunette, easily in her early twenties, held Tanisha and Malik with a penetrating smile. "Is this your first time at Nature's Escape?”

"Well, yessirre bob it is," Malik said, just as quirky and chipper as her, showing all teeth. Tanisha involuntarily choked out a sharp chuckle. Only she could detect the way Malik mocked the young brunette and her cheery demeanor sitting at full attention behind the desk; she twisted her features oddly at Tanisha's reaction. Malik handed over his license.

"Oh, Ok. Let's see here," just as fast the brunette's bubbly self returned. "Here you are. Looks like you guys have reservations for the Candy suite." The brunette handed Malik a plastic key card along with his license. "It's a really nice room. Great view. By the way, if you guys missed the easel, don't forget about our annual couples meet. It starts at six in building four. I hope you guys can make it."

They didn't make it ten feet away before the brunette added, "I really love seeing beautiful couples such as yourself frequenting our quaint little outing. I think you'll make such a nice addition to our loving family."

Tanisha lifted an inquisitive eye, thought, "Couples such as yourself?”

It took the receptionist to say such a thing for it to finally dawn on Tanisha. Compared to nearly every other individual they encountered, there was one unique underlying difference between them, herself, and her husband – they were the only black couple there.

One Spanish couple disappeared into a similar building, definite professional types, and they were way out there somewhere in the middle of the woods – not the first choice on the list of where most in their tight circle would disappear off to – but still, no other black people as far as the eye could see.

That didn't mean there weren't any other black people there. It's just that if they were, Tanisha hadn't seen any – yet. Nor did she necessarily care about them, or any other couple for that matter.

Her only concern at the time: Malik.

The three hours they drove, which strangely flew by in no time, along with the videos she watched on the way there (that sneaky motherfucka filled the videos in his car full of nothing but stripper showdowns, twerk competitions, and porn), left Tanisha fiending to get to their room. Malik inserted the key card in the door, and barely turned the knob, before Tanisha shoved him in.

"Damn, momma," Malik said with a smile, struggling to keep his footing, "Look at you. Ready to get that shit on and poppin' already." The momentum of Tanisha's shove forced him to plop on the edge of a full-sized bed in the center of the room. Tanisha was all over him; kissing, groping, mauling. She tore at the buckle on his stonewashed, slim fit jeans.

"What do we got, about thirty-six hours before we have to leave this little private get-away and return back to our regular world? Shieet! I'm trying to make the best of all this time."

She anxiously fished into the slit of his boxers, and caught his semi-stiff erection. Just the sight of his dick moved Tanisha to smoothly lower herself to her knees between Malik's thighs at the foot of the bed; his veiny, seven inches standing up stiff, pulled her in like a magnet to metal.

Her gaze was locked, eyes sliced low in lust, she licked her lips deliciously. With Malik propped up on his elbows, he watched every second of her light brown face lowering over him till the view of what he was so determined to see – his rock hard erection being polished between her thick, wet, lip-gloss coated lips – became slightly overshadowed by a wavy swirl design of cornrows decorated over Tanisha's scalp.

"Lean that shit back, baby. Yeah, hold your head back," Malik breathed, lightly caressing the back of her head.

"Now which one of us look anxious?" Tanisha sighed, rubbing all over his thick shaft to squeeze him up nice and stiff. "You wanna see that shit, huh? You wanna watch me? See what's making you feel so good?" Tanisha purred slyly, licking all over the head of his dick like her favorite lollipop. She thoroughly polished the head, spit shined him, before exaggerating the parting of her lips to take him into her greedy mouth.

"Shit, you already know," Malik sighed, which came out more like a growl. "You know I love watching how my wifey handle that. That's my work right there. I schooled your lil freaky ass enough with that 'brain' to teach you how to become a scholar."

Tanisha blushed with him still in her mouth, her eyes twinkled, she removed him long enough from her lips to purr, "Listen at you..." then quickly returned to give him a few soft licks, some more delicate sucks on the head, "...trying to take credit for all the hard work I put in."

She held his rock hard flesh in complete admiration, licked a deliberate trail from his balls, up the underside of his shaft to the tip, then lowered her mouth over him to take him in a third, a little more, she filled her mouth halfway, staring at him directly in his eyes the whole time. She polished that dick in her mouth with a sneaky look in her eyes, sucked, and slobbered all over him, studying him to gauge his every reaction, then slowly sucked her lips from him with a pop.

"I got that good brain, huh?" she boasted with an exaggerated lick on the tip, "studied real long," another lick, "never missed a class," slid her hand up and down his saliva-slicked shaft, "I even stayed after class with the professor for that...extra credit."

She hit him with several trademark tricks she learned over the years, little tips which she knew her husband loved so much. Malik squirmed delectably under her touch.

It only took five minutes, and Tanisha unleashing a trick he never experienced before, to leave Malik panting, "Damn, who the fuck was that?"

Tanisha winked at him with him still in her mouth. She worked him over a little more, hit him with the trick again, and smoothly sucked her lips up to the tip, slurring, "Sandra." She immediately took him back in her mouth, paid complete homage to his ebony tool, coated him in a light film of saliva, ran her hand over him gently, delicately, rhythmic strokes, and bathed him between her lips.

"But I think…wait a minute. I think...I think I hear someone else." Tanisha listened in the quiet room as if someone else was speaking to her. "Yeah, I think I hear...Veronica calling. Oh yeah, that's her. She says she wants to come out and play. And you know Veronica. She likes to get a little..." Tanisha nibbled on the head of his dick, "...kinky."

A devilish smirk floated across Malik's lip at the thought of Tanisha channeling the persona of one of her most dominant personalities – Veronica – someone who he knew to be one of her raunchiest characters to date; it ran a shiver down his spine.

"Focus. Think of something else. Focus!" Malik thought.

He had to focus on something, anything, redirect his thoughts. If not, if he kept staring down at that alter ego Sandra…wait, no Veronica, well, whoever the fuck she was at the time, he knew he would be sure to lose his seed, and spill it down the back of her throat like an undisciplined horny teenager within the next minute if she kept that up. Then, not only would she have 'won' the first round, he would have spoiled and tarnished that first experience with such an immature slight of premature ejaculation.

"I got this. Who in the fuck do this chick think she is? That Heats versus Knicks game. Lebron banging out with Mello. Lebron fakes left, right, drives straight down the middle…down the middle...of those fat luscious titties..."

Tanisha's milk chocolate cleavage spilled out the top of her sundress; her D-cup displayed in a black paisley push-up bra appeared twice their normal size on her already petite frame. The thought of sliding his shaft between them, right into her mouth, flooded his thoughts.

"No! Focus. What the fuck!? Focus. Not on that! Think of something else. Anything else! Go back to the game. Anything but how I want to slide my shit right between those fat ass titties pressed together. Press them together, and slide right in between them, directly into her mouth, one of Veronica's specialties. NO! Focus. Focus. Focus on...ok, there we go."

Two slow moving shadows became the remedy to help quell the fire in his loins; Malik caught them out the corner of his eye. It also took that brief distraction to direct Malik's attention to the rest of the room.

Sparsely furnished. Plush, bubblegum colored carpet, candy cane wallpaper, two dressers painted with various candies which displayed many of the like – bubblegum, lollipops, hard candies, chocolates. End tables lined with large glass vials; strawberry, chocolate, caramel, honey. Several posters of retro showgirls back-dropped in candy themes, with...two, sliding glass patio doors displaying a spectacular view of a secluded trail cut into the grounds, connecting each cabin hidden in that forest of forbidden pleasure.

Malik remained focused on those two, slow moving shadows, shadows that soon revealed themselves to be a couple traversing across the trail, enjoying a casual walk on that beautiful summer day. With Tanisha's back to them, she hadn't spotted them. She had no clue that the first sight of them stumbling upon that petite, brown-skinned girl on her knees, with her head in that guy's lap, performing her fallacious skills so beautifully on him, that her special show slowed their pace.

After a real good look, four eyes focused in utter intrigue; the salacious spectacle stopped them dead in their tracks.

Malik wasn't the least bit surprised by their fascination.

This was Veronica we were talking about, performing on him with the skills of a veteran porn star. A few more sucks, a calculated, circular flick of her wrist up and down his shaft, tilting her head back to suck on his balls, coincidentally dropped both of their mouths in shock. Not surprising. They changed course and carefully inched their way towards the door.

Malik and Tanisha's blatant act of voyeurism sure went down much smoother considering that couple just so happened to be walking the trail, completely nude.

$$ $$ $$

Booking reservations for the weekend to one of the three top nudist colonies in the tri-state was almost two months in the making. Malik always had a thing for nature, and the whole natural aspect of sexuality. His Adam to Tanisha's Eve. So exploring the more carnal side of sex in nature with Tanisha (even if she hadn't known it yet) just seemed to be the only logical progression of things to come in their relationship.

"I swear, Sandr...my bad. Veronica. You got that shit down pact," Malik stressed, reclining even further, as if to fully luxuriate in the phenomenal head that pornographic pseudo-personality was giving him. Only he knew the gesture was more to give the couple standing right outside those double glass doors a better view.

"You…haven't...seen...nothing...yet," Tanisha vowed between breaths, polishing his magic stick between her lips in complete admiration. "I'll show you just what a PhD can do. Mensa ain't got shit on this brain, or better yet, this...throat. What I call...deep knowledge. Just wait till I show you how I graduated with the grand fina..." Tanisha noticed how she didn't have Malik's undivided anymore, how his attempts at controlling his wandering eyes exposed the truth of their surroundings.

Tanisha slowed the bobbing of her head, finally lifted her lips from the head of his dick, lips lewdly dripping saliva, both hands coated, and rolled her head over her shoulder to see...

"Oh my God!"

There was a damn couple invading their privacy at their door, just standing there, observing.

And what the fuck – they were both naked!

The woman, white, a fiery redhead with perky breasts, b-cup, maybe, a neatly shaved triangle down below, (proof that the drapes match the carpet), stood about five foot six with a slim, athletic build. The guy, also white, light brown hair wrapped in a tight ponytail, about five foot ten, who stood protectively by her side, came equipped with a figure very similar.

The manner in which they stood there, there was no question in Tanisha's mind that they caught most of her handiwork, and what her lips and tongue could do to a dick. They both stood firmly in place. Both wore perverse smirks stuck on their faces like masks. Both stared down on her shamelessly. Both were entranced at that petite, brown-skinned exhibitionist showcasing her talent.

Tanisha didn't find herself so shocked that her performance pushed them to be so bold as to want a front row seat to the action. In fact, one of the biggest turn ons for Tanisha was the idea of being watched by complete strangers performing the most obscene acts – sucking dick ranking on the top of that list. Her husband knew that. She just normally didn't have their sexcapades sprung up on her without notice.

Tanisha returned to her husband before her, squinted at him perversely.

The look he gave her in return…busted!

That motherfucker set her up. Executed a sting operation that caught her out, red-handed.

Better yet: on her knees, lips wet, dick in her mouth, taking it halfway down her throat.

That naked couple, them catching her in such a compromising position, it had to be his doing. A mysterious couple that caught her out in that mysterious room, on her hands and knees, her head in her husband's lap, her lips shiny, still literally holding his rock hard shaft in her hand, doing something so lewd and raunchy it was supposed to remain a secret in their bedroom – his doing. She stared up at him, gauged him, wanted confirmation. Malik lightly shrugged, smirked, gave her a sly wink.

Yeah, he got her.

"Oh, so you wanna play like this, negro? Put me out there to perform? Ok. Gloves off. Let's fucking play."

Tanisha smiled, and winked back at him. She completely ignored the couple in their presence; her pretended unawareness of those exploring eyes made the act more salacious. Tanisha helped Malik to remove his jeans and boxers, dropped them down to his ankles, took them off completely. She exaggerated the way she wrapped her lips back around the head of his dick again, that time without a shred of shame.

Time to take the center stage...act one...Showtime!

"Yeah," Malik slurred, "You like that we got company, don't you?"

The question was unnecessary; he already knew the answer.

Tanisha kept her eyes locked dead center into his. There was no denying the slight shift in her body at Malik's inquiry; it was done not to accommodate him, but to give that voyeuristic couple an unobstructed visual of her every move.

"Tanisha doesn't. Tanisha would have fucking killed you if you pulled some shit like that on her. But...I'm not Tanisha. This is Veronica, and Veronica loves shit like this." Tanisha lewdly slurped all over his fat dick in her mouth, worked her hand up and down his slick shaft, and exaggerated the way she bobbed her head in his lap. "When she knows there's others enjoying her skills, she loves to get a little extra…nasty with it. Be that raunchy, filthy, freaky ass bitch she knows you love so much."

With a few calculated bobs of her head, Tanisha prepared herself, warmed herself up, and opened her throat; Malik melted into an ecstatic sigh when she took him all the way down to his neatly trimmed pubic hairs. Malik tried to keep his eyes on his saliva-glistened shaft disappearing between Tanisha's ovaled, suckling lips, but his head weakly fell back, his eyes rolled in his head behind lust-heavy slits.

Rolled until he heard...

Tap! Tap! Tap!

$$ $$ $$

The light rap on their patio door window could have been seen as inevitable.

It didn't sway Tanisha for a second.

She was already caught. On her hands and knees, head in her husband's lap, his fat, saliva-coated dick deep down her throat, sucking on it like a top paid porn star who loved her work. She was sure that's why Malik brought her there in the first place, to live up the role. The role of a little nymphomaniac for 'Mr. and Mrs. White birthday suit' that she was sure they would never see again.

Tanisha acted as if she didn't hear the raps, raps that came a second time around, that time even louder. She continued to perform, and display her deep throating ability to perfection, now even more so. Her petite hand reached underneath to caress Malik's balls. She massaged his heavy, bloated sac, primed him for an explosive orgasm; still hadn't decided if she would greedily swallow it all, or take it right in her face as the encore for their audience.

The distraction of that mysterious white couple helped Malik – he knew at any moment he was going to blow – but not nearly as much as he hoped. All he could manage was a slight nod behind strained features, a nod that indicated for them to come in. He bit his bottom lip, squinted, clutched two fistfuls of sheets underneath him, and fought to hold on to his virility as the woman timidly, and cautiously, slid the patio door partially open.

"Hey, good afternoon. How...how are you guys?" the redhead poked her head inside, "We were just taking a little afternoon stroll, when we...when we just happened to…wow," she tried to continue, but found herself too enthralled by Tanisha's performance to form complete sentences. Tanisha continued on like they weren't even there. Or, like they were there, and she was auditioning for them, determined to get the part.

"I've never seen you guys here before...and...we...we would really, really like to spend some time with you guys while you're here. I'm Charlotte, and this is my husband, Ted. We've kinda new here, only been members for the past year and a half, and...I'm…I'm sorry, but I gotta say this. You are really, really, really good at that," she chimed, drawn with the force of earth's gravitational pull over to that couple to get a closer look.

Her partner, Ted, he shadowed her every move. He leaned over her shoulder to get a closer look himself. Take a front row seat to watch that pintsized black woman suck all over that black phallus with a passion he'd never seen. With his wife slightly arched over, just as entranced by her skills, he used that opportunity to run his hands all over his wife's out-thrust ass. He palmed it lovingly, rubbed his body against hers, but kept his eyes glued on Tanisha.

"Focus. Fuck...focus! Basketball. Football. MMA fighting. Shit!" Malik struggled, fought the tingling sensation brewing deep in his balls.

It was about to go down.

Go down in a big way, just as he suspected it would.

Only he didn't expect to run into another couple so soon, or for things to progress that fast; they hadn't even been on the grounds for an hour. Ted's hand trailed a deliberate line down her spine and in between his wife's ass cheeks, quickly found her secret, he sneakily wormed two fingers deep up in Charlotte's tight little opening.

Her mouth dropped in lust, she whimpered out a little, "Oh, honey. That feels sooo good," at the way those fingers tickled her so nicely.

She arched her back even further, anxious, sought deeper penetration, squirmed her thin hips, and reached back to wrap her small hand around her husband's stiff erection. She blindly stroked him up and down from behind, stuck on that little bombshell sucking all over that black dick as if her life depended on it.

"Focus. Fucking...FOCUS!"

Oh, who was he kidding?

It was a lost cause.

How could he resist when Charlotte's moans filled their small room like music from her husband's fingers penetrating her from behind. At how she leaned so close to Tanisha's head that Malik could actually feel her light pants warming his inner thigh. At the way Charlotte not only jerked all over her husband's dick, but gave him a sneaky look in her eyes that screamed all Tanisha had to do was give her the ok, and she would have gladly taken over to finish up the blowjob his wife performed on him like a porn star.

He couldn't.

Malik broke under the pressure, an orgasmic geyser unleashed. He let her have it.

"Oohh...yes. Nice! That is soooo beautiful," the redhead sighed as if she experienced the most beautiful work of art, almost in sync with Malik's cry of ecstasy.

The orgasm that shot out of his body, straight into Tanisha's hungry mouth, was unlike anything he ever experienced, clearly nothing like the few milky ribbons erupting from Ted's erection all over the back of Charlotte's ass and thighs seconds later. The impact of such an explosive release filling her lips didn't cause Tanisha to finch a hair.

She concluded she wanted it in her mouth, so she continued on, just as intently. She jerked Malik into her wide open mouth, spray painted his semen all over her tongue, and closed her mouth around her husband's dick still spitting up cum to swallow him down with moans and hums as if he was the most delicious drink she ever tasted.

"That was...really, really hot," Charlotte commented thickly. "I'm impressed. Really impressed."

Tanisha gently squeezed Malik's balls a few times for good measure, really milked him dry – textbook Veronica – then finished up by kissing the tip of his dick to peck away the last bit of essence that bubbled up.

"I'm glad you two enjoyed yourselves." Tanisha finally peeled her attention away from Malik. She got her first real visual of Ted's essence dripping from the tip of his dick, his sperm splayed all over the back of his wife's thighs, added, "It seems almost as much as us," and giggled lightly, proud of how her performance pleased everyone there. "By the way, my name is Veronica, and this is my husband, Link."

Tanisha cleaned the corners of her mouth with her thumbs, and smoothly brushed that dainty sundress from over her shoulders; it fell around her ankles along with her tight matching panty and bra set. She stood before them, nude herself, mirroring that mysterious couple in their midst.

"And if you thought that was hot, my mouth..." she crawled atop of Malik, face forward, reached between his thighs, and positioned his still hard dick for entry, passing occasional glances at the couple behind her, "...just wait till I show you what this ass can do, how I ride it."

Date: March 19th, 20—

Time: 12:36 am

Case File #20T – Personal Interview

Client: Tanisha

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): Tanisha.

Tanisha (T): Dr. Black, how are you doing today? (They shake hands).

(AB): I'm good, good. Maintaining. Whoa, you are looking good, really good. Toning that physique up in all the right places. Real talk.

(T): You better stop that. You know compliments like that go straight to my head. (Giggles, rubs her hands down over her waist). Don't stop. You can keep going. I'm just kidding. Seriously, thank you. I've been working on this new diet, hitting the gym more consistently. I'm not trying to lose too much. Just keep it all tight. I know my man, what he likes. Malik wants it tight, but he also likes a little weight on me. He likes them 'healthy'.

(AB): I bet he does. (Gives Tanisha an approving nod). Again, seriously, you're looking real good. I'm glad you could make it in this afternoon.

(T): I was a little curious as to why you arranged this meeting without Malik. I noticed you called him in the other day, and wanted to talk to him alone too. What does that mean? Are we doing something wrong? I thought we were doing good.

(AB): No, you're doing nothing wrong. If anything, you and Malik are one of the textbook couples I consider when I give other couples advice. You and Malik have been together for almost twenty years now, since high school. Been through the ups and downs, trials and tribulations. Have three children. Got married, separated, on the verge of divorce, but now have a relationship that's stronger than ever. I would say that's reason enough to place you both as one of the top couples which have the strongest bond who I had the pleasure of counseling.

(T): Really? Wow. Thank you. I never really thought about it like that. I did go through hell and back with that nigguh. All the girls, the fighting, the drama. We are in a really good space right now.

(AB): That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I wanted to talk to you, alone, like I did with Malik a couple days ago, to get your perspective on how you noticed your relationship being shaped from when you first met him until today.

(T): (Tanisha looks suspicious). Honestly?

(AB): Of course, one hundred percent.

(T): You're not gonna talk to him about what we discuss, are you?

(AB): Come on now. I'm a professional. That would be a breach of doctor/patient privilege.

(T): (Tanisha arches a single eyebrow). Would you tell me about him, what you both talked about the other day when I wasn't here? I won't tell. I promise.

(AB): Cut it out. Seriously, why don't you take me back to when you both first got together.

(T): (sucks teeth, rolls eyes) You're no fun. You know I had to try you though, right? Ok, back to when we first got together. Wow. That was a long ass time ago. Let me see. I think the first time I really noticed him was...yeah, it was at this lil spot we used to hang out at. That was the first time I really paid attention to him. It was the second time I went there. My girls dragged me out. We ended up meeting there. I wasn't even gonna talk to him, but he was looking so cute that day. Plus, I had this girlfriend, Robin, that was hot in the ass, who used to talk about him every time she saw him. That day Malik's boy ended up talking to her, even though I knew if he didn't, Malik and her may have gotten together. I wonder how my life would have turned out if that happened? (A momentary lapse in thought). Well, anyways, all of them brothers used to sweat her cause they all knew she was hot in the ass. I mean, I can't take it from the girl. She was pretty. Really, really fucking pretty, gorgeous, but to be real, she was also a fucking slut. Big time! Worse than any reputation those guys even knew about. Trust me, us girls talk, so I know. That girl was sucking dick and getting fucked, daily! I mean, ran through. On some occasions, even gang banged by two and three major players at a time. If he was a thug or a baller who had money, and splurged on her, that was the only thing they needed for that bitch to open her mouth, or her thighs. Pussy for pay. Anyways, I knew if I didn't start dating Malik, she would have probably fucked him. Not probably, definitely, cause I heard all about Malik back then. He was on the football team, about to be recruited to college, so he thought he was all of that. Cocky motherfucka. I even heard about, and knew, some of the girls he was with, that's why I waited so long to sleep with him. I wanted him to know I was nothing like my girl, and nothing like none of them other girls he used to mess with. He surprised me too, cause he actually waited. None of the other guys I dated could last. A couple of weeks, maybe, then they were gone. The same song and dance. It's not like I was a virgin, but I only slept with two guys before Malik. The one who took my virginity, we dated for about two years. My second...uhh, he was a mistake. Biggest mistake of my life. Fucking nasty lying cheating little dick dog bastard. He ruined it for the rest of the guys. I shut down. Closed the shop. No pussy, no head. Nothing. I said to myself the next guy I gave some to, he was gonna have to earn it. Work for it like a twenty-year pension. I made them all wait. None of them could. At least not nearly as long as Malik. I made that negro wait a whole year. I'm talking calendar days. The whole three-sixty-five. That's when I knew he was different. I can't lie. I wanted to give him some, bad. (Blushes). There were so many times when we were alone together, kissing, touching, holding, caressing, him feeling all over me, and I used to be soooo fucking horny, but I held out. Held out, even after listening to all of the stories my hoe ass girlfriends used to gossip about, mainly their sex lives. Them was some freaky ass, hoe ass, nasty ass bitches. THOT's times ten! All they would talk about, twenty-four hours a day, was sucking dick. How to suck it, how to massage it in their hands and mouth, how to control their gag reflexes, deep throat. Who swallowed, who didn't. How guys taste different. Who took it in the face. How good they were in bed. How tight or wet their pussies got. How many positions they could take dick in. Who took it in the ass. How they would get those guys strung out on the pussy, or the opposite – how they fell victim, and got strung out on the dick. How big, or small, thick, or thin, long, or short those guys dicks were. The shapes of their dicks, if it was curved, or hooked. If they ate pussy. How good they were. How bad they were. If they were sloppy with it, or sucked them clean. Spit or swallowed. If they ate ass. If they were 'minute men', or hours-long lovers. I mean everything! They spoke about it all.

(AB): What were you thinking when you heard them going back and forth like that?

(T): At first, I just thought it was funny. Then I started to kinda envy them. Although I would never tell any of those hoes what I was thinking, I knew when I finally gave Malik some, I was gonna get him just like most of my girls said they had their boyfriends – whipped!

(AB): Did it work?

(T): Please! What do you think? (Giggles). I think he was more fascinated to learn that I had that side in me, than the actual act itself. Well, not really. Because 'the act' was the bomb. I put it on him, majorly! Obviously, I didn't know everything I know now back then, but I was trying, and learning. I wanted him to know that although I wasn't as wild and loud as my girls, that that didn't mean I couldn't put it on his ass behind closed doors. I had all of them ideas in my head for so long after listening to all of my girls, that I couldn't wait to get them out. Try them, to see if they work. And who better to get them out on than the one man who proved to me he was the most special? Once I opened that door, literally, we used to get it in like you wouldn't believe.

(AB): Then what happened? It sounds like things were flowing real smooth, at least in that department.

(T): What happened is no matter what I did, he couldn't seem to keep his fucking dick in his pants! Especially with this...his side bitch, Rachel. He didn't think I knew about. That he was still seeing her on the side when we first started dating. Probably long after too. It took me to get older for me to realize that no matter how good I fucked him, or sucked his dick, he just wasn't content with one woman at the time. I knew it couldn't be me. After we got married, had the baby, and he became my baby's father, and my husband, I did anything he asked. I mean, an-y-thing. Before we had the baby, yeah, I would suck his dick, no problem. But it would be more to just get him really hard, and horny, and I wouldn't let him nut in my mouth. After the baby, shieet! I was taking that shit in the face, literally, like suntan lotion, and drinking that shit like a milkshake every time he kept that dick in my mouth! Before the baby and marriage, no back door, third input, park that big Mack truck right up in this little tight garage. After he put that ring on my finger, that negro was all up in my ass, bussing my asshole open, sometimes more than my pussy, more than a little bit. Like I said, we did everything. I became the biggest freak in the world for my husband. Anything that had to do with dick and sex, anything, I did it. Maybe that was the problem. I did too much. Also, I do have to admit, it became kinda mechanical, our sex and the routine – mostly at night, after we put our son to bed, mainly in the bed, maybe a quickie here and there in other places in the house. But that still didn't give him the green light to cheat. Then we had our second child. By the third, our baby girl, it's like overnight we started having major problems. The bills. He lost his full, and part-time job, so I was the only one bringing in income. We started fighting all of the time. It got to the point where neither of us could even stand to be around each other anymore.

(AB): What kept y'all together?

(T): At the time, no question about it – the kids. If we didn't have them, we would have broken up, and never seen each other again.

(AB): So it was the kids that kept y'all together?

(T): Mainly. I mean, we did have love for each other, but I think we got together too young, for the wrong reasons, and tried to hold on to our relationship for the wrong reasons too. That's when we decided to give each other some space, some time apart. We got separated, and I'm sorry to say this, but that was the best thing to ever happen to our relationship.

(AB): Why is that? How could leaving each other bring you back together, and make your relationship stronger?

(T): Because it gave us time apart to find out who we really were. I guess the saying is true: 'If you really love something, set it free. If it comes back, it was meant to be. If not…' (Shrugs). I think we spent too much time together as a couple since we were teens, that we, or should I say, I, lost my own identity. Because of who he was, being so popular, after I got with him, I was always 'Malik's girl', or 'Malik's baby's mother', or 'Malik's wife'. Never Tanisha. I needed to find Tanisha again. I know he was cheating on me before we got married with that Rachel bitch. And I'm pretty sure, at least I think, after we got married he stopped, at least until the fighting. The thing is, before we got married, and of course, after, I never cheated on him. Ever! Not even once, even though I could have a thousand times, and he would have never caught me. Not because I was scared to get caught, or because the guys hitting on me weren't fine as hell, or popular, or had money. I didn't do it because I had respect for our relationship, our marriage vows, and most importantly, for myself. But when we got separated, we both officially agreed we weren't together, so...(Tanisha stares off blankly).

(AB): You took that opportunity to find out who you were. Tanisha, the individual, without Malik.

(T): (Tanisha returns from her mental hiatus). I'd been with Malik for easily over ten years before we got separated. Ten years! Over ten years of remaining loyal to one guy. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to get back out on the dating scene again, let alone how. You have to remember, Malik was my first real, real relationship, and we got married, so I didn't have much experience with dating. Yet, I was quick to find out that Malik did. Not even a week after we got separated, I heard the rumors, and saw him once with that girl, Rachel. This was the same bitch he used to cheat on me with in the past, and the minute we have a problem, he gets right back up with her? I couldn't believe that shit. There I was thinking of all the ways to fix our relationship, actually beating myself up about going out, having some fun just to release some stress, yet there he was, a couple of days after we agree to take some time apart, picking up right where he left off, banging one of the old flings he used to hook up with before, and after he met me. That's when I decided to do a little reminiscing of my own. (Tanisha smirks mischievously). It started when I put up a profile on Facebook. I didn't even know about it, but Malik had already put one up too. Fucking asshole. The next thing I know, I started getting 'hits' from 'friends' from our past, mostly old high school acquaintances. A lot of them. That shit brought back so many memories. Well, one of those old 'friends' just happened to be this guy we were all familiar with. Preme. He sent me like four or five different messages, friend requests. I didn't answer him at first cause I knew what he was all about back then. He was a dog. I'm talking one of the biggest dogs I knew back then, probably the biggest dog in the whole damn town. They said he fucked like half of the whole cheerleading squad, like all of those freaky, nasty, sorority-type whores had some kind of secret ritual for all of them to fuck him. Hell, I wouldn't have been surprised if he fucked half of the entire high school! I knew of at least a dozen girls myself that he fucked. I also heard because he was getting so much ass that he was good. I'm talking really, really, really good. Could fuck all night, punish the pussy, made some of those girls actually cry from how good he ate pussy. How he knew how to tease, be gentle, soft, yet hard. Just on par with everything in the bedroom. Another rumor is he was packing a really, really big...(another sly smirk, bites her bottom lip shyly)...like ten inches type of big. I was curious. I finally hit him back, 'friended' him, gave him my number. We started sending messages back and forth. I told him the whole story about me and Malik: how we were still together, married, but separated, going through some issues. He told me what he had going on in his life: never got married, had two little girls with some Spanish girl, was still with her, though they were having their own problems, co-owner of a thriving construction company. Then we started reminiscing. He told me he knew I was a good girl, thought I was a virgin before I got up with Malik. I told him he was close, I'd only been with a couple of guys before that. I told him I knew he was a nasty fucking dog who fucked every chick with a cute face and a big ass. We laughed about it. I said I knew he wasn't shit, and wouldn't have given him the time of day if he owned a Rolex store when we were younger. He said he knew I was a little prissy, stuck-up, snotty bitch who only fucked with lames, and just needed a good fuck by a big dick real gangsta to loosen me up. We went back and forth ragging on each other. I finally asked him if the rumors were true. He asked me which ones. I said all of them. He said there was only one way to find out. I didn't meet him at first. We just kept in contact through texts. Each one with him telling me what he used to do to those girls to get them strung out, what he would have done to me in the past, what he would do to me at the time, each one getting more freaky and nasty than the last. Then...(stares at Dr. Black keenly)...you said this is between us, right? You better not tell Malik what we're talking about. He doesn't know about this part of my history, for good reason. There's some things he just doesn't need to know about.

(AB): Stop that. This is therapy. Everything we talk about is confidential. What you decide to tell him, or keep from him, is a personal issue. I just want to hear about your experiences because whatever you went through, it obviously helped to shape the strong relationship you and Malik have today. And being that you're obviously hesitant to tell me what's on the tip of your tongue, is exactly why I wanted to have this session with you one-on-one.

(T): (Studied Dr. Black quizzically). Since I started dating Malik, and especially throughout our marriage, I never kept any secrets from him. Nor did I ever lie to him, except for this. This was somebody he was familiar with in high school, someone I think he even ran with a few times. But when me and Malik were separated, and Preme kept telling me how much of a good girl I was, how I only had one real experience with Malik and needed to try something different, how he would turn me out, I just had to meet him. The first time we met up, he got us this banging ass presidential suite. I'm talking top floor, everything luxurious. When he escorted me into the room, he surprised me by having five different styles of lingerie lined out for me across the bed, shit I never even seen before, with five different styles of expensive heels, red bottoms, and jewelry. Rose petals on the floor, candlelight's, scented bubble bath, chocolates, bottles – Patron, Nuvo, Henny – some Cali bud weed, 'E'. I don't even smoke weed, or take E, but I did that night. Because, I mean, he went all out! I never had a guy go all out for me like that, blow so much money on me, pay so much attention to me. He knew how to treat a woman. He pampered me, treated me like a queen. Made me feel like I was the only woman in the world, the sexist woman on the planet. By the end of the weekend, I had to admit it – everything they said was true. Everything. He was packing the biggest dick I ever seen, and fucked me like I couldn't believe – all weekend long. Oh, my god, all weekend. We couldn't get enough of each other. That's when it got real. What was so crazy is I thought it was going to be awkward at first, but it wasn't. He had this ability to make me feel so comfortable around him. We were good together. We just clicked. Clicked so well, knowing what we were really there for, knowing everything we did would never leave those four walls, we did shit to each other that had me losing my mind. The first night it was a little struggle taking him all in cause he was bigger and thicker than Malik, much bigger, and much thicker, but being the little trooper that I am, by the end of the weekend, I was handling that dick like a champ. With Malik, I did some freaky things, everything he wanted, but I knew I could only go so far cause he was my baby's father, and husband. I know him, know how he thinks, and knew at the end of the day he was going to always see me like that, his baby's mother, in that light. With Preme, there was none of that. I didn't give a fuck what he thought about me at the end of the day. That let me be as freaky and nasty as I wanted to be, and he encouraged that. The raunchier I would get, the more he liked it, which made me want to go even harder. He told me to not hold back, let go, stop limiting myself, stop being so stuck up and prissy, worrying about judgment. So I did. I let go – completely. They say deep down every woman has the desire, at least once in her life, to live out a 'Hoe moment', so that's what I did. Lived out that hoe moment. I became his hoe, his slut. His private little nymphomaniac. For that brief time, I became that bitch who didn't care about labels, or titles, or a bad rep. A bitch that took on the mindset of a man, and did whatever the fuck she wanted, however the fuck she wanted, to whoever the fuck she wanted to do it too. It just happened to be him. For almost two months, we did everything we could think of. We fucked everywhere, mainly in public. He told me deep down he knew most quiet girls were the worst, the freakiest. He told me he was gonna turn me out, get me open, on him, and the dick. That cocky attitude he had in high school that used to turn me off, for some reason, at the time, that shit turned me on. A lot! I told him to try to do it, dared him, challenged him to see if he could actually succeed. Hit me with your best shot, I told him. Don't hold nothing back, give me everything you got! He told me he wanted me to start being like the girls we watched on the pornos. I did it. That's when I started to take on different personalities when I had sex. I would call him, tell him 'Keisha' wanted to see him, a girl who had an oral fetish, and when I did, I would suck his dick all day. Nothing but sucking dick, and swallowing cum. He would do the same to me. No fucking, just oral on each other, seeing how much we could make each other cum with our mouths. That fucker always won. Or 'Veronica', who was this 'thugged-out bitch', and when I met him, I'd be rocking black lipstick, heavy make-up, have my hair braided in cornrows, be wearing a skintight tank top, my huge tits practically spilling out, some Timberlands and a tight mini-skirt – with no panties on. He knew he could do whatever he wanted to do to 'Veronica', pull her hair, slap her ass, fuck her as hard as he wanted, call her whatever he wanted – slut, bitch, whore, hoe, freak – cause she was a thugged-out bitch who loved shit like that. I lost count on how many 'girls' I role-played for him. Then we started going places. We went back to our old high school in the middle of the night, and fucked in every position imaginable – one time on the fifty-yard line in the middle of our old football field. (Chuckles). We did it on the pitcher's mound on the baseball field, and every damn plate till we finished off on home base. To this day, every time I see a football field, or baseball field, I get a flashback. I'll never look at them the same again. On the outside bleachers, under them. We were like teenagers all over again, just having fun. He had this brand new, dark green Cadillac Escalade truck, and we blessed every inch of it; the passenger seat, drivers, back. (Chuckles). I purposely fucked those seats up, came all over every inch of that car, left my mark like a fucking cougar spraying pheromones in heat, just to make sure any bitch who got in that truck after me could still smell my pussy, and knew my pussy was in there first. We even fucked on the hood, and once in the bed in the rain. I think we did more than five years' worth of fucking in just close to two months.

(AB): Then what happened? Obviously, something happened because you eventually went back to Malik.

(T): Yeah, me and Preme ended up calling it quits, but the way it happened, it was...weird. Like I said, we were together almost every day since we hooked back up. Well, one night we went out to a bar, we were having drinks, just chilling. We ended up meeting his business partner who co-owned his company with him. His name was Jason, Jay. He was huge, about six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, real, real dark – I love that – with waves, and was fine as hell – with money. That night I was supposed to be 'Veronica', so Preme was talking all crazy, even after Jay came around us. He didn't know me, and I didn't know him, so I stayed in role, in character. I literally became 'Veronica'. He started telling Jay I was his rider, what we were doing, how freaky I was, all that. So of course, Jay started to look at me in a sexual light. Jay then asked me to dance. The next thing you know we were in the middle of the dance floor, tonguing each other down, with him grinding on me, palming my ass. I know the people there were buggin' cause they just saw me out there with Preme fifteen minutes earlier. Preme then came up behind me, they both sandwiched me on the middle of the dance floor, rubbing all over me, all three of us just grinding to the music. We ended up going back to Jay's penthouse suite, a million dollar flat overlooking the city. The ultimate fucking bachelor pad, literally! Everything state of the art. Big TV's, everything plush leather in his living room, mirrors and glass, an actual friggin' polar bear rug, insane patio view, some shit that I'd never been in, or even seen in real life. Anyways, we were all drunk, so fucking high, trippin' on E. Preme told me to dance for them, like a stripper. I thought about it, said, 'Fuck it', you only live once, right? I stripped down to this cute, purple, paisley lingerie set he bought me. The boy shorts made my ass look so good, and I felt so good, I had no problem showing them off. I stripped down in the middle of his living room, everything slow and deliberate, like I was an actual stripper doing a private in-home session, then started doing all of these freaky dances for them; making my booty clap, twerk, something I never really did before, shaking my titties at them. I was so in a zone being high, the energy in the room, so much testosterone, focused on what I was doing, I didn't even notice Preme getting undressed. Before I knew it, we were dancing naked in the middle of Jay's living room, with Preme guiding me down on the carpet. We started having sex right there, right in front of Jay. Long story short, Jay programmed his ninety-inch Smart TV in the living room with pornos of threesomes, two guys and one girl, and got into the mix. (Shakes head). I couldn't believe it. Me and Preme talked about it as a joke, a fantasy. Something that I secretly wanted to happen, but never in a million years thought it would actually happen. Something I knew I could never, ever, ever even think of talking to Malik about, but there I was, doing a threesome with two guys – and fucking loving it! Two guys running a train on me. Fucking all aboard, choo-chooo! (Laughs). You see how small I am, only five-three, one hundred and thirty pounds. So imagine me in the mix with Preme, who is six-three, two-twenty, and his boy, Jay, six-four, two-fifty. Needless to say, they tore my little ass up, all night, till the sun came up the next morning. Fucking gang-gang-ganged on me worse than the Bloods and Crips. But...(smirks slyly, licks her lips)...I took it. I took it like a champ. Everything those girls did in them pornos, I did it too. Everything. I took them one after the other, back to back to back to back. They took turns on me, nonstop. On my back, switch, on my side, switch, doggy, switch, I rode it, switch, reverse cowgirl. Both at the same time. One in my mouth, at the same time, one behind me, both fucking pounding in me. They switched, then switched again, and again, and again. Double penetration, fucking my pussy and my ass, at the same time. That fucking drove me so insane, shit, if he called another one of his boys over that night, they could have easily convinced me to get triple penetrated. I soooo wanted that third at the same time. That's how crazy that time was. I loved it! My body was sore for a whole week after that. I didn't care. That was my one time to live out the full fantasy, so I lived it. The full fantasy, minus the third guy. That's when I started to get nervous around Preme cause he really was turning me out, just like he said he would. It was just something about him that made me feel comfortable doing anything he wanted. We went from just sending freaky text messages, to fucking like rabbits every time we met up, to me doing a threesome with him and his business partner, in less than two months' time. He was changing me, or should I say, I was changing around him. What was even scarier is I didn't mind it at all at the time. A couple weeks later, we all got Facebook invitations to this old reunion-like party at a club. All of our old friends from high school were going to be there. I didn't want to go, but Preme treated me a few weeks prior to a whole makeover. Lipo on my stomach, thighs, ass shots, treatments at the spa, bought me a whole new wardrobe, shoes, paid for my hair, nails and feet to get done, and convinced me to show up to show them how good I looked. I only seen Malik off and on since then. He'd pick up the kids every other weekend, mostly from my mother's, so he hadn't really seen all of the changes. We still hadn't decided what we were going to do about our relationship, and at the time, I really wasn't thinking about it myself. My only concern was to blow them all away with my new body, and my new looks – and I did. Everybody was jockin' me, sweatin' me cause I looked so good. They were also on Preme too cause he looked good, and turned out to be really successful. We acted like we hadn't seen each other in years, with no one there having a clue what we'd been doing for the past few months leading up to it. He was all over me, wouldn't leave my side all night. He danced with me, felt me up, was sucking on my ears, my neck, knowing all eyes in the room were on us, the whole time whispering the most crazy things in my ear, mainly everywhere he was going to fuck me that night when we left, and if I was ready for 'round two' with Jay. Jay was there with us. I couldn't answer him cause I didn't know if I could handle them again, if I wanted to swing another episode with them, but I sure didn't just outright say no cause a part of me really wanted to. Then out of nowhere, Malik pops up, and makes a scene by trying to pull me from Preme. He tried to act like he wasn't mad, said that he just wanted to talk, but we both knew what time it was. There he was watching his wife, looking the best I'd ever been, probably in my entire life, dancing and grinding all over the biggest player in high school, who just happened to be one of the most successful entrepreneurs in the room. I can't lie, I was torn. I did miss my Malik. That was my baby, my husband. But the thought of swinging at least one more episode with Preme and Jay left my body tingling all night. Watching Malik get all jealous also made me want to teach his ass a lesson, make him appreciate what he had at home. So I stayed right there with Preme. I kept dancing with him, let him palm all over my ass, kiss all over my neck, grind all over me, knowing it was eating Malik alive. He couldn't take it, especially when Preme saw he was getting to him, and did it even more. Security eventually kicked Malik out. I gotta confess, I knew I was gonna take Malik back after that, so...(looks innocently, shrugs lightly)...I spent the entire weekend with Preme and Jay in Vegas. I let them do anything they wanted to do to me, lived out all of my fantasies – I tried to take them both down, at the same time, wear them out, drain them, became their play toy for all of the fantasies they had, basically, everything the three of our freaky little minds could think of – knowing it would be the last time.

(AB): Was it the last time?

(T): Yes and no. With the both of them, that tag team shit, yes. With Preme, no. I wanted to take it slow with Malik, because honestly, I was still having so much fun with Preme. He looked good, had a lot of money, was spoiling me to death, buying me everything I wanted, the sex was mind blowing, and we just got along so great. Sadly, he wasn't the type of guy a girl would want to settle down with, only have fun. So I had my fun. A blast! He was like the human version of a vacation in Las Vegas. I just extended my stay – for several months. Besides, he was in a relationship anyway, had kids. So after a couple more weeks of having fun with him, I told him it was finally over, and officially went back to Malik.

(AB): And you've been loyal to him ever since?

(T): Ever since.

(AB): Do you still think about Preme, Jay?

(T): Surprisingly, not really. The threesome, that was just a one time...well, two-time...well, something done several times throughout the course of an entire weekend. No, two weekends. A fantasy to live out the role of the nastiest, raunchiest, freakiest, cum-drinking whore that I could be. A moment in time, that when the opportunity presented itself, I fulfilled. Still wish a third guy was there, but, oh well. (Sucks teeth). As for Preme, I can't lie. Yeah, I still think about him sometimes, especially when I'm struggling with money. He called me a few times, even after I told him I was going back to Malik. He tried to set something up on the low behind Malik's back, but we never met. I had to close that chapter. I changed my number, and even took down my Facebook account to avoid the temptation, because Lord knows I was tempted. He even tried to offer me help financially, but I knew if I took money from him, what would come with that. How I would have to...pay him back. Besides, that negro scared me, cause he truly brought shit out of me that I kinda knew I had inside, but he definitely confirmed it. Shit that I learned to enjoy way too much. Now I just look at it as an experience to appreciate. He taught me a lot about sex, men, and myself. He made me feel comfortable being those different personalities, so now I can be those different personalities for my husband. Seeing how effective they were for Preme, the ultimate playboy, made our sexual relationship that much stronger.

(AB): Last question. You explained in detail how you explored some of your deepest sexual fantasies with Preme, and now incorporated them into your sexual repertoire, and marriage, with Malik. Have you ever thought about exploring other sexual avenues that could possibly enhance your marriage? Like threesomes with Malik, maybe involving other women? Or S&M?

(T): A threesome with another woman, and Malik? Hell to the fucking naw! First of all, for one, I'm strictly dickly. No licky-licky over here. For two, I'm stingy. I don't like to share, especially my husband. I did that threesome with Preme and Jay because I knew I was always gonna be the center of attention. That they were both gonna focus all of their attention on me, both be all over me, both pleasing me, and that it was only a fantasy to fulfill, not a lifestyle choice. For three, Malik fucked enough pussy in his life, sown all of his wild oats, or at least he should have, to be content with just me. With Preme and Jay, I used that as a small window of opportunity to sew mine. And I've grown from it. That's why I switch personalities and role-play for him. Trust, I may come in a small package, but I'm tough, can handle anything, and I'm more than enough woman for him to handle. A threesome with Malik and another guy? (Laughs). I know he would never do something like that cause he's too possessive. And I would never do something like that with him cause if he ever saw that side of me, how wild I could get, being I already did that before, take him and another guy down like it was nothing, it would be over. I mean like 'over' over. Like he might try to kill me, over, seriously. (Giggles). So no, no threesomes with Malik. One on one till the day we die. As for a little S&M, I never really entertained that. Whips, black leather, domination, discipline…hummmm sounds interesting. Maybe I can bring that out in a new girl with a new personality. Veronica times ten. No, no. A Mistress. Mistress Nefertiti. What do you think? You know, the best way to go about introducing her to Malik?

(AB): And with that, we'll end this session. It was truly a pleasure, Tanisha. Until our next session.

(T): (Tanisha turns up her lip). Psst, whatever.

Case File #28 – Malik & Tanisha

Their seventeenth anniversary.

Tanisha was pretty psyched up about it. They were going out to do something. Something B.I.G. Well, that's what Tanisha naturally assumed. In actuality, she had no clue what Malik had planned up his sleeve.

"Ugh, he always does this shit," Tanisha thought.

For weeks he kept her in suspense. Nail biting shit, right on the edge of her seat. It's as if that negro actually got a hard-on messing with her head like that. All he gave her was a, "Damn! Stop being so damn nosey. If I know you, like I know I know you, I know you're gonna love what I got planned."

Simple. Two sentences. End of story. Well, not really. Tanisha did find out that it was for the entire weekend. She also found out, when she pushed a little harder (maybe the better word is annoyed him to death), that he had a little something else pre-planned for their little trip.

"Here. Since you won't leave me the hell alone until I give you something, take this." Malik pushed a gym membership at her. "For this year's anniversary, I want us to both look our best. It's still some time away so you, we'll, have plenty of time to use it."

Tanisha held the membership in her hand with her face twisted tighter than an army knot.

A gym membership? Hold up. Is this negro trying to subtly tell me something?!

Not that the gym membership was all that bad – they actually discussed it in the past, exercising together, as a couple, a new trend on the net cosigned by other high profile couples – but it clearly wasn't the diamonds Tanisha would have suspected. She cursed him out in thirteen different languages in her mind, rolled her eyes to the back of her head like the exorcist, and left him alone, literally, until her mind transitioned down from Deathcon-Five.

Whatever else he had planned, she was sure she would love it. Besides, she enjoyed surprises, and it would do her well to focus more on the gift of the gym membership he gave her, than exhausting millions of brain cells on something he was clearly going to keep guarded close to his chest.

After their separation and her walk on the promiscuous wild side of the road with Preme, Tanisha had been much more conscious of her body. As much as keeping in shape for her health should have been her main incentive, it wasn't. She just wanted to look good. And she did.

Malik only purchased their memberships at the gym about a month prior, but with Tanisha making her rounds close to three times a week, religiously, she knew in just that short period of time, it did her body wonders.

Her stomach was already relatively flat from the tummy tuck, courtesy of Preme. Her Insanity style of workout helped to define it even more; she could actually make out traces of a six-pack for the first time in her life. Her thighs, calves, ass, all much bigger, but thicker, tighter, and much more defined. Even her chest looked better.

At thirty-eight, Tanisha could boast that she had a better physique than when she was eighteen!

Malik, he didn't look so bad himself. Not nearly as dedicated to modifying his physique as Tanisha, but he did manage to lose fifteen pounds, shed some of the fat to sculpt more definition around his arms and chest, and shave off ten years on his appearance, much more like his yesteryear physique of college football. If he lost just a little bit more of that belly, Tanisha sure knew she wouldn't have any complaints.

Finally their big day came.

On the weekend of their big anniversary, instead of taking off to Vegas, or Atlantic City, or the Bahamas, or any of the other traditional get-away's Tanisha would have suspected Malik to have planned for them, she found herself confusingly stumped when the only plans he made so far were reservations at a fancy dining establishment.

Over an undeniably delicious meal, and a fairly priced bottle of wine, Malik presented her with a beautiful platinum necklace and a half-karat diamond pendant. It was beautiful, Tanisha knew all of the doubles he pulled at work and months he saved just to get it, and even appreciated the night he obviously took measures to plan for them. But still, nothing too out of the ordinary to really set off any fire alarms for her.

"What's wrong?" Malik asked across the table at the restaurant; Tanisha's dejected aura was unmistakable.

"Na...nothing," Tanisha mumbled weakly, "It's just," she passed an unconscious glance down at her dress, knowing she was looking absolutely amazing, then to the other patrons enjoying their nice quiet meals, "I thought we were going to do something different tonight." Instead of the same light sips Malik took on his crystal flute, Tanisha swallowed mouthfuls of the sparkling bubbly, tilted her head back and downed her entire glass, intent on altering her reality much sooner than later.

"Like what?" Malik leaned forward, focused, his attention undivided.

"I don't know. Just...just something different." Tanisha filled her flute back up to the brim.

"Different? You don't even know what else I got planned for us," Malik said lively, deflecting, or failing to give energy to the negative vibe Tanisha gave off. "Check it. We're doing the nice romantic dinner thing. I gave my baby her diamonds, a small token of what she really deserves. Maybe not the biggest, but," Malik shrugged lightly with a radiant smile.

"I figure after a little dessert, we can check into this suite I had my eyes on. Jacuzzi, mirrored ceilings, vibrating heart-shaped bed. I packed our bags for the weekend, and you already know the small carry-on got a little something extra special in it. Flavored edible oils, different lingerie, a couple packs of V, a couple bottles, a couple toys, the little butterfly you love so much. Huh, huh?" Malik said with a wicked smile, he nudged her arm across the table "We gonna do the damn thang up, momma."

He embraced Tanisha's hand over the table; the other remained around the neck of his flute. After another light sip, she lifted heavy unfocused eyes from her third glass to notice the sexy look Malik gave her. The effect forced the first form of sincerity from her for the night – a genuine smile.

"That sounds good, baby," Tanisha muttered with dry enthusiasm. The smile she tried to hold quickly melted.

"T, what? What's really wrong, baby? Talk to me."

"Nothing. Nothing. Baby, it's nothing. That sounds like fun," Tanisha said unconvincingly, thought for a moment, then sighed, "It's just…"

"Just what?"

"It's just...I wanted to do something different. Baby, I appreciate all the effort you put into this weekend, but let's go out. We got all night for the room. All weekend if you think about it. Let's go to a club, a bar, something. Let's go out dancing," Tanisha said, and for the first time all night lit up with the energy of her old self.

"A nightclub? Dancing?" Malik sighed, "What's so different about that? I wanted to enjoy a nice quiet night with you, alone. We've been working a lot lately. So if it's not the gym, or the kids, or work, it's...I just want to get you to a room with a big ass bed, and take all of those clothes off you. Baby, I don't think you realize how phenomenal your body has gotten since you've been going crazy in that gym.

“Don't get me wrong, I'm always gonna love you no matter what you look like, but shit! It's like you're an entirely different person, and not just with the role playing. Baby, because of our conflicting schedules, it's been almost a month now since I dug all up in that pussy, or felt your mouth on me. If I had my way, I would have signaled for the check a half hour ago. I'm ready to get the fuck up outta here, like right now, get you up in that room, take all of them clothes off, and fuck the shit out of you, like right now!"

"Um, why don't you say that just a little bit louder? That way the people on the other side of the restaurant can hear you too," Tanisha mumbled, passing subtle glances to the few tables around them who heard his every word.

"Fuck them! That's what they get for minding other people's business. You're my wife, and I want to fuck you," Malik drawled out with a raised voice to the few heads who nosily looked on; some smirked, some turned their noses up in embarrassment, most cowered back to eat their meals. "The way I'm feeling right now, the way you looking so fucking good, I might fuck around and put on a show for them right on the middle of this table," he continued thickly. He rubbed his index finger in suggestive circles discreetly in Tanisha's palm.

$$ $$ $$

Tanisha arched a single eyebrow, smirked mischievously, inched herself in closer, purred, "That would be different. Now you're talking my language. Tell me more, my love."

"Well, maybe we can start with..." Malik scooted his chair around the table to nestle up close by her side, "...a little foreplay..." soft pecks were planted on the side of her neck, "...Something discreet at first, then..." Malik's hand slid under the massive white tablecloth to help uncross Tanisha's legs that were crossed gracefully over the other.

There was absolutely no resistance on her end.

None.

He massaged her inner thighs. Tanisha spread them open as wide as she could, held them lewdly open for him under the table – partly because no one could see, mainly because she was tipsy and didn't give a fuck – and welcomed his exploring hand traveling near her center to rub delicate circles over her crotch. Tanisha melted into a wicked smile, her eyes lowered, sliced in lust. Out the corner of them, she could spot a few heads passing inconspicuous glances in their direction.

"Look. That's right, look. Look at how this nigguh know how to turn my shit out!" Tanisha thought.

She didn't give a fuck. She simply clutched two fistfuls of the tablecloth when Malik shifted her panties to the side, and spread her fleshy lips open to give him full access to her goods. He slipped two fingers between her dewy petals, gauged her state of arousal, found a wife whose natural faucet was already on, she was wet, then just as quick, slid them away from her.

Tanisha's eyes popped open, she let out a disappointed hiss.

"Let's leave the encore for later tonight," Malik said slyly, raising those two wet fingers to his lips; he shamelessly savored her flavor.

"WHAT?! Why are you fucking teasing me?" Tanisha snapped, desperately trying to ease his hand back between her thighs. "Stop playing. Baby, come on. Don't get me started and stop. Take it out. Just pull your dick out through the slit. I'll sit on your lap."

Tanisha subtly inspected their surroundings. If Malik didn't know any better, he would have thought she was casing the place to do a quick stick-up, and find the most convenient exit to flee the scene. She began to fumble with his buckle under the table, zip down his zipper.

"T, are you...are you crazy?" Malik hushed with a light chuckle; he didn't even have to look around to sense those restaurant patrons inspecting their every move. He fought with the anxious hands of his wife that tried to tear his black slacks open.

"Motherfucka, stop being such a fucking pussy, and get up in some fucking pussy." Tanisha clutched a fistful of him, gave it a few squeezes, tried to stiffen the bulge in his crotch, got him halfway to their destination. "It's all adults in here. All I gotta do is lift my skirt up a little, slide my panties to the side, and we're good. It would just look like I'm sitting on your lap. A happy couple celebrating. I'll just be celebrating 'doing you' in a place I've never done you before – on our anniversary," Tanisha said, quite blasé.

Despite slight resistance, she managed to get his zipper down, and slid her small, perfectly manicured fingers into the front slit of his boxers. Nimble fingers circled around his growing manhood, she quickly flipped his hardness out through the slit.

"Yo, for real, you buggin!" Malik prattled, he belted out another disbelieving chuckle. Backing down from a challenge he clearly couldn't keep up with, he had to forcefully peel her hand from around him. "We did some wild shit before, but damn!" Malik quickly stuffed himself back in his slacks, zipped up.

Tanisha sucked her teeth loudly, rolled her eyes, and reached for her flute of champagne again.

"Fucking pussy motherfucka. Talk all of that big shit, but then get scared that I'll fuck the shit out of your ass when shit gets real. Don't fucking bluff me, motherfucka. I ain't the one to..." Tanisha's voice trailed off.

She continued to grumble under her breath, roll her eyes, and pass evil glances at her husband, before she knocked back the rest of her glass in large gulps. Malik shuffled his chair back around the table to sit across from her, he studied her intently.

"You really want to do something different, don't you?"

"Uh, please!" Tanisha huffed, part agitation, part goading. "You're looking good. I'm looking good. No, correction. We're both looking great! I got my tight little black dress on. Five-inch, red bottom spiked stilettos. Hair done, nails done, everything big. Feeling good, working on a nice little buzz." She refilled her flute to the brim for the fourth time, swallowed another healthy mouthful, downed almost half of it in two gulps.

"Baby, it's our anniversary. You can fuck me later. I know you're gonna bang my fucking brains out. You don't think I want you too? Shit, I'll be Tabitha, your sex servant – for the entire weekend. Instruct her to suck your dick for an hour, splash in her mouth, in her face, fuck her in her ass. Make her do whatever the fuck you want! I don't fucking care. But for now, I want to go out."

"And show your ass off?"

"You damn right! Why not? This is our anniversary. I want to do something special. Dinner at a fancy restaurant? Diamonds? No offense, but whoopty do. What's so special about that?"

Malik beckoned the waiter, ordered their dessert to go, and asked for the check.

"That's all I needed to hear. I think I know just the place to make sure this anniversary will be one you'll never forget."

$$ $$ $$

So funny.

Malik watched Tanisha out of the corner of his eye. A Tanisha who bounced around like an atom of energy in the passenger seat, bopping to the bass line of Styles-P’s G-Host, squirming, rocking rhythmically in a zone all on her own. Part of it had to do with the bottle of champagne she practically downed to the head by herself, washed down with at least ten shots of tequila, part excitement from the cryptic evening Malik claimed to have revised at the spur of the moment.

No question she had a good buzz going on, and if Malik knew anything about his wife, knew when she got a few drinks in her system, and programmed her mind on celebratory mode, just what kind of night he could look forward to.

In no time, at least in no time to Tanisha, Malik pulled up into the parking lot of what looked to be a recreation center. Wait a minute. Something was off. Was that a recreation center, or an abandoned town hall? Whatever it was, the unmarked building was secluded, and way out in the middle of nowhere. Dozens of cars filled the parking lot. Muffled music could be heard in the distance. Two couples slipped into the entrance, disappeared inside.

"What is this place? This isn't a nightclub, or a bar. Where are we?" Tanisha questioned, her interest piqued.

Malik remained relatively tight-lipped throughout most of the drive. Even after Tanisha's question, he gave her nothing. He rose from the car in silence. Tanisha followed behind. The closer they got, the more Tanisha became intrigued. Muffled music thumped even louder behind those double wooden front doors. Malik embraced Tanisha by the hand.

"Let's do this!"

They made a b-line towards the entrance.

Walking through the front doors, Tanisha could tell immediately that the place had been renovated to accommodate whatever function the leaser had planned. Several massive projection screens in different dimensions flashed vivid images, planting subliminal messages; Beyoncé's 'Drunk in Love' video; a strip contest; a twerk contest; cameras capturing the crowd to reflect dozens of bodies feeling no pain; soft porn; Scarface. A thick layer of fog clogged the air; cigarettes, the majority, weed. Flashes from strobe lights and the screens barely lit up the darkened room.

There was an elevated DJ platform on the far end. The DJ – a six-foot black man, mid-twenties, blonde shoulder-length dreads, dark sunglasses, bright red fireman hat, wearing an open plastic red trench, shirtless underneath – pumped his fist in the air to lyrics from Keyshia Cole behind Jay-Z's 'Big Pimpin' beat, with his head down on his equipment, headphones on, one ear off, with two gorgeous blonde girls by his side jamming to the beat.

Within just a few feet, they were greeted by a huge black bouncer, and a very physically fit man in his early thirties who couldn't be mistaken for anything else but Italian. Tanisha paid very little attention to them, more concerned with catching her vibe again to a new set of sounds; the energized atmosphere of heads throwing it down on the dance floor instantly took her back to the place she tried to remain in for the last hour.

Unlike Malik's surprise in the form of that nudist resort, that room contained a wildly diverse melting pot of races; black, white, Spanish, middle-eastern, Asian. All men and women of middle age, twenty to forty, the majority leaning towards the latter, all grown and sexy. A couple in particular stood out to Tanisha like a light in the dark – black guy, white girl – both appeared to be in their early twenties. They were by the bar.

Tanisha turned when she spotted something out the corner of her eye – Malik slipped that immaculately dressed, well-built Italian man a couple of twenties.

"What in the hell was that for? The price of admission? Who pays for admission like that? And who has a function like this out in the middle of nowhere?"

The way they interacted – gave each other palm, hugged, shared a few laughs – it wasn't too hard for Tanisha to determine that that wasn't the first time they made acquaintances. If she didn't know any better, she would have sworn he was a part of his old crew from college. The only problem: Tanisha knew most of Malik's old running partners, and she was sure as shit stinks that that guy wasn't one of them.

She was positive she never saw him before in her life.

"Baby..." Malik eased Tanisha close to his side, he wrapped his arm around her waist, "...this is Nick. I've been getting to know him over the last couple of weeks. I told him about our anniversary, our big night out. He told me about these exclusive parties he hosts. Nick, this is my beautiful wife, Tanisha." Malik introduced Tanisha to that Italian man who ten years prior looked more and more like the perfect fill-in for a character on 'Jersey Shore'.

"Nice to meet you," Nick said smoothly. And what do you know, add to that stereotype with his thick Italian accent to match. He took Tanisha's hand, a little too personal for her tastes, and stared her down with an unmistakable hunger in his eyes. "You were right. Lucky man. She is a little gem."

Nick directed his suggestive reply to Malik, but kept those lust-filled windows glued on Tanisha. She gently eased her hand from his once it became evident how reluctant he was to let her go.

Didn't Malik see that? That friggin' Pauly-D wanna-be flirting with me right in front of him? Why didn't he stop it, flip on that guy?

Maybe he was too preoccupied with soaking in his surroundings. Tanisha was sure he would have said something if he saw that, especially if he saw how Nick shook his head, licked his lips at her, and ingested her entire being from head to toe. Then again, squeezed into that skimpy little black dress, how could he not want to soak all of that in?

"Where was I? Oh yeah," he finally snapped out of it to give his undivided back to Malik, "I'm glad you could make it out tonight, the both of you. As you can see, the place is packed, as usual. Then again, it's one of my parties, so how could it not be? We got a lot of beautiful couples out tonight. A beautiful variety of people from all walks of life. All clean, mature, consenting adults, all out to have a good time. Most of them are my regulars.

"We do have close to two dozen new couples, such as yourselves, on their first night out with me. Business executives. Medical field. Legislation. Successful entrepreneurs. A couple minor league athletes. A diverse variety of professionals. I'll introduce you to a few couples a little later, connect you so you can network with individuals who can be sure to benefit you outside of these walls. First, mingle a little, get yourselves something to drink. The bar is stocked with almost anything you can think of. I always..."

Nick flinched when an extremely voluptuous petite brunette popped up behind him from out of the crowd. It's as if she came out of nowhere, an apparition given life. She slithered up under his arm in one smooth motion like a snake coiling its prey to nestle herself comfortably by his side.

"Malik, Tanisha, this is my beautiful wife, Maria. Baby, this is their first time out with us," Nick said impulsively, her sudden presence the only thing managing to rattle his smoother than smooth swag.

He held her close, and shamelessly palmed a handful of her unusually round ass stuffed in a pair of white stretch pants so tight they showcased every nook and cranny of the fact that she was naked underneath; her camel toe sliced up into her nature like an inhale, the stitching so deep up in her ass it left no room for the imagination. Tanisha hoped her sudden reaction – eyes squinted, lip twitched, the half smirk – wasn't too obvious.

It was.

A reaction it became clear Maria intended, sought for, expected in such attire. She melted into a sly smile, turned to them, drawled out, "Reeeeally? Well, I'm sure you guys are gonna have a great time out with us tonight. Welcome," and threw her arms around Tanisha in a warm hug.

Maria was relatively close to Tanisha in size, about five-two – she shot up to about five-seven in those incredible five-inch designer stilettos – one hundred and twenty pounds. But damn! The set of tits and ass she packed on her petite stature was incredible, almost disproportionate.

Breast implants and ass shots galore!

She wore very little make-up, not that she needed it. Jet black hair, light green penetrating eyes, dark olive skin, a natural beauty. Tanisha guesstimated her to be in her mid-thirties, although most would never suspect it; she carried herself with the bubbly aura of a much younger woman, could pull off the role of a mature college student.

Less than a minute in her presence and Tanisha could immediately sense the parallels Maria shared with her unabashed husband. What was up with that couple? Touchy-feely, the lustful examination of herself, then...whoa! Tanisha couldn't help but to notice how that little bubbly bombshell turned and set her sights on Malik.

No mistaking her interest there.

Definitely not when she said, "Tanisha, it is, right? Do you mind if I have the first dance with him?" and reached for Malik's hand before he even had a chance to get a word out.

"Later, baby," Nick said, finding humor in how her bold invitation left Malik frozen, "let them mingle, get a look around, socialize. We got all night to get to know them better. And I promise, if I get my way, we'll get to know this couple much better, on a real...personal level."

The same flicker of intrigue returned to his eyes when he soaked in that second visual of Tanisha.

"Malik, Tanisha, get a good look around. Like I said, we got a full bar. Get yourselves something to drink. Don't be bashful. It's an open bar. Indulge. Have fun, but not too much fun. Me and my wife would love to be the first to show you why Nick Bilushi throws some of the best couples' parties in all of New England," Nick said haughtily.

He disappeared off into the crowd with his wife protectively by his side. They didn't even get to vanish from the scene before Tanisha immediately spun back around to face Malik.

$$ $$ $$

"Malik, what the...what the hell is this? Where are we?" Tanisha blurted with an exaggerated wave to their surroundings.

"What does it look like? It's a couple's get-together," Malik said casually. He made his way to the bar with Tanisha tailing close behind, became just one more couple waiting for a busy mixologist tending to a dozen others.

"You know what I mean. Something's...off. Why were they looking at us like that? And what was all of that, 'I promise, we'll get to know this couple much better, on a real personal level' shit? I know this ain't a..." Tanisha cut her own self short to take a closer look at the heads in attendance again.

All of them were partying, having a great ole time.

A closer look.

"What the…?"

Couples Tanisha was sure she saw originally paired up together when they first arrived were now swapped with other couples in their circle. Dancing suggestively, grinding all over each other, hands freely exploring in places forbidden, nearly all locked in impassioned embraces, with at least half of them… tongue kissing?

One girl, Spanish, late-twenties, had one black guy grinding all over her from behind, caressing and massaging all over her curvy waist, ass, thighs, while another white guy, late thirties, maybe early forties, danced awkwardly in front of her, feeling all over her jiggling breasts, trying his best to keep up, mainly to keep his tongue in her mouth.

The carnality of that feisty Latina minx pressed in that bi-racial sandwich tore through Tanisha like lightning, rippling forks of forbidden memories to rise to the surface. Flashbacks to that secret slice of her existence between Preme and Jay instantly flashed into her mind.

That young Spanish girl was currently living the same kind of spontaneous, carefree, exploratory moment Tanisha lived in a past life. A moment, from their behavior on the dance floor, which would no doubt end with that young Latina girl being escorted to a private room by those two men to be taken in ways that will tests the limits and boundaries of the sexual pleasures three bodies could create.

Envy tore throughout Tanisha's entire being, warped her psyche, squinted her eyes in aversion. A deep snarl curled the corner of her top lip. Another form of intrigue stole that slight from her, directed her to another section of the bar. The lights were dim, the music deafening, the crowd sweltering. If she wasn't mistaken...focus...focus...when she got a closer look down at the far end, maybe four stools over... wait a minute. Were her eyes playing tricks on her?

No, they were not.

Barely discernible from the massive swell of bodies, Tanisha took unconscious, careful steps closer. Waist level, a flowing crown of blonde locks bobbed knowingly, and danced up and down in the lap of a middle-aged Spanish man. Ponytail, blazer, loosened tie on his relaxed white dress shirt, slacks, his fly down, hard dick out, ass on the edge of a bar stool, mouth agape, white knuckles gripping the seat, his back pressed against the counter.

No, no mistaking that.

All it took was for that one last burly body to move aside for Tanisha to see clearly that blonde slobbering all over the dick of that Spanish man, pulling him greedily into her mouth. Her hands skills, tongue tricks, and deep throat all on full display. All very impressive. She put on quite a show, loved being the center of attention, her spectacle animated.

At least two dozen heads were circled around her, all entranced, drinks in hand, partners by their sides, all with a front row seat to the show she performed. She continued to suck his dick under the crowd's encouragement of claps, oohh's and aahh's, until she moved a few feet on knee-pads to the next stool over. Another Spanish man, could have been his business partner based on their similar appearance, she wrapped her hand around his shaft jutted out through his fly, and took his dick in her mouth next. There were two other men in bar stools in that row, all Spanish, four dicks out, two more waiting for their turn in line.

"That's Jessica," Nick said, taking Malik and Tanisha's side; they were both so lost in the public display of fellatio the blonde performed that they never noticed his approach. "She's pretty wild, loves the attention, extremely talented with that mouth of hers. That's only one of her gifts, trust me on that one. She has many others. Many. Her husband always boasts of her skills, loves to show her off. He's right over there."

Nick pointed out a good looking, clean cut, white man so focused on tongue-kissing and groping what appeared to be a barely legal black girl in the corner, he paid no attention to the spectacle his significant other was creating.

"Here, let me get you guys a drink, and officially show you around the place. Give you the grand tour," Nick continued casually, as if the carnal action all around them warranted nothing further than a couple of stiff ones to put things in perspective.

Nick expedited their order; the bartender handed them two large glasses filled with little ice, a lot of liquor, then led them out of the main room. Malik and Tanisha followed close behind, eyes soaking in as much of the scenery as possible, their demeanor that kids and their first time in a candy store.

A wall of couples lined the darkened halls. Some made out, others flirted, some talked casually, some drank, smoked weed, laughed. One brown-skinned brother was working his tongue down the neck, shoulder, between the cleavage of an Asian woman slim and tall enough to be a model wearing a light, flowered sundress.

Completely nude underneath? Without question.

By the time they rounded the corner, the brother lowered himself to his knees before her, with the Asian woman hiking up her stiletto-clad foot on his shoulder; he buried his hand, then his head, up under her dress between her thighs.

"As you can see, all of our couples are mature, consenting adults who like to enjoy life to the fullest," Nick explained, leading them to just another dimension of decadence within those pleasure walls. He held a clear goblet in his hand, half-filled with whatever he nursed on, in the other, a thin, paper-rolled joint.

"There's only a few restrictions that I have when I invite couples to my parties. There's absolutely no hard drugs. None! Cocaine, heroin, meth, if I catch shit like that, you're taken off the list, and never invited back – for life. No druggies allowed. I don't give a fuck how much money they throw at me. Money can't buy back a tarnished reputation. Alcohol, weed, Ecstasy, Viagra. That's it.

"Two, all of the men must be accompanied by a woman. As you can see, I have dozens of beautiful young, and middle-aged women of all races, shapes, and sizes, who will come in groups to enjoy themselves, or to simply spectate, but men alone? Absolutely not. The ratio of women to men in here tonight is at least four or five to one. I won't accept it the other way around. No sausage fest. No creeps. No perverts. That's just me. Besides, I prefer more women than men anyways, if you know what I mean," Nick said, directing his veiled comment at Malik, throwing him a not so subtle wink.

Tanisha peeked over to her husband by her side, caught the look Malik gave him in return – a half smile, eyebrows raised, a subtle nod – something he tried to mask behind a sip through the straw of his Long Island iced tea.

"The couples who you experienced enjoying themselves, spending time at these parties that I host six to eight times a year, have tastes and appetites that are just as diverse as their ethnicities, ages and types. Some are voyeurs. They just like to watch, or be watched by others," Nick explained, as they slow stepped down that darkened corridor with spotted couples in various stages of foreplay; his tone hinted at knowledge of Tanisha's particular fetish.

"Some who just come out to dance, drink, elevate their senses, and physically flirt in an environment where they can express themselves sexually free. The majority who come here take it a step further, seek out others to exchange partners for the night separately, or remain in each other's presence while their partner and themselves watch, and enjoy, someone new. Some are more...adventurous, enjoy participating in groups, orgies. I even have several women who teach classes on S&M, role-playing, with men and women as their willing subjects. Nearly every activity which involves enjoying the pleasures of the flesh."

Nick took his place in front of a single door at the end of the hall lined with at least a dozen others.

After pausing for the desired effect, he turned the knob.

The door slowly creaked open.

$$ $$ $$

The room was dimly lit, candlelight's flickered in and out. Whispers of moans vibrated from a huge fifty-inch flat screen set up on the far wall. On the screen: a porno. It paled in comparison to the moans emanating from the two couples on two separate full-sized beds in the middle of the room.

Tanisha tore her eyes away from a tattoo-laced, heavily pierced, beautiful, buxom white woman with a bright pink Mohawk on the screen, spread eagle on her back, holding her legs open wide by the back of her knees, her face and focus down on the dick of the tattooed, burly white man above her, sinking his impressively large shaft in and out of her wetness, to the real-life couples in the room with an unusually warm tingle tickling her insides.

The room was scarcely furnished, a dwelling resembling a hotel room with two simple dressers, two nightstands, and a single closet. There were almost a dozen candles scattered throughout, the room dimmed, ambiance perfect, with three sterling silver buckets of open champagne chilling on ice; four flutes on the dresser in different stages of drink. Men and women's clothing, two sets of unique styles, scattered all over the floor. Residue of weed smoke lingered heavily in the air, that sweet scent of THC ether quickly becoming overshadowed by the potent scent of sex.

Malik and Tanisha looked closer at that foursome hidden away in that room.

Both couples were black.

The brother on the left bed closest to the door – dark brown skin, very muscular, at least six feet, two hundred pounds, propped up on his knees completely naked with a sweat-glistened bald head – held a slightly chubby, equally brown-skinned sistas legs wide open in the air by her ankles, his 'long dick game' quite impressive. His moves were smooth, poetic, like the sounds of jazz and R&B converted into flesh.

Tank on the up stroke, Tyrese on the down, Blue Magic on the delivery.

Strokes that were smoother than a Sax solo, more harmonic than a violin flow.

He gave that petite, five-foot vixen with finger-thick dreads, long, methodic strokes. Strokes that were all well timed, in and out, side to side, a lewd snap of his hips on the down stroke. He really dug her out good, took his time in that foreign pussy, got himself fully acquainted with that new flavor for the night, from all angles, with his smooth technique.

The sista underneath him panted heavily, lost her breath in ecstasy, her short pops of breath rose into a climatic crescendo of 'Don't stops', and 'Oh fucks', and 'Oh yeah's', peppered with several 'Oh, it feels soooo fucking good's' in between. She held one of her double-D's to her own lips, and sucked and mauled her nipple between heated breaths; her other hand remained stuffed between her thighs to rub delicate circles over her clit in perfect harmony with his thick dick soaked in her sex, sinking up in her with each stroke.

At the rate in which he performed, it became evident – he planned to slow stroke that new pussy for hours, milk orgasm after orgasm after orgasm out of her little kitten, make sure she remembered his name, that night, and his stamina all combined, before he finally got his.

On the other bed less than four feet away, a light-skinned brother with his style of dreads more original than his petite partner on the next bed over, dreads reminiscent of the legendary Bob Marley, a little on the thin side, chose the more up close and personal route with his foreign partner; a dark-skinned sista with block braids extensions.

He held his body close to hers, chest to chest, missionary, tongue-kissed her with passion, with her legs hiked up over his shoulders, his hands under her cheeks, palming her fleshy ass to spread her lewdly, held her open, and thrust her waist up every time he thrust down to dig up in her.

In such a compromising position, he had her trapped, pinned, utterly vulnerable; a position anyone with eyes could see she relished in. He grunted with each well-timed, penetrating thrusts he hit her with. A pattern of lovemaking that was clearly more on the aggressive side, conquering; the complete polar opposite of his brown-skinned counterpart who fucked his woman nice and slow.

His style, more similar to gangsta rap, or reggae's dancehall.

Mozzy on the pump, Vybz Kartel on the grind, Movado in aggression.

He doubled the strokes of his more suave swap mate on the next bed over, dug it up in the next man's woman with a fiery passion, a wild drum solo, Tommy Lee determined to deepen her womb to his satisfaction with the powerfully sharp jabs he hit her with.

"Both couples are regulars. Winston and Jancy, the bohemian couple, they've been together for almost twenty years. Floyd and Denise, the professionals, a little over ten," Nick explained with a deep puff on his joint, and causal sip in between both men continuing to ravish each other's woman for their viewing pleasure.

"Amongst them you have a lawyer, a nurse, a school teacher, and an accountant. Average everyday people who were looking to explore the beautiful option of exchanging mates. Of the half dozen or more parties I hold per year, I can count on them attending at least three. They've been a part of our exclusive circle for the last four.

"These two couples, they're very particular, very conscious of their health, or any unproductive attachments which could arise in these kinds of scenarios. Each time they come, no pun intended, they only swap with each other, and they always want to be in the same room, together. Both partners in each couple were considering having an affair, that is until they met, and swapped. Since then, both couples said their sex lives are more explosive with each other after spending time with their 'special friends', and now they are happier than ever. This is just one example. There's others."

$$ $$ $$

Nick began to make his way out of the room but turned back at a hesitant Tanisha.

She couldn't take her eyes off them. She was stuck, mesmerized.

The first couple – the way that dark brown brother's ass tightened and released on each long stroke, the way he eased all the way out to the very tip, then slid in deep in one long stroke to the hilt, the way he hit that light-skinned brother's mate off with a rhythmic roll of his hips, the way she pinched one nipple, sucked the other, all the while rubbing delicate, deliberate circles on her erect clit – left her green in envy.

The second couple – how that light-skinned brother contorted his conspirator's mate in such a tight clutch, her knees pinned by the sides of her head, his shoulders holding them firmly in place, twisting her up like a pretzel, his hands full of her ass, a tight grip, opening them, his fingers even blossoming her soaking wet velvety petals, throwing it up on him to meet his waist in perfect synch with each powerful stroke he slammed down on her, which left her with no choice but to accept every pleasurably powerful stroke of hard dick he fed into her – rendered her helpless.

All four naked bodies sweating, in constant motion, each releasing different sounds of ecstasy; moaning, panting, grunting, hissing. Feminine bodies begging for more, masculine bodies promising to deliver. Four different physical instruments being played by different musicians, creating their own little four-person private symphony.

Both men were complete opposites in every way – body types, skin tones, hair types – with their style of love making just as unique as their different characteristics. Both different, yet both delivering to their significant others a fuck so foreign from their familiar there was no question all four bodies in the room would emerge thoroughly satisfied.

Tanisha instantly appreciated the diverse styles of both men – slow, soft and steady; rough, hard and unforgiving – concluding how each woman could lavish in the periodic break from their everyday norm. She took it all in with a desirous thirst for more. The porno flashing on the screen – a foursome, one girl on her knees, sucking the dick of a guy in a chair, another guy on a bed with his head between another girl’s thighs, tonguing her ferociously, which neither couple seemed to be paying much attention to – only spread the icing on the cake.

"Looks like someone might have found their new interest," Nick concluded from the fascination spoken behind the flicker in Tanisha's eyes.

His curt reply snapped her back, partially. Before they left the room, with Malik weaving his fingers through Tanisha's hand, they could both see he had to actually pull her away from the action.

There were several other rooms Nick introduced them to – one with a single, Middle-eastern woman, early forties, on the middle of a bed, stuffed full with three men, who all ravished her simultaneously in the most animalistic fashion; one large room with five king-sized beds, couches, ottomans, housing a wide variety of close to a dozen and a half couples, all engaged in a conglomerate of sweaty bodies in various stages of ecstasy – before he led them to one room which was oddly unique from the others.

It was the only room there that was unoccupied.

A single king-sized bed graced the center. Three clean walls, bare, the fourth, all glass, darkened midnight black.

"I always like to give my new couples a little time to soak everything in after I give them the grand tour. A little time to themselves to ingest some of the activities that takes place within these walls. Finish your drinks. Make yourselves comfortable, really comfortable if you know what I mean. I'm sure you guys will enjoy yourselves. I can assure you from the feedback I received from my other guests, others will," Nick said cryptically, but revealed the crux of his scheme with a flick of a switch by the door.

Colored spotlights overhead cast a soothing red glow over the room. The massive glass wall previously darkened came to life. Directly on the other side, the entire crowd in the main room were still dancing and bouncing around, throwing it down on the dance floor. Most remained engaged in their bumping and grinding, but there was no question from the several heads who directed their attention to the single couple in the induction room that Malik and Tanisha instantly became the main attraction.

As much as Malik anticipated his wife finding interest in the surprise he sprung on her on their seventeen-year anniversary, there was no way for him to really know. Tanisha, outside of what he assumed to be her silent interest in the first room, and several after, remained relatively tight-lipped almost from the moment they arrived.

Left alone, she examined the room more critically.

The bed was immaculately dressed, graced with black silk sheets, huge throw pillow, and fixtures at the massive oak headboard and sled for restraints. The vibrant crowd on the other side of the glass was less than twenty feet away, several passing curious glances, watching that single couple's every move. Malik finally whisked his wife up into his arms for her to face him.

"I did my research on this place, conversed with Nick several times, made reservations, and had this planned for a few weeks. I was going to spring it on you later, but after you started to shit on my other surprises, I figured I'd show you now. I thought you might like this. You said you wanted to do something different, and, well..." Malik passed a sweeping glance to the scenery around them, "...I think this is about as different as we could get. Happy anniversary. Baby, I hope you're not mad. Tanisha, I just wanted to do something for our anniversary that we'd never forget. What do you think?" Malik said sincerely, ignoring everything around them to focus on the love of his life.

Tanisha peered up at him with a blank haze glossing over her. She finally snapped out of it, broke their embrace with somewhat of a forceful thrust in his chest, and took a step back. Malik frowned in fear, he reached out to embrace her.

"Tanisha, I didn't think...I didn't think you'd get mad. Baby, I just thought...I didn't mean to..."

"Who? Tanisha? Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Veronica. And whoever you are..." she knocked back the rest of her drink, set the glass down on a small end table, and began to peel the tight material of her dress from over her shoulders for her large breasts to pop free, "...since you were brave enough to invite me to such an interesting venue, and considering it appears that we're the guests of honor for the night, let's introduce ourselves in a fashion these motherfuckas never forget!"

Date: April 3rd, 20—

Time: 9:27 am

Case File #30V – Personal Interview

Client: Victor

Victor (V): Am I late for our meeting? (Victor knocked on the door, emerged through the entrance, checked his watch).

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): Victor, what up? Actually, it is a little late. I guess fortunate for you, is I've been running late all day, so your delay fell right in line with my schedule. (Dr. Black gestured to a plush recliner). How are you doing?

(V): I'm alright, good. Excellent actually. I'm late because I just closed a deal with the banking firm I represent. The deal was almost a month in the making. They said it couldn't be done, the investors would never agree to the terms. Negotiations will continually end in a stalemate. Ha! What they never took into consideration was the individual negotiating the deal. (Victor haughtily basks in his victory).

(AB): Congratulations. You've accomplished a big feat today. Drink? (Dr. Black offers a half-filled tumbler; Victor accepts, nods appreciatively). I hate to sound like I'm taking away from, or minimizing your accomplishment, which I can assure you we will address in a future session, but right now I would like to specifically discuss the eccentric relationship you share with your beautiful wife, Zakia.

(V): (Victor swallowed a mouthful of his drink, returned from the celebratory rift in his mind, twisted his face curiously). Zakia, she isn't coming to this session, is she?

(AB): No, she isn't. I wanted to talk to you, alone, conduct this interview a little differently. Over the previous months, we've conducted several interviews with you and Zakia together. Today, I wanted to talk to you alone, get your perspective on your relationship without Zakia present.

(V): (Another curious inspection, a light shrug). Oh, Ok. No Zakia. But just to let you know, I keep no secrets from her. My life is an open book.

(AB): Understandable. (Senses defensiveness on Victor's end). Has it always been that way?

(V): Of course. (Victor notices Dr. Black arching an inquisitive eyebrow, smirks). Well, how far back are we talking here? From the beginning? (Dr. Black remains silent, allows Victor ponder his own question). I mean, we've been together for a long time now, over twelve years. In the beginning, I may have kept...some things from her. Maybe told a couple of...(clears throat)...white lies. But once we decided to make it official, committed in a monogamous relationship, marriage, I made it a point to give her something I had trouble giving any other woman I dealt with in my past – my brutal honesty.

(AB): Why don't you start off there, the beginning. How you met. What was your first impression of her? At what point in your relationship did you begin to suspect you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her, and give her what you mentioned never giving to any other woman, your honesty?

(V): The beginning. Um, let's see. The way I met Zakia...(chuckles)...that's actually a very funny story. I thought we discussed this before in a previous session. Yeah, no? Well, to me it was a little unusual. Zakia was actually one of the few women I've dated who initially approached me. She was the aggressor. No surprise there, huh? I guess once you spend any time in her presence you will see how something like that is completely in line with her character. We were at a banquet where a fundraiser was being held. Huge lavish hotel, black tie affair, hundreds of people. I was having a drink with a few associates, and out of nowhere...bam! Zakia enters our circle, walks right up, and points to me with an adamant, "Excuse me. You, come here!" We all froze. We're all looking at each other, all with the same thoughts I'm sure: "Who in the hell is this stunningly beautiful, but obviously mentally disturbed woman?" (Chuckles). The majority of my associates were white, professional, foreign to the nuances of our culture, so I'm sure their stereotypical minds automatically defaulted to one prevalent thought: "Here we go. Another disgruntled black woman about to fly off with her typical neck rolling, finger snapping, vulgar tirade of how men are no good cheating dogs," having no clue I had no idea who she was. She escorted me to the side, and explained quite firmly how she noticed particular things about me – my tailored suit, my four thousand dollar watch, my mannerisms, the donation I'd given to the organization I sponsored – and how she saw something in me she could relate to. How basically when she finds interest in something, she is determined enough to go out and get it. Honestly, I was a little tongue-tied, not to mention conflicted, but no doubt highly intrigued. That was definitely a first for me. I found her approach so refreshing. The confidence and honesty she exuded was nothing like I'd ever experienced in another woman. Needless to say, I was instantly drawn to her.

(AB): And so your relationship began?

(V): That was the beginning. I mean, I was dating another woman at the time. Nothing too serious, but she did occupy some space in my mind, also my apartment, which didn't last much longer after Zakia found out. Not like she bullied the woman out of existence, just more in the manner in which she integrated herself into my life. It's like my old friend just ceased to exist. At first, I began to interpret her outspoken behavior as a little pushy, obnoxious. But soon enough, she started to grow on me. I've had other women speak of my potential, but with Zakia, it was different. I've always had confidence in my abilities, could clearly project the course of my life and future. But Zakia, she had this ability to make me see my potential so easily, helped me to visualize my goals so clearly that it would have been almost foolish not to accomplish everything I set out to achieve. No other woman had the power to do that. No other women had the capacity to confirm in me that I had unlimited potential. No other woman had the capacity to make me feel the feelings I was feeling. From that point on, any walls that were erected to keep her at a distance were torn down. I could see from the beginning that she was no-nonsense, giving me one hundred, committing herself wholeheartedly, for the long haul, so I had no choice but to give her that back in return.

(AB): I'm beginning to notice how more and more couples are following this natural progression in their relationships. Once they reach a certain level of maturity, once they decide they are tired of playing the games, they open themselves up and leave themselves vulnerable to their significant other.

(V): It wasn't easy. Mainly because I've been exposed to some pretty good actors over the years. I didn't feel that way so much with Zakia, even in the beginning. With other women, I had my guard up, the trust was nonexistent. Not to say I just opened up the doors of trust to Zakia immediately, but the way she conducted herself led me to want to trust her. She just had this no nonsense attitude about her, like lying and scheming was so beneath her, almost juvenile. And with this sense of doing the right thing by letting her in, it made it that much easier to trust her, and it paid off in the end.

(AB): I would like to move on to the more intimate aspects of your relationship. Your sex life. How is it? What was it like in the beginning? How has it changed over the years? Is it better, worse?

(V): (Victor smiles brightly). The thing about Zakia, as in every other aspect of her life, is she is a very determined, driven woman. There was no difference in the bedroom. From the beginning, she was more of the...aggressor. Clearly more aggressive than the majority of the other women I've encountered. She had a thing for being on top, physically and metaphorically. I've met many women who prefer that position. They tend to orgasm easier when they can control the depth, angle, tempo, speed. The same would hold true for Zakia, but it went deeper than that. I noticed it maybe six months into our relationship. Before I forget, and I'm not sure if I mentioned this in a previous interview, but I slept with her on the first night we went out on an official date. Yeah, no bullshit. A stage play, dinner at a five-star restaurant, then straight to a lavish presidential suite where we fucked like a couple of horny teenagers with time restraints. I knew she was a handful then, but I loved it. Funny thing is, what could have been a deal breaker for most men – a woman giving it up so easily, literally on the first night – I didn't look at it like that. When I told a partner of mine about our encounter, he just chalked it up as me being pussy-whipped. Imagine that. A thirty-two year old man, a worldly man, a man with dozens of conquests under his belt, being pussy-whipped. Like I hadn't been exposed to enough women in my past, all races, shapes, and sizes, as to not keep my composure, or be taken out of character by a phenomenal blowjob or some great sex, because she was great in all areas. She knows what she wants. I later came to find out that's why she slept with me on the first night – to find out if I was truly a worthy investment. Think about that. She hits on me at a charity event, plans our entire night out for the first evening, even pays for everything, just to cap the night off at a lavish room, where she sucks and fucks my brains out just to make sure I'm a worthy candidate to invest her time in. The nerve. What a cock sure bitch. (Victor chuckles lightly). As I was saying, within six months of our relationship, that's when things really started to get interesting. Her, shall we say...aggression progressed. From the beginning, she always tried to dictate the course of how not only our personal and financial lives progressed, but also how our sex life evolved. She began to expose more of her unique style of sex to me. I think she had certain desires in her the whole time, but with our, how you describe it, complimentary personalities, I made her feel that much more comfortable to expose certain sides of herself to me. First, it was the biting, the scratching, the hair pulling. Within the first year of us seriously committing to our relationship, we began to explore light forms of bondage. It was about this time I began to see something in myself that I hadn't noticed before, something Zakia claimed she spotted in me from the very beginning: the Sadomasochistic side of myself. It all started out innocent enough – a typical night of love making with Zakia initiating the course and direction of how things would play out, but I decided to change things. When she tried to take control, as usual, I took it back. This led her to try even harder, which led me to respond in tune. I could tell she was getting frustrated by my defiance, but what could she do about it? What she attempted to do is excite me to the point where she could finish me off, make me orgasm, regroup, figure out where she lost her vantage point, but I held firm, literally. I continued to control the dynamics for the remainder of the evening, and from that point on, there was a revelation. That evening, as I suspected, I discovered a chink in her armor. She loved every aspect of being in control. Yet, at the same time, needed to be taught, and learn, how to find it exciting to relinquish that control, and be controlled. I didn't fully appreciate at the time how much trust was associated in giving your woman that much control over your entire being, or how much trust she had to have in me to allow me to do the things I did to her. One thing's for sure, from that night on, it became somewhat of a game the way we viewed our sex lives. It began with us both trying to outdo each other. Sexually, determining who could last longer, prolong our orgasms, while continually seeking out to make the other climax as much as possible. The thing is, and you can attest to this as a man, when we climax, there is the issue of maintaining an erection, a recovery period. When a woman climaxes, some women, in my experience, Zakia included, the opposite happens. The sensation of a good nut becomes sort of an igniter to make her want to experience that feeling over and over again, like a drug addict searching for their next fix. Give it to her real good, beat the pussy up so bad that her orgasm is practically spilling out of her, and she becomes sexually insatiable, a complete fiend. She can't get enough. With most men I know, or heard of, just the opposite holds true. Delaying my orgasm for forty-five minutes to an hour, and when I finally reach my peak, it's as if the very life is drained from my being. The upside, and what I would always have over Zakia in our little games of dominance, is at the end of the day I always penetrate, and she is always the one being penetrated. As you could attest, there is a deep physiological and psychological science behind our point of vantage. To push all of that dick up in her, the strength, the aggression, to ejaculate inside of her, there is nothing she could come up with in her arsenal, naturally, to duplicate that. And for that, I will always have that advantage.

(AB): Your perspective. Does Zakia think that?

(V): Of course not. (They both laugh heartily).

(AB): Moving on to one final issue. Other forms of sex; voyeurism, threesomes, group sex. I'm sure the issue of making love to your wife is not an uncommon or foreign thing. So I'm more interested in unique forms of intimacy other couples may explore.

(V): To be honest, I never really thought about it. All of my life, when it came to women, it all boiled down to the pursuit and conquest. I had my little quirks here and there. Women who give really good head, pretty feet, mysterious eyes. But I was the type of brother that got off more on the beauty and caliber of the women I slept with, than the exploratory side. How she would look under my arm around my associates, or if she could advance some of my agendas, financially. Even then, I really didn't take them too serious. I was much more focused on my career. They were more of a stress reliever than some attempt at perfecting any sexual skills. It wasn't until I got serious with Zakia that I really got comfortable with exploring different forms of sex. Voyeurism? Again, never thought about it. I'm sure on a dare, that might be something Zakia would be willing to do. Threesomes? (Victor laughs). I've done a couple of threesomes in my past, in college. Two opportunities presented itself, I indulged. Nothing I sought out, or even pursued again. Surprisingly, not a big fantasy of mine. I actually prefer sex one on one. A threesome with Zakia? Strangely enough, I never really thought about that either. I'm assuming you mean with another woman, because I would never willingly share her with another man. But with another woman? Again, it never even crossed my mind. Trust me when I tell you, Zakia has the energy, stamina, and creativity of five women. Hence, she is more than enough woman to keep up with in the bedroom, without the inclusion of another. Now that you mention it, not that I would actually pursue it, but I am very curious as to how Zakia would respond if I threw out the idea to her. When we watch pornos with one man and two women, she surely doesn't shy away from it. In fact, to my recollection, she actually gets more aroused. I'm just trying to visualize a picture in my head of how she would respond to another woman in bed with us. Interesting. Would she scare the shit out of her? Dominate and control her? What if the woman was just as aggressive as her? (Victor momentarily loses himself in thought). Group sex? You mean like three or four brothers, and three or four sistas, all going at it together? (Victor laughs again, heartily). No. Absolutely not. I'm positive nothing like that would ever happen between us. I know I'm not interested in something like that. Knowing Zakia, if a scenario like that did ever present itself, Zakia would be sure to scare them off. She's like a damn dictator. I could see, and hear, her now: 'All of the hard dicks on the left side of the room. Women, on your right. Assume the position. Alright, now everyone – fuck!' (Victor and Dr. Black laugh.)

(AB): I guess that says it all. Well, my brother, (Dr. Black rose from the couch, extends his hand) as always it was a pleasure.

(V): No, the pleasure was all mine.

Case File #35 – Victor & Zakia

Zakia's six-inch, black leather, thigh-high boots clicked in a rhythmic rap. Each step became a slow tap dance across their polished hardwood kitchen floor. She secured a bottle of Patron, her drink of choice, retrieved a very expensive crystal tumbler, splashed some in. She knocked down four shots, back to back.

"Delicious."

Strong liquor had the distinct ability to prime and program her mind up to do the most deliciously wicked things, and for a night just as that night, those four shots were just a prelude of what was about to go down.

"Oh where, oh where has my little toy gone? Oh where, oh where can he be?" Zakia sang in a hypnotically fluffy voice that floated across a whisper silent kitchen. She retraced her steps, backtracked out of the kitchen, her stride long and deliberate, and took steps up the spiral staircase to the second floor.

"Come out, come out wherever you are."

Her steps took her past the open bathroom door...wait a minute. She took a step back, did a double take: a full-length mirror lined the entire sidewall.

Immaculate.

Zakia smiled devilishly. She found herself entranced by her reflection. Oh, if only her coworkers could see her now. The image she garnered over the years, and her authoritative stance, shook most of those she encountered to their core. Ice Queen. Ball Crusher. Death in stilettos. Those humorous epithets paled in comparison to how they would label her at the moment.

Hair loose, her auburn-tinted dreads flowed freely down to the center of her back. A mask of heavy make-up adorned powerful features – thick, black eyeliner, a heavy coat of black lipstick enhanced her already thick kissers, blush, mascara. Around her neck, a black leather choker with one-inch silver spikes.

So decadent. So immoral.

Not nearly as immoral as her outfit.

A black leather corset stitched up the front to prop up her exposed breasts. Thin black straps tied her ensemble down in the back as tight as those ties would permit to pronounce her hourglass shape, and expose her flat, unblemished brown stomach; a thin string of diamonds dangled from her pierced belly button. Elbow-length, tight, black leather gloves. One hand clutched the bottle of Patron, in the other, a crystal tumbler. A black leather, bikini-style bottom, the face very skimpy, no more than two inches wide in diameter, the sides, thin leather straps; the crotch was conveniently sliced from the yoni to the rear.

Very easy access to gain access inside her.

Thin, white ropes graced her ensemble, an addition courtesy of Zakia. Two of them were circled around her breasts, swelling them to firm cantaloupes; her nipples stood out like fleshy chocolate beads, a little smaller than M&M's, both much sweeter. One was tied tightly around her waist, circled all the way down both thighs to her calves. The restraint trapped blood in select areas to stimulate specific erogenous zones; it heightened her arousal, left her sensitive to the touch.

The ensemble, the additions, made her feel so kinky, so constrained, yet ironically, so in control.

Zakia made it to their bedroom, and stood in the doorway with her hand on her hip.

"There he is," she said lively at the first sight of Victor sprawled out across their massive king-sized; he lay naked aside from his boxers. He popped up from his reclined position at her swift arrival, scrambled for the TV remote, and fumbled with the buttons to click the power on a huge seventy-six-inch on the far wall; he failed miserably.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Zakia kissed her teeth, and shook her head disapprovingly. "Now what did I tell you about this?" She walked over, the height of calm, and picked up the remote by his side; she shook it at him. "I thought I told you to do nothing, absolutely nothing, but sit here and think about what happens to bad little boys when they misbehave, who?" Zakia arched a single eyebrow.

"Their mistress."

"Excuse me? Speak up!" For the first time she raised her voice.

"Their mistress," Victor repeated, that time with more conviction.

"That's better. Now let's see here," Zakia's tone softened again, "Just what was my naughty little boy doing the moment I left him alone for just a few minutes?" All Zakia had to do was click the power for a screen that wasn't so cold to flash back to...a football game.

"This doesn't look like you were doing what you were supposed to be doing – prepping yourself to cater to my every demand. This looks like you were indulging in entertainment for yourself. Is that the case?"

Zakia pointed the same universal remote at an entertainment system, it lit up.

Rhianna's 'Rock Star' broke the silence in surround sound.

Victor didn't answer her, he was busted. He simply stared at her, his expression blank.

"Get the fuck over here," Zakia hissed, then she pointed a sharp finger, which held the bottle, down to the floor by her feet.

By the time she knocked back the remainder of her fifth shot, Victor crawled off the bed to approach. He stood face to face with her. With six inches holding up her thick physique, she stood practically eye level with him. She peered deep into his eyes, and quickly found herself growing irritated at his haughty stance.

"Down on your knees – now!"

$$ $$ $$

The command came out flat, direct. There was hesitation.

Victor began to comply with her demand, but not nearly as fast as she liked; she threw her hand out like a punch for the back of his head, and yanked him down with a firm thrust to her waist. Being the defiant little subject he was clearly making himself out to be, when his lips descended past her breast, he sneakily licked all over her right nipple, even wrapped his lips around her hard protruding nub for a quick suck before she got him to his knees.

"Oh, so you think you're cute?" Zakia sunk her nails into his naked shoulders; she peered down on him menacingly. Victor's response – a mewling whimper, along with a faint hiss, a product of pain fused with pleasure. "When I command you to do something, you do just that, and nothing more. Am I making myself clear to you?"

Her nails sunk in deeper, on the verge of piercing skin.

"Ye...yes, my queen," Victor exhaled in a moan, displaying a more sincere level of respect for her authority.

"Good. Now remove my boots."

Victor did as he was instructed. He reached for the tab on her right boot between her thighs, each tooth clicked in a deliberate...whizzzzzzz. Victor made sure to caress her soft, dark brown flesh as he peeled it away like a banana to reveal her calf, shin, down to her ankle. He went for the other, that time leaning in close enough to ingest a deep inhale. The sweet essence emanating from in between her thighs drew him in like love.

"Just the boots. Don't get cute, or make me have to tell you twice," Zakia threatened, staring down on him from above. "Stop trying to be slick." Victor gave her an ambiguous nod. He unzipped her other boot for Zakia to step out of it. "Good boy."

Zakia turned off from him, poured herself another shot, and made her way over to a leather recliner in the corner of the room. A quick glance over her shoulder, she caught Victor luxuriating in the way her fleshy bubble swayed with each step, how her ass cheeks spilled out the bottom of black leather to form a perfect rounded 'W'. That produced a prevailing smile.

"Now, let's start over again. How are you supposed to serve your queen?" She sunk comfortably in the plush recliner, and kicked her feet up on a matching leather ottoman.

"However my queen desires. Your every wish is my command," Victor related sincerely. He began to rise from his knees to approach her.

"What are you doing? No one said you could get up." Zakia took a light sip; she remained fixated on him with cold, blank eyes. "You come to me, but since you seem to be in need of some humility, you come to me as you are. Crawl."

Victor smirked. He thought about it for a moment as he remained on his knees, then hunched over on all fours. His movements were sleek, the muscles in his arms and shoulders contracting, flexing, the bearings of a panther stalking its prey, his waist slimming, the outline of his dangling manhood swinging like a pendulum from side to side behind a thin veil of black silk.

Zakia remained stoic, a queen perched on her throne; her only movements, an occasional blink, along with a calculated circling of her index finger around the rim of the tumbler that sat on the arm of the recliner.

There was an engraved sterling silver basin by her feet, half-filled with water. A fluffy white washrag floated stilly on the surface. No instructions were necessary. A slice of her eyes from the basin to her feet would suffice. Well, one more time back to the basin. Victor proceeded to wash her. That wasn't the first time he performed such a ritual, only the first time under the guise of punishment.

Once he cleaned them to satisfaction, he leaned over and took her pinky toe into his mouth. He paid attention to each toe in turn, worked his way up to the big one, being mindful of her other foot; his powerful hand caressed and massaged it with the delicate touch of an expert masseuse. Their eyes remained locked the whole time, both engaged in the task of scrutinizing their significant other; Zakia trying to detect traces of arrogance; Victor, fragments of pleasure in his stolid mistress.

A game in which they both took pride in winning. A game which left them both forced to accept a stalemate. That is, until…wait...wait…yeah. Just an inkling of weakness on Zakia's end, a crack in the cement, pushed Victor to lean in experimentally, and plant soft pecks on her right ankle, shin, lower calf, inner knee, all the while closing the distance with his sights set in a direct line in between her thick, brown thighs.

$$ $$ $$

"What are you doing?" Zakia posed ambiguously; she got nothing from Victor. "And what are you looking at?"

Victor didn't even attempt to divert his actions, or his eyes, from directly in between her thighs.

"Heaven," he sighed passionately.

He ran his tongue slowly across her flesh, made a deliberate line up in between her inner thigh.

"Did I give you permission to do that?" Another frigid look, another light sip. No attempt on her end to thwart his advances.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but your command was to serve you, my queen. Allow me to serve you," Victor reminded.

His hands massaged her inner thighs, he parted them at his leisure, hiked them up to his broad shoulders. The velvety folds of her dark chocolate, moist lips flowered open, slightly, as if a delicate breeze in mid-June ruffled her secret curtains. His parting of her thighs left her totally exposed, the wide-open crotch of her leather bikini bottom allowed for no interference.

He closed the distance, neared her center. Impassioned licks of his tongue, lips kissed, mouth sucked on the soft flesh between her inner thighs, he traveled up slow and deliberate till he finally reached his destination. Victor spread her second fleshy lips open in the most lewd manner, two fingers rolled back that protective layer of flesh that kept her secret hidden, opened her, left her totally exposed, a soft tongue drew delicate, deliberate circles around her protruding clit.

"You serve your queen well," Zakia purred, with fragments of passion filling her voice. She dipped her index finger inside the tumbler, circled her finger in alcohol, and ran the wet tip around her nipple. "But it appears that your actions are more self-serving, than selfless."

She sucked her finger clean, embraced the back of his head. She pressed him deeper in her center, rubbed her pussy all over his face, and forced his lips and tongue to get further acquainted with the inner recesses of her fleshy walls. She tucked him in so deep the entire lower half of his face was practically gone.

"Ooooh...serve me. That's it. Serve your queen, you peasant," Zakia breathed. She rolled her slick, alcohol-coated nipple between two fingers, squeezed it, harder, harder, until she winced pleasurably under the pressure. "Don't you ever fucking defy me again. Do you hear me? You do as you're told, and nothing more. Understand?"

"Um hmm," Victor mumbled.

His mouth never left her nectar, his tongue never stopped licking, his lips never stopped sucking. He could sense his wife, her mode in mistress, teetering on the edge. He set out to nefariously tip the scales, shift the balance of power in his favor. Authoritative to subservient. His fingers tore open the already gutted slit in her crotch even further, tore that expensive designer piece of lingerie in half; he dug his face in deeper. He started to munch and suck on her flesh with fervor.

"You...you piece of shit! You destroyed my...that cost over...ohhh, you motherfucking...piece...of ...you're gonna...fucking pay for that!" Zakia chanted.

She held Victor's head so tightly against her open snatch she came dangerously close to suffocating him. He continued on, tickled her g-spot with two curling fingers, conquered her with the 'come-here' trick. He licked, munched, hummed, his tongue hammered her clit in soft taps, sucks, until he dug deep enough in her well to tap the geyser. Zakia broke, opened a spring in her waterfall she really didn't want to open, a reservoir of orgasm from that little slice of heaven that her defiant little servant sucked out, and savored.

"You...bastard. You fffffucking...bastard!" Zakia ranted behind panted breaths. She squirmed frantically in her seat, tried to wiggle away from the savagery of his sucking, escape the persistence of his tormenting tongue. "Ok, that's...it. Enough. I said...you had enough!" She tried to nudge his head out from in between her thighs.

She struggled to no avail.

Victor reverted to such a greedy little nymph. The sweet essence he siphoned from her sex marked a silent victory for him.

"Dominate me? Picture that. I own this shit!"

A wet finger coated in her climax found her back door, her kryptonite. He rubbed it delicately, gently, applied pressure, slipped it into the first digit, continued licking.

"What did I...tell...you? I told you to...ohhh...I said...that's it. Stop trying…stop trying to turn me out, you motherfucker," Zakia whined, conflicted from the sensation. She was torn, needed to recalibrate. Unsure if she should squirm away from his touch, and regroup, or allow him to continue, and conquer.

"You don't ever…like to listen. I told you to... oh, you greedy fucking bastard!" Zakia cried in a throaty moan.

Another valve opened, another wave of an explosive orgasm shot through her body like electricity, that second cascade shook her to her core. She could feel it pouring out from in between her thighs. Victor was actually sucking the life out of her, literally, draining the very essence from her being, and the motherfucker wouldn't stop.

''That's what you get for trying to run shit. You can't fuck with me. I run this!"

"You stupid motherfucka!" Zakia hissed, collecting her breath, along with her composure. She finally managed to separate his lips from her center, nudge his head out from in between her thighs. "Did I tell you to do all of that? Did I? When I command you to stop, you fucking stop!" Zakia shoved him away with a foot to his chest; he landed firmly on his ass a few feet away.

Zakia situated herself in the recliner, her chest rose and fell in a light pant, a film of perspiration glistened across her forehead. She scraped together the remaining traces of dignity she clearly lost in their brief battle, and pierced Victor with evil squinted eyes. A perverse, victorious smirk rippled across his lips. The whole lower half of his face was drenched, practically dripping in her essence. In the process of attacking that pussy, his erection popped out through the slit of his boxers. It pointed like a flagpole to the ceiling. Neither of them could deny what he was doing.

Exploiting her weak spots.

To slip a finger in her back door, with his tongue on her clit, after he already made her orgasm, that was one of her weaknesses, her button to push to open the floodgates. And he pushed it perfectly. Knocked her down off her high horse, obliterated her cocky little stance, the sought after position of authority she tried to wield like a weapon, and reduced her to a whimpering, moaning, shriveling feminine wreck. She found herself steamed at the role-reversal he managed to pull off.

"Mercy's for the weak," he always reminded. He was right.

For that, he had to pay.

$$ $$ $$

"Get the fuck up. Get your ass in the bed!" Zakia commanded. She branded a cat-o-nine-tails menacingly in her right hand. "Take those off before you even take another step!"

The leather tails of her twelve-inch whip kissed a light sting across Victor's muscled back. He shred his boxers in two steps, kicked them off to lie on his back, nude, across the center of their bed. All traces of delicacy vanished from Zakia's being. She stalked him, walked a half circle around the foot of the bed, dragged her tool of torture along his legs, waist, chest, arms. Victor remained attentive, obediently complying to her every demand with a silent vigilance.

His eyes kept finding Zakia's secret spot; from her crotch, and all the way down to the center of her thighs, a shiny film of moisture glowed like an over application of baby oil. But that there was no baby oil. He did that. That was his work. Yeah, he pushed the envelope on their little battle of dominance, but that was just the right recipe to bring out the beast in Zakia.

"Mercy's for the weak."

"You don't like to listen. You're a hard-headed motherfucka." The whip whisked through the air, slashed across the top of Victor's naked thigh. On Victor's end, no reaction. Zakia walked methodically to circle the bed. "So I got just the right punishment to teach your not knowing how to listen ass." The bottom of his feet felt the sharp sting of those thin strips of leather. "I'm gonna teach your ass how to listen if it's the last thing I do."

Zakia brought that whip down for a final time across his abs, that time harder than all of the previous times combined; it echoed in their spacious room. Victor flinched for the first time, tightened his jaw, teeth clenched, hissed.

Zakia smiled.

She could break him. Break him like every other time in the past. She quickly straddled him, sat on his thighs. The unintended invitation of all that ass, so close, just within hands reach, was too tempting – Victor reached down to fill both hands full of her fleshy cheeks. He palmed it in a grip so tight that he sliced her lewdly open from behind.

"You're really gonna keep testing me, aren't you?" It took some effort, but Zakia peeled his hands from her backside; she lifted them over his head. "Your behavior is only making things worse."

There were padded handcuffs attached to the outer rinds of their headboard. Victor resisted, slightly. Not fully fighting her aggression, more for show, like she was really overpowering to take him. He could have easily bucked her one hundred and sixty pounds frame from over him like a wild bull, tossed her clear across the room, but what fun would that have been? So with a little fight in him, he allowed her to cuff his left wrist, then his right above his head.

"Now, you're gonna apologize. Beg me for my forgiveness for your total lack of respect."

Zakia pointed a sharp finger in his face. The hint of a smirk that began to really piss Zakia off twitched on the corner of Victor's top lip. He said nothing. They held each other's gaze, a battle of wits, a mental standoff, until Victor flinched forward to lick the tip of her finger. Zakia slapped him lightly across the cheek.

"You think this shit is a joke? You know, you're really trying the last little bit of my patience," Zakia growled through clenched teeth. She sunk her nails into his chest, came dangerously close to breaking skin. Victor let out a pleasurable sigh, still no words, no concession. She leaned over, dove at his neck, her teeth found the exposed side of his jugular.

Zakia bit down, sunk her fangs into his flesh, even tugged at him like a wild animal to tear at his skin. The handcuffs rattled above his head, left Victor helpless underneath her. All he could do was squirm, moan, and accept that slice of delectable torture. With each powerful rake of her nails down his chest, or clutch of his flesh between her jaws – she seemed to almost instinctively know just when to release the pressure before she drew blood – Victor's erection ballooned up in spurts. Zakia felt his pressure against her thigh; she cut her eyes down to it.

"Hmmm, and just what do we have here?" Zakia wrapped her hand around him at the base. "You got the nerve to think you actually deserve pleasure after all the shit you pulled?"

She tugged at his hardness, pimp-slapped it silly from side to side like that hardened slab of masculinity disrespected her personally; an abuse that coincidentally stiffened him even harder. He felt like a flesh rock between her nimble fingers.

She squinted at him, smirked.

Yet again, as the evening unfolded, still early into the night, and she could see the pendulum of power swinging back in her favor. Maintain her position. No mercy. Zakia sunk her teeth into the side of his neck again, hard, bit and almost drew blood, softened, licked and sucked his injury. His shoulder, bit hard, licked, sucked. Proceeded in that hard-soft process down over his chest, nipples, abs until she made it to his stiff erection.

She lifted her eyes to peer up at him, and melted into a wicked snarl.

"O...ok, ok, I'm sorry," Victor said, finally expressing genuine signs of fear from the intense look in her eyes. Zakia flashed her teeth up at him in an exaggerated smile, chattered her teeth a few times like a human wind-up chatterbox. "Za...Zakia, for real. Al...alright, don't...not there. Don't...don't bite me there," Victor chanted, twisting his arms in the handcuffs, trying to squirm from the demented presence hovering over his erection.

"Oh, so now you're not so tough anymore, are you?" Zakia mocked. Her lips closed the distance to the head of his erection, so close Victor could feel the heat of her breath warming him. "Let's see here. Now just what should I do to a defiant, disrespectful motherfucka like you?"

$$ $$ $$

Zakia no longer paid attention to Victor.

His rock hard erection less than an inch from her face held her sole attention.

A clear drop of pre-cum bubbled up on the tip. Zakia squeezed his dick up for it to overflow and roll down the underside of his shaft. She quickly leaned in to lick it up, from the base, all the way to the head, then wrapped her teeth around the tip. She lifted her gaze up to him again, met eyes, with only the head of him in her mouth, and sunk her teeth into him lightly.

"Ok, Ok! Zakia, I should have...yo, chill. Aghhh, shit! Alright! Alright, I should have listened...to you," Victor chanted, conflicted from the feeling. Hard and soft, her warm, wet mouth, the soft suck, back to the light bite. A soft, wet tongue, then teeth. She repeated the process – pleasure mixed with pain, agony with desire. "Zakia, I may have crossed the line when…"

"Why do you keep calling me that? Zakia? How are you to address me adorned in this attire?" Zakia squeezed a tight grip on his shaft, and gave it a firm yank as if she was trying to pull it off.

"Mistress," Victor blurted. Zakia's eyes lower slits. She didn't let up off the pressure, she gritted her teeth, and squeezed him even tighter. "Your highness," Victor hurled, popping any title of nobility that came to mind. With the other hand, Zakia reached for his balls; she wrapped them tightly in her clutch, squeezed. "My queen! MY QUEEN!" Victor chanted, staring down on her with terrified eyes.

With both of her hands filled with his crown jewels, and her mouth, more specifically, her teeth, hovering menacingly over him, Victor knew he was completely at her mercy.

"Better," Zakia sighed.

She softened her hard stance, gently massaged his bloated sac, stroked the length of his shaft delicately; punished him with the hard, then rewarded him with the soft.

"But you were still such a disrespectful motherfucka. So disrespectful. Grabbing at my ass so crazy like that when nobody told you to. Ripping my expensive lingerie in two, destroying it. Licking at my chest, my delicious nipples. Eating from my garden, indulging in its forbidden fruit, even drinking from the fountain of youth as if you are worthy of such divine nourishment. You defied me. Tried to make a mockery of my authority. This cannot, and will not, be tolerated."

Zakia held his erection less than an inch from her mouth, brushed her lips up against the head of his dick, swiped it over the surface, spoke to him as if she was speaking to it. What appeared to be an accidental sweep between her lips, or swipe of her tongue over the head, was clearly no accident. She could feel how each word of chastisement hurled down on him excited Victor all the more. Each sharp scold enticing him, each harsh rebuke throbbing him more intently between her fingers.

"You're nothing but a mortal. You're not worthy enough to partake in the pleasures of the gods. For your act of disobedience, Icarus, flying too close to the sun, you need to be punished. Severely punished. I'm sorry. But this is the only way you will learn."

Zakia wrapped her warm, wet lips around him. She sucked on him so passionately, and slid her hand so smoothly up and down his saliva-coated shaft it tickled him. She fed on him like a ravenous harlot, until she engulfed nearly two/thirds of him down her throat.

"That's...that's it, my queen. Pun...punish me. I fucked up. I'm such a...disrespectful, ungrateful, stupid motherfucka. Nothing but a mortal. A pea...peasant. Don't...let me...get away with...no stupid shit... like that. I…I deserve to be...ohhh, yeah, I deserve to be...punished for...for my disobedience," Victor popped in ecstatic breaths.

He stared down on her in complete admiration.

Zakia worked him over so beautifully with her eyes closed, so focused, so intense, sucking softly, a delicious rhythm, licking on the head in her mouth, feeding more of his stick between her lips, deep throating him while stroking him tenderly with a circular twist of her wrist, that Victor wasn't quite sure who was more into it – him or her.

He was getting close. His moans traveled throughout the room, handcuffs rattled, his arms flailed in their binds above him until he clutched tight fistfuls on the headboard. He thrust his hips up in her face in short jabs, his body tensed up. The moment Zakia sensed his imminent release, she exploded her lips and hand from his erection to shut down all sensation in an instant.

"NO! No!" Victor blurted, as if she yanked the plug on his life support machine, "Don't stop. Keep...keep punishing me. I fucked up. Teach me a lesson. Keep teaching me...a lesson," Victor pleaded in a whiny voice.

"Oh, don't worry. I will. I'm gonna punish your ass till you learn. I promise you that," Zakia insisted with a mischievous smirk.

She waited several moments, long enough for Victor to calm down, gave his erection that throbbed so uncontrollably some time to recover, then went right back to work on him. The process was repeated slowly, at least four more times over the course of a half hour, left him with blue balls, until she reduced Victor into a shriveling wreck, practically crying, begging for relief.

"Shut up! Shut your fucking mouth, and stop your whining, you little bitch!" Zakia hurled like a capture with no conscience on inflicting torture on her victim. She slapped him across the face for good measure. "That shit ain't cute no more, is it? In fact, that was only the beginning. Let me stop playing games with you. Mercy's for the weak, remember? Your words. Not mine. You only condemned yourself."

Zakia peeled that tattered bikini bottom down over her thick, chocolate thighs, tossed them across the room like trash, crawled over his waist, and squatted over him with her feet planted on the bed by his sides. She used two fingers to flower herself open right above his stiff erection.

"I'm gonna teach you..." Zakia lowered herself for her soaking wet lips that practically dripped to nibble on his head, "...not to ever..." she lowered herself a little more, swallowed him in to about a quarter, "...ever..." half, "...ever..." three-quarters, "...ever forget who the fuck you're fucking with!"

Zakia inadvertently lost her breath when she eased herself down to nestle her waist snugly in his lap; she swallowed all nine inches of him in one stroke, deep in her belly.

"Damn it! Shit!"

She had to take a moment in her mind to regain her composure.

Taunting and teasing him like that for so long, one of the longest ever, left him harder than she ever recalled him being. She could feel him in the bottom of her stomach. His erection felt like a foot of flesh steel lodged deep in her womb.

"Take a breath. Slow things down. Remember who's running the show here, who's in charge. Me. Not him. Me!"

$$ $$ $$

Zakia collected herself. She had to.

Teasing him for so long, close to forty-five minutes straight, with the intention of tormenting him, actually became a double-edged sword to wound her. Zakia enjoyed sucking Victor off. Over the years, she developed a profound love for it; the idea of his throbbing erection between her lips exciting her like no other. In their games of dominance, the scales of pleasure could be balanced in the act of intense oral.

On the one side, the pleasure he received.

On the other, the power she wielded controlling that distribution of pleasure.

A pendulum of power that swayed to and fro in the moment, but that night was different.

Fully engulfing herself in the moment, that evening, she discovered another facet of pleasure tickling him with her tonsils. Channeling the essence of Linda Lovelace, the original deep throat, Zakia found a second clitoris deep in the back of her throat. And with this newfound discovery, this revelation, Zakia unknowingly got herself so horny, so soaking wet, so hot and bothered, that when she slid all of his thickness up in herself, she slipped, and almost exposed herself. She forced herself to choke back the sounds of ecstasy dangerously close from escaping her throat from the intense pleasure she received.

Had to.

Had to hold those carnal cards close to her chest.

Bluff him after fluffing him.

She could know that in her own mind, but not Victor. He was to be punished. And punished he will be. A punishment Zakia planned out. A punishment she knew just how to administer on him, despite those newfound, unforeseen pleasurable events.

No mercy.

Zakia went back to work on his neck with her teeth, biting, nibbling, sucking as hard as suction would permit, remaining perfectly still on his stiffness. Victor tried in vain to roll his hips underneath her, get some motion going, some friction, stroke in tight wetness, all to no avail. Zakia refused, read his intentions, squirmed herself firmly on his lap, and took him in even deeper. She touched erogenous zones within herself, pokerfaced her pleasure, and successfully limited his movements to nothing.

"Stop...fucking moving," Zakia commanded through clenched teeth, controlling, refusing to be controlled. She sunk her teeth into the side of his neck again, bit, and punished him because of his unknowing pleasure. "Stop...stop trying to get your shit off."

"Zakia...I mean, your highness...I mean, my queen. Alright. Alright! You taught me. I promise you, I will never, ever disrespect you like that again," Victor professed, with his voice cracking in agony.

Zakia heard the sincerity in his voice, witnessed complete submission in his eyes. She peered down on him, contemplating, a goddess over mankind, then very slowly, and very deliberately, and very methodically, opened the gates of heaven. She lifted herself up to the head, right to the tip, and gave him two, good, up and down, soaking wet, tight strokes; in and out...in and out, Kegals on point, pussy on virginity. She massaged him within her velvety folds with more proficiency than a geisha who mastered the art of Kama Sutra.

Victor's eyes fluttered, rolled in his head, his lips twisted into a half smile, mouth agape in lust, he exhaled a throaty, "Ahhh, shit...yeeeaaahhhh," that carried throughout the entire bedroom.

Just as quick, heaven's gates were slammed closed; Zakia sat back snugly in his lap, stiff, cold, grew frigid again, cut off all forms of pleasure.

"That's it. No more. You're not worthy of such magnificence. You didn't even deserve that," Zakia taunted, massaging his chest, staring down on him with a prevailing look, back in full control.

"Stop...stop doing that shit! You're torturing me, my queen. I said I learned my lesson. What else do I have to say? What else do I have to do?"

Zakia smiled down on him, squirmed in his lap, purred, "Would you like me to continue? You'd like to feel everything I have to offer, wouldn't you?"

"Ye...Yes! Yes...please. Please!"

"Are you sorry?"

"I'm sorry. I'm soooo sorry."

"Who am I?"

"My queen! My most honorable queen. An Asiatic goddess on earth."

Zakia thought about it, concluded that was worthy of a few more strokes.

"Look at you. So pathetic. You're such a little bitch. Fucking pathetic, little, sniveling bitch."

Zakia began to ride him, slowly. Excruciatingly slow, right up to the tip, then gradually back down, easing herself deep in his lap, squirming lewdly and corkscrewing her waist on the down stroke to swallow every inch that he had to offer, staring at him with sinister eyes the whole time.

"I knew I could break you. Conquer your pathetic ass. Knew it would only be a matter of time before I made you submit."

"I'm broken, my queen. I submit. I'm a little bitch. Just please…whatever you do, don't stop. Please don't stop. I beg you. I give up. This pleasure...this pussy...it feels soooo fucking good, my queen. Just please... whatever you do...don't...don't stop."

Signaling his utter defeat, along with tingling pricks of ecstatic shocks all over her body that she fought to conceal for the last hour, Zakia conceded, did the honors.

She gradually increased the speed, the intensity, concentrated, rode up and down on his thickness so smoothly, so rhythmically, created a harmony so perfect – snapping her waist, squeezing her vaginal muscles on him, sawing her clit, pummeling her g-spot, taking him in from the tip to the hilt – that it took her mere minutes to get herself off to another earth shattering orgasm.

"You...ffffuck. Fuck! Do it. Do...it. I give you...permission...to fucking...cum. Fucking cum...now! Do it now! Fucking...cum in me!" Zakia demanded.

She pushed herself to the brink of sanity, continued to fuck Victor, hard, bounced in his lap viciously, squirmed in circles with him deep in her, determined to violently fuck the cum out of his dick. The entire bed shook, rocked, the headboard banged against the wall. A fuck so ferocious the white rope binds tying her breasts tight fell free, along with the binds threaded up her thighs.

Sweat bubbled up across her forehead, her dreads bounced chaotically, body jerked, ass twerked, she didn’t let up. Not until she accomplished her mission. Not until she heard Victor cry out in agony, and felt one of the most explosive orgasms she ever felt from her husband flooding her in torrents to fill her insides.

Zakia made sure to keep going, made sure she milked him for everything he had, tap his reservoir dry, make sure he never forgot who provided him with such a feeling. After collapsing across his chest, and panting like athletes recovering from a triathlon, Zakia finally uncuffed him to release him from his binds.

"Za...Zakia, my queen. My beautiful...Asiatic queen," Victor panted, flat out on his back, completely spent; he barely had enough energy to massage the indented rings around his wrists from the cuffs tearing into his skin, "That was…I don't know what got into you tonight, but that...that was the best nut I ever experienced," he added, slowly rolling over to prop himself against the headboard.

Zakia rolled out of bed with an indelible smile, glowing; she trudged in slow steps like a warrior who just stepped off the battlefield towards the bathroom to do some much needed clean up.

"But…" Victor's single word response, and the way he said it, stopped her dead in her tracks, "…as good as that nut was, and all of the wonderful, delightful, deliciously wicked things you managed to pull out of your bag of tricks, there's just one tincy, wincey, tiny, little problem that I think I need to remind you of."

The smile immediately fell from Zakia's face, her eyes fell closed, her head lowered to her chest.

"I didn't say those three magic words."

Zakia shot back around to face him. "No, fuck that! You copped out. I won! I had you begging like a little bitch. 'I'm broken, my queen...I submit...I'm a little bitch...Just please…whatever you do, don't stop...Please don't stop...I beg you...I give up...Just please...whatever you do...don't...don't stop'," Zakia whined, mocking his desperate pleas.

Victor laughed heartily, his deep baritone carrying.

"You're absolutely right. I was copping a plea like a motherfucka. A straight biiach! I can't lie, what you did to me tonight, how you managed to squeeze paradise around me so tight, how you were so wet, the way you blessed me with your blessings so good, I would have said anything to make sure you didn't stop. Well, almost anything. Need I remind you, my sweet Asiatic, Nubian queen, my African goddess, that wasn't the deal. Our 'safe word', our word of submission, was Pyramids of Giza. And to my recollection, that's the only word, or should I say, three words, that never came out of my mouth. Which means – you didn't win, I did!"

The painful truth smacked Zakia across the face like a street pimp handing out discipline. He was right. Whenever they indulged in the act of S&M, in that specific game they played, they always made sure to give each other 'safe words' to ensure things didn't get out of hand, or when the other person conceded. That was the bet they made several nights prior over a game of Scrabble.

Zakia won.

Victor was to be her 'servant' for the night, her mortal to praise her in worship.

One who was the most unbecoming in defeat, Victor posed another challenge of his own: run it back, double or nothing. Why not? He would win that second game, so he thought. And even if he didn't, it wouldn't matter anyways. There was no way, regardless of what she doled out, that she would ever be able to make him cop out, and say those three words of concession.

Zakia laughed at the thought of it. Easy money as far as she was concerned. Second game, she blew him out. Chalk that up as two nights she would have him at her complete disposal.

Yet, as she took inventory of him reclined across the headboard – the various teeth marks, the fingernail scratches painted all over his upper half, even what appeared to be three or four hickies tarnishing his neck and chest – she had to admit that no matter what she put him through, even the new addition of delaying his orgasm in oral for the longest record to date, she didn't succeed in making him cop out.

Zakia sucked her teeth, rolled her eyes at him, and turned to storm out of the room.

"And oh, hey baby, by the way…" Victor called out, "…make sure to wear something nice and humbling for next weekend. Preferably the French maid outfit – with no panties. I don't want any interference. I plan on going straight to work on you, because I know I'm gonna have to practically kill you to make you gracefully bow out. I will. Make you bow out, that it. And if I don't," Victor shrugged, "I can assure you, I'm gonna have a fucking field day tearing your ass up trying to make you wave the white flag."

Date: April 9th, 20—

Time: 10:11 am

Case File #30Z – Personal Interview

Client: Zakia

Dr. Anonymous Black (AB): Zakia, good morning. Or should I say afternoon. How you doing today?

Zakia (Z): (Zakia enters the office; black sunglasses, leather coat, sips latte). Dr. Black. (Her hand circled around his, she squeezed in an authoritative grip). Is there any special reason why you decided to schedule our meeting without Victor present? (She casually removed her sunglasses, held Dr. Black with intense auburn eyes).

(AB): (Smirks) As always, directly to the point. Actually, there is. I wanted to have this session with you without Victor because I wanted to change things up a little. Do things different.

(Z): (Zakia removed her coat, blindly pushed it out to Dr. Black, along with her empty latte cup; she took inventory of the office) I like what you've done with the place. This reeks of a woman's touch, a feminine...je ne sais quoi. Kiara, I assume?

(AB): You assume correctly. The woman is gifted.

(Z): Aren't we all. (She rests comfortably in a brown leather loveseat). So just what would you like to discuss today, without my husband present?

(AB): I was hoping we could take things back a little. Like to the beginning.

(Z): The beginning of what? Our sessions?

(AB): No. When you first met Victor.

(Z): (Peers blankly at Dr. Black for a moment, a flicker returns to her eyes). I find it quite rude that you never bothered to offer me a drink. Did you extend the same courtesy to my husband during his session six days ago?

(AB): (Smiles). I apologize. Where's my manners. (Fixes two stiff ones, hands one to Zakia). Now, where were we?

(Z): The beginning, when I first met Victor, correct? Well, I met him at a charity event. I was there networking, trying to broaden my business base, looking to see if there were any prospective sponsors when I spotted him. Within his small circle, I noticed immediately. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was six-foot-four, dressed immaculately in a Brioni suit, Balenciaga wingtips, incredibly physically fit, and the only black man amongst them. Besides that, there was such a (pauses to think, reflect) powerful aura about him. Even at a distance, I could determine every time he spoke, that he had complete control of not only himself, but of everyone around him. I didn't approach him immediately. No. I wanted to watch. I simply stood off to the side, analyzed him, observed how he conducted himself. A lot can be told about a man by the way he conducts himself amongst his associates, especially when he isn't aware someone is his watching his every move. Passivity, dominance, aggression, all told through body language and subtle gestures, or the gestures not made. I waited almost forty-five minutes before I finally approached him. I'm sure I took him by complete surprise. I made a b-line straight to him, and stood only a few feet away, encroached on his personal space of course, as I introduced myself. Victor and his associates completely froze, deer caught in the headlights. (Smiles warmly). I always tend to throw men a little off balance when I make a move on them. I enjoy this. It normally sets the stage on the course of how our relationship develops. I enjoy witnessing the arrogant ones squirm, or portray a false sense of bravado as I mentally strip them down, which is so childishly transparent in some cases that it's almost comical. Victor was different. He didn't display that. In the beginning, I could sense that I rattled him. My dark skin, the dreads, how I spoke with firm assertion, looked him directly in his eyes. But it was as if he could see through me, detect the miniscule traces of vulnerability within me despite my outward aggression. Most men fail to recognize this, which is quite surprising now that I think about it, considering I only date powerful, profession men with considerably high IQ's. Maybe it was because most of the men I've dated a few years prior to Victor were white professionals who most likely held the stereotypical view that sadly some of my sisters connote; we are all gold digging, money hungry, heartless wenches. I admit, my aggression may have only fed this distorted caricature, but they were no different in fulfilling stereotypes as well. Most of them tended to be so shallow, so surface, so consumed with materialistic gains and indulging in the entertaining whims of the elite that they failed to see the duality in a woman like myself. They preferred the more…simplistic side of a woman. A woman who would conform and submit. A woman who would be content with a slew of major credit cards at her complete disposal, day visits to the spa, shopping sprees, nightly rendezvous in expensive restaurants. A trophy to flaunt in front of his associates and friends as some sort of prize, evidence of the spoils of his success. Preferably very young, very blonde, very petite, and most notably, very naïve, and very persuadable. Clearly nothing like myself. In the end, in their eyes, I could simply be explained away as a cold, money hungry, greedy black bitch with a 'take no prisoners' mentality, instead of a headstrong diva with determination and drive.

(AB): And Victor? He didn't view you in that light? As this 'cold, money hungry, greedy black bitch' as you so eloquently phrased it.

(Z): Not at all. Frankly, I didn't think he would, which is why I'm sure I was so drawn to him in the first place. A black man in a predominantly white business world. I'm sure he encountered countless acts of racism and stereotypes which he fought hard to dispel, if not to prove himself, then to shatter any misconceived myths about our culture as a whole. So I'm sure confronted with the likes of me, even if he hadn't dealt with other aggressive black women in his past – sisters, mother, aunts, nieces, cousins – he didn't automatically take on face value the image I portrayed to be the whole picture. I'm also sure based on his looks and status in life that other aggressive women approached him in his past. Women like myself are becoming more and more common nowadays. Go-getters, women who take the reins of their future, shatter the proverbial glass ceiling, instead of simply allowing circumstances to dictate the course of their lives. Confident women who know exactly what they want, and simply go after it, which is exactly what I've done. I'm sure what separated me from the other women in his past, which he found out in hindsight, is I became somewhat of an enigma. Not to mention he could immediately detect that I was putting him through a variety of different tests. After encountering different men in the past, and wasting months, or even years, trying to determine if they were suitable partners, or if I was simply wasting my time, I came up with a few methods which would allow me to weed out those who masked the image of confident men, in contrast from someone who wasn't faking a front. Hence, someone worthy of my time. It begins on our first date. I insist that we dine at a very upscale restaurant, then order lavishly; expensive wine, appetizers, top of the line courses, the works. I then gauge them, study how they conduct themselves. Most would automatically assume I'm that money hungry wench who will bleed them of their entire life worth like a human leech, and begin to act accordingly; distant, shallow, they mentally checked out. But then, at the end of the date, I give them a little surprise: I always pay. Not Greek, I pay for the whole tab, his tab included. This normally throws a nice little monkey wrench in their psyches. With Victor it didn't, which I found highly intriguing. Most men would feel emasculated, I undercut them, took their power. For those who last past this stage, that's where the fun really begins. Being that I already disorientated them, they try to reestablish some control by concluding the evening. No. I insist on a nightcap. For those who are worthy, sure, why not. The test isn't over until I say it's over, and I'm not done having my fun yet. When we arrive back at my place, or his, instead of the subtle flirting, the teasing, the innuendo of the chase, playing the little 'hard-to-get' song and dance routine, I initiate ...relations to further rattle them. Some may consider this easy, promiscuous. For one, who the fuck cares? For two, I'm very selective on who I sleep with, who I invite to my bed, who I welcome into my mouth, and in between thighs. Prophylactics always. If not, I insist on reviewing medical files before any bodily fluids are exchanged. But once they meet my approval, once I decide to suck a dick, or fuck a dick, I always give it my all. Sort of like what I did to Victor. I fucked his fucking brains out, gave him the night of his life. But over time, yet again, he surprised me. Nothing I did could shake him. Then the pesky little fuck tried to dominate me.

(AB): This bothered you?

(Z): In the beginning. You see, very few women truly know how to harness the extreme, immense, almost mythical power of pussy. Since the beginning of recorded history, men have fought wars, spilled blood, and conquered nations motivated by the power of persuasion that could be channeled, and harnessed, by that sweet, wet, tight, delicious passage between our thighs. We, women, are always the ones in the shadows, truly running things behind the scenes, even if it appears that men are, on the surface. This has been the truism since the conception of Eve and her dominance in the garden. Unfortunately, a million millennium later, and Victor still can't seem to get this concept through his thick head.

(AB): Correct me if I'm wrong, but your tone leads me to believe your pursuit for Victor could be likened more to a mission to complete. A challenge.

(Z): Aren't all relationships?

(AB): All relationships pose challenges, but to label them challenges in it of itself?

(Z): Semantics. (Waves hand dismissively). In every relationship, the challenge begins upon first contact. Business and personal. With nearly all of the men in my life, business and personal, I've not only lived up to the challenge, I've been proven victorious. (Ponders a moment) Is it a coincidence, or simple fate, that the one man I dated, married, named Victor...(for the first time Zakia smirks)...is the one man that I've finally met my match in?

(AB): Moving on to different aspects of your relationship. How do you feel about your intimacy?

(Z): Our sex life? It's great. How do I know this, because I say it is.

(AB): Do you think Victor would feel the same way about it?

(Z): I just said it was great, didn't I? That means it's great for him too. I told you, I fully understand, harnessed, and learned how to unleash the power of my pussy. Power that I wield with the focus and discipline of a Shaolin monk. As I said before, when I decide to fuck, and for my husband, make love, I give it my all. I love giving oral, and my throat is deep. My pussy is soaking wet, virgin tight, and has a grip stronger than a black fist. And when he's been an exceptionally good boy, I even allow him the bonus of a pleasure very, very few men can boast of indulging in – getting in my ass. So yes, I can speak with confidence for Victor and assure you, he has no complaints about our sex life.

(AB): Last question. Same topic. In your relationship, you appear to be the one in control, calling all of the shots.

(Z): You're very perceptive.

(AB): But have you ever consulted Victor on if he would like to pursue other kinds of sexual practices?

(Z): Such as?

(AB): Exploring the inclusion of another person, maybe persons. Group sex. Voyeurism. Role-playing.

(Z): (Zakia laughs). You mean a threesome, with another woman? Why on earth would Victor ever need any other woman beside me? He has a hard enough time handling me, alone, than to consider the inclusion of another. Which would mean...I'm sure you're not implying that I...(swallows hard)... entertain the notion of...sleeping with two men, simultaneously. Not to say that I couldn't handle... (swallows hard for a second time)...two men at once. I can handle anything. They couldn't handle me. It's just...(swallows yet again)...I'm sure that wouldn't suit Victor's tastes. So no. Neither my husband, nor myself, will be entertaining women, or...(one last time)...other men. Group sex, in the presence of others, voyeurism? Teaching other queens their power, through a firsthand visual, of myself? (Smiles warmly, adjusts herself in her seat, relaxes). Sounds so carnal, so primal...so domineering. Interesting. Thank you. I must give that some further thought. Role-playing? (Chuckles). As I'm sure you're aware of, Victor and I indulge in, I guess you could say, role-playing. Although I would prefer to consider them...more like little reminders, exercises which helps to remind the other person of their position.

(AB): S&M, sadomasochism, domination.

(Z): Oh, but of course. Absolutely. (Licks lips deliciously, eyes twinkle). I told you, relationships are simply challenges, and one must always be able to live up to the challenge. Victor and I established perfect harmony in nearly every aspect of our relationship. Finances. Family. Career objectives. Our social standing as a couple. When it comes to sex, what Victor and I engage in are...games. Games where power and subjugation are the sought after objectives. This is how we maintain our equilibrium in the bedroom.

(AB): How can there be equilibrium if one of you has to fail in order for the other to succeed?

(Z): (Laughs). Success and failure in certain arenas of life are subjective. It's all perception. Even if it appears on the surface that I failed, I'm sure in some form or fashion, I succeeded. So what could be construed as a failure on my part in my occasional role as a submissive, could actually be a success if I accomplish what I set out to accomplish. I'm well aware of my power as a woman, sometimes I just feel it's my duty to give him a little incentive to remind him of his real power as a man.

(AB): And with that, that's our time for today. As always, you know it was an honor and a pleasure traveling with you.

(Z): I know it was.

Case File #37 – Victor & Zakia

Zakia rapped her fingernails across the glass windowpane.

Slow, rhythmic, methodic.

She peered out into the distance. As far as the eye could see, she took in nothing but a blanket of pure white. Meteorologists predicted Mother Nature to unload at least six feet of snow on that side of the world. At least they were almost spot on for once; a little over five and a half feet accumulated within the last six hours, and by all accounts, they were closing in on the tail end of it.

The storm was predicted to be such a nuisance – wind gusts, low visibility, hail and ice – that news and radio broadcasts warned the entire state to remain indoors at all costs. No work. No State activities. No movement outdoors for the next forty-eight hours, at least. Thousands of predicted power outages. A statewide state of emergency. A real pain in the ass for anyone in the state.

It was still such a beautiful sight to behold.

So powerful, so peaceful, so serene.

It couldn't have been more than twenty degrees out there; not much of a wind chill at the time. Just sheaths and sheaths of snowy white crystals trickling out of a light grey sky blanketing everything in sight. Zakia wasn't affected by it. Not in the least. She stood relatively comfortable on the other side of those double-glass, patio doors to their townhouse suite. A crackling fireplace, a massive plush pink robe, insulated Koala bear slippers, along with a mug of steamy cocoa kept her nice and cozy.

Victor on the other hand, he wasn't so fortunate.

Instead of allowing mounds of snow to accumulate and freeze up on their property, every couple of hours he bundled up to take on Mother Nature's onslaught to shovel the walkway and driveway clean to avoid the monumental task of doing such back-breaking work on the whole; he had to get their cars out in the morning, had to handle business by any means.

At least he was getting a pretty good workout. A few hurried steps guided a shovel across the driveway to plow it into the street. Huffs and grunts followed perfect arches in body movements as he hurled pound after pound of shovel's full of snow over his shoulders onto the lawn and street. He began to feel it in his entire body, mainly in his arms, shoulders, and stomach.

His muscles began to grow sore, a light film of sweat clung his t-shirt to his body under his heavy hoody and three-quarter inch leather; under his skullcap, he felt beads of sweat bubbling up on his forehead. Every so often, he noticed movement out the corner of his eye.

Zakia

She stood on the other side of those large, glass patio doors, with the blinds conveniently wide open, taunting him with a mocking little smirk.

"Prissy little Diva," Victor thought.

With another grunt, and a sharp roll of his eyes, he slammed the shovel into another mound to lift out a pile bigger than expected. She would appear, disappear, then reappear again as if she knew her presence would rouse in him the silent animosity she intended to incite.

"Go on, do your manly duties. Chop, chop," she said in a grand gesture on his first outing, waving him off as if he had no other choice but to submit.

She got off on shit like that.

So much for equality of the sexes, because Zakia sure did have a funny way of selectively choosing just the right moment to turn back the hands of time, take on the traditional roles of housewife and husband of the 1950’s and 60’s, play the gender card. Then again, maybe the gender card did come with some hidden benefits; she took it upon herself to use her femininity to tease him relentlessly.

When she made her debut appearance ten minutes after he set out to hit the snow, she enticed him on the other side of those dual, insulated glass doors by dramatically opening her robe to reveal a pair grey, fitted sweatpants rolled down to expose her flat stomach, well under her belly button, but hiked up enough in her nature to loudly pronounce her camel toe. A white Adidas half-shirt, altered and cut so short it tormented him from the top by displaying the lower half of her breasts, courtesy of no bra underneath; her hard nipples daggered through the fabric like pencil erasers. Her long dreads were hidden, completely concealed in a multi-colored Rastafarian style head wrap.

Victor ignored her.

On her next attempt, she swapped the sweatpants for a pair of incredibly tight, incredibly tiny white booty shorts with slits cut up the sides to the waist. A pair so tiny they displayed every inch of her baby soft, toned, milk chocolate thighs; still the same half-shirt. A seductive dance followed. She opened and closed her robe, spun around, twerked, spun back, lifted her shirt, flashed him, shook her breasts, licked her lips, laughed, tormented him. Still no reaction on Victor's end.

Last attempt, she was forced to pull out the big guns.

Victor couldn't help but to pause in mid-shovel under a truffle of light flakes at the third sight of Zakia. The robe, shorts, tiny tee, all gone. A pair of five-inch black stilettos. Thigh-high, black, fishnet stockings that cut the line under her huge, round ass to pull off the unthinkable – make it appear even bigger. A black, leather, topless camisole with ties down the front, stitching her sides in nice and tight, propping her exposed breasts up like a push-up bra; she didn't wear any panties, her auburn tinted dreads were braided into two pigtails pleated over her chest.

She donned a mask of heavy make-up – black eyeliner, lipstick, glittery silver blush – that stood out as well, but not nearly as penetrating as the mischievous glint reflected in her thin, cat eyes. She was in Mistress Mode; commanding, dominating, possessive. They both stood for a moment, suspended in time, staring at each other – studying, reading, analyzing – their momentary rift broken only when the subtle smirk Zakia wore evaporated into a snarl.

She pointed a sharp index finger down to the floor beneath her feet, stomped her foot, a silent suggestion screaming louder than words. No room to misinterpret, but Victor didn't comply. No time for games. It was too cold out for that back and forth bullshit. Maybe when he finished with that other few feet of snow he had to clear, but not at the time. Victor turned his back on her, hunched over, and with another grunt, slammed the shovel into what seemed to be an endless mound of snow.

Zakia lost her breath, eyes widened. She was livid.

She immediately stuck her head out the door, and barked, "Did you not see the order I just gave you? Get the fuck in here – NOW!"

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The chill of wind caught every harsh word she spoke like smoke, and nipped at her exposed flesh like invisible icy needles. Victor still ignored her; he grunted unintelligible words under his breath.

"Are you fucking crazy? Do you want me to come out there, and drag your ass inside?"

Victor thought about it for a moment, smiled, slurred, "Yeah, I'd like to see you try," knowing he was standing more than thirty feet away at the bottom of their driveway.

Zakia's eyes tightened to enraged slits.

"You disrespectful piece of shit. I said, get the fuck in here – right now!"

Zakia's sharp tone banged on him like gunshots. There was complete silence outside, just a slow trickling of flakes falling soundlessly out of the sky, which left Zakia's voice resonating down the block. Victor peered around him, no one in sight. That didn't mean their neighbors couldn't hear her if she kept that up.

"Kia, later. I don't have time for your games right now. Don't you see me doing something? When I'm done, we can play your little...games. Do whatever you want. Just as long as whatever you're doing warms me up, and keeps me warm," Victor said dismissively, slamming the shovel back into a section that he finally began to make headway on.

"You don't tell me when you're gonna do something. I tell you when, and what the fuck you're gonna do, how I want it fucking done. And what I want is for you to get your thick-headed, disrespectful, non-knowing how to listen ass in here RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

That time he was sure as shit stinks that the neighbors not only heard her, but seen her as well. Her naked breasts stiff and firm from the cold tightening her skin. Her sinister make-up and scandalous Mistress attire. A few closed curtains from the neighbors on both sides of them shifted sneakily to the side; shadowy spectators took in the commotion with disbelieving eyes.

"Kia, keep your voice down, and get your ass back inside. Someone's gonna call the police. You're making a scene, got everybody looking at you like you're a crazy person," Victor hissed through his teeth, shooting around to pinpoint the specific audience he knew he could never look in the eyes again; two of their neighbors on his left, one across the street; he cowered in embarrassment.

"I don't give a female flying fuck about any of them, you male prostitute bitch! You don't ever fucking defy me – EVER! When I tell you to do something – you do it!" Zakia shouted even louder, almost at the top of her lungs.

Neighbors finally opened their blinds completely, two peeked out their front doors as if to announce their presence. One gentleman had to cover the eyes of his ten-year old son when they grew to the size of tea saucers after taking in the sight of that half-naked, wild, black woman dressed like something his young eyes never witnessed, shouting obscenities. The look Victor gave her was undeniable – he was right there on the verge of exploding.

So was she.

"Are you fucking deaf, or just that stupid, you dumb, idiotic, pubescent fuck? What the fuck are you waiting for? I said…"

Victor instantly hunched over to collect a fistful of snow. Zakia read his intentions from a mile away. Before he got the chance to hurl the snowball at her, she slammed the patio door just in time for the icy ball to explode against the glass right where her face would have been.

A wicked smirk creased across his lips.

Zakia yanked the patio door back open, hissed, "If that would have hit me, you asshole, I would have seriously came out there, and fucked you up for real!" dropping the façade all together. "I was just trying to have some fun with you, but since you insist on acting like a spoiled little..."

In the middle of her outburst, Victor scooped up another pile of snow, cupped it compact in one second, in the next, slung the snowball at her like a fast pitch. The second time around Zakia wasn't so quick on the draw; she managed to slide the door halfway closed, but the ball made it through the crack, just in time to blast her on the face of her shoulder.

Zakia lost her breath in shock, the air snatched from her lungs at the impact of those icy crystals making contact with her warm, naked flesh; a spray even splattered over her chin. She winced back as if she was actually wounded when that shotgun blast of icy needles peppered her skin. It wasn't pain, more just the jolt of those icy crystals running down her chest into her cleavage, and the act of Victor actually hitting her with it.

Victor exploded into laughter.

The anger Victor experienced, quickly reaching its boiling point from her torment, was instantly lost into sheer amusement at the sight of Zakia frantically brushing away the flakes of ice that hit her.

"What happened? I thought you were gonna come out here and fuck me up, tough guy. Come do it. I'm right here," Victor pronounced, more for the show of their neighborhood audience, shaking another snowball in his hand.

Zakia didn't budge, not a single muscle. She only stared him down with dark eyes, and an even darker demeanor, as Victor did a little victory dance like he just slammed pigskin in the end zone to score the winning touchdown. It took another moment, and a look he couldn't recall his wife ever giving him in a decade of marriage, before Zakia turned, and walked away.

"Awww, did I hurt my liddle baby's feelings? Did this dumb, idiotic, pubescent, male prostitute bitch make my liddle baby cwwrrry?" Victor taunted like the schoolyard bully.

He really hoped she heard him before she closed that patio door and disappeared out of sight. He wasn't sure; he got no reaction out of her.

"Serves your ass right. You show out, act like a damn fool, yet here I stand looking like a complete jackass. How in the hell am I ever gonna invite Jacob over again for the Superbowl?" Victor thought, troubled at the smirk his neighbor flashed him before he turned back inside at the conclusion of their show.

The few other curious eyes of his neighbors slowly made their way back inside, all with Victor reinforcing his belief that he wasn't completely in the wrong in the way he brought that spectacle to a close. After the excitement waned, he simply dropped the snowball from his hand, and slammed the shovel in another knee high snow mound with force, grumbling under his breath.

"Ok. Maybe I did go a...little overboard. The effort of changing into three different outfits, within a half hour? Dancing for me, enticing me, teasing me. Fucking tormenting me actually. The last, Honorable Queen Mistress Zakia. Was that new fetish attire? Never seen that outfit before. Damn. My wife looked really, really good in that. I could only imagine what she had planned in that creative little mind of hers wearing that. My queen really didn't do anything too unusual. Just play the kind of games we normally played. Double damn."

After another fifteen minutes of shoveling, with no sight of Zakia, (he constantly checked for her every one or two) Victor began to wonder how she was taking things.

That was kinda disrespectful, a little foul.

"Fuck that! No it wasn't."

He was only playing, having fun.

Don't dish it out if you can't take it.

Can't she take a little joke? If she couldn't, that was on her.

Besides, what harm did that really cause?

$$ $$ $$

Victor finished up over a half hour later.

He trekked through the front door, shook off the snow from his shoulders, hoody, stomped his feet, attempted to bang some feelings back inside his frozen toes, and warm them up a little, looking around for Zakia. She was nowhere in sight. Most likely in the bedroom, strategizing and plotting out something really devious to make him pay for her embarrassment.

The cold shoulder? Sexual torture? No sex for several weeks?

If he was lucky. Maybe more like a month.

He thought about going in there, apologizing, explain to her he was just joking.

He changed his mind.

Why cop a plea to her? She started it. All she had to do was wait for him to get done. He was out there freezing his ass off for the last forty-five minutes, his fingers and toes were still frozen because of it, and she kept fucking with him. Look at how bad she embarrassed him, emasculated him in front of all of their neighbors, Jacob included. Being hit with a little tennis ball sized snowball was nothing compared to that.

What was the big deal?

Besides, if she couldn't take a little joke, then she could sit and stew in her anger like a baby for the rest of the week for all he cared, just as long as whatever she had planned didn't go too...

"Take that, motherfucka!"

Zakia ambushed Victor in mid-thought.

She popped up from around the hallway corner leading to their bedroom, and doused him with a full bucket of ice water. Completely blindsided, totally unprepared, she caught him flush, directly in his face and chest, almost two gallons of it soaking him through to the bone; dozens of cubed ice and a small puddle soaked the wood grain floor as it dripped from his heavy sweater and jeans. Victor was already freezing, almost an hour in the snow chilled him into a human block of ice, but the bucket of ice water soaking his clothes made him feel like he'd just went swimming in the Antarctica.

"Payback is a black, knotty, dreadlock bitch ain't it, you fucking asshole," Zakia said prevailingly. She laughed, and broke out into the very same dance he mocked her with forty-five minutes prior in the driveway.

Victor instinctively reacted – he slapped her.

Zakia couldn't believe it.

The blow from his large, cold hand wasn't that powerful, or menacing, but it did manage to snap her wide-awake.

"You...you hit me? You...you fucking hit me!" Zakia blasted at the top of her lungs.

She hooked off on Victor, retaliated, unleashed punches to his face and chest. Only a few hit Victor really good – two pummeled his chest, one rocked his chin – the rest just wild blows being thrown in untamed aggression, unloaded in anger. He bobbed and weaved like a professional boxer, dipped from side to side, dodged enough blows to contain her, but one final rake of her nails scratched him down his left cheek.

Her nails dug into his flesh, painted red marks in his cheek, a woman when enraged became a human feline, unleashing the fury of a wild cat. Victor avoided punches, scratches, grabbed Zakia by her shoulders, shoved her against the wall in the hallway leading to their bedroom; the force caused a few pictures to rattle behind her, and almost crash to the floor.

"Calm...calm your ass...down! Just...alright...relax! Kia, that's...that's enough!" he shouted, struggling to hold her in place.

It was almost impossible.

Zakia was acting like a wild woman; kicking, clawing, scratching, biting. Victor finally wrestled her to the ground. He sat on her waist, held her down, pinned both of her arms to the floor by the wrists.

"What is wrong with you? Why are you acting so crazy? For the hour you've been…"

Zakia spit directly up into his face, hurled, "Fuck you!" behind a light pant.

Her chest rose and fell in excitement. The mist of her saliva peppered his chin. He raised one hand to his face to wipe it away, tried to contain the murderous rage boiling up inside of him, but that small window of opportunity of releasing Zakia's hand gave her just enough room to go on the attack again.

That time Victor wasn't so forgiving.

After the second closed-fist blow hit him, almost split his lip, he snatched her up to her feet by her collar like she weighed twenty pounds, stood her up to face him, opponent against opponent; the flimsy, weathered, grey, extra-large Nike t-shirt she slipped on was inadvertently ripped clean in half down the middle in anger.

"You wanna...fight me?" Victor chanted, dodging her blows to tear at her clothes, "you really think you can handle me? Fight a grown man, like you're a grown man yourself?" Zakia's bra was torn from her chest; her firm breasts popped free to jiggle wildly. "Ok, you wanted to play dominatrix, right? Let's go mistress, queen bitch, Diva, whatever the fuck you wanna call yourself. I'm gonna show you how you really dominate a motherfucka!"

He reached down to clutch a fistful of the baggy shorts she put on; they were torn to shreds with a few good yanks, along with her G-string.

"I was just playing with you outside, but if you wanna act like you can handle the full weight of a man's pressure, let's see how long you can really hang!" Victor pronounced. He peeled his own soaked sweater from over his head and tossed it blindly; it sloshed on the floor a few feet away like it weighed fifty pounds.

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When he went for his t-shirt, peeling that from over his head left him momentarily blinded, just enough time for Zakia to throw out a stiff right, and pop him in the lip; the wild blow split him just a hair that time, jostled him back. Zakia broke free, and if Victor wasn't mistaken, it actually sounded like she was...laughing?

"Stay focused, you weakling, idiot fuck. How can you possibly apply a man's pressure if you're too busy running your big mouth, trying to intimidate someone who clearly can't be intimidated by words, only by act…" Zakia choked on those very words she derided him with, and made a mad dash for the living room the moment Victor gave chase.

She only made it a few steps before Victor chased her down the hallway, and quickly caught up to her; he reached for a fistful of her dreads, caught her by the back of her head. The abrupt clutch stopped Zakia dead in her tracks, she hit the floor with a thud. She moaned. Victor wasn't quite sure if it was a product of pain, or pleasure. He ripped at the buckle of his soaked jeans, tore at them in a race with time, snatched them from his waist; he peeled them off in one smooth motion right along with his boxers.

All six-feet-three, two hundred and forty pounds of him stood towered over her naked body in the middle of their hallway, naked himself, peering down on her like a gamesman who cornered a wounded animal. The taste of his own blood between his lips gave him a stimulating charge. The weight of his heavy erection swung at half mass. His dick gradually grew firm, rose from its semi-flaccid state to full steel, his black Excalibur, his flesh weapon aimed down on her in judgment.

"Look at you. Down on your back, naked, with a man over you in all ways, just like always. A helpless, weak, little...woman," Victor slurred, wrapping his large hand around his equally large dick to stroke it a few times.

"Fuck you," Zakia returned. She remained on the floor by his feet, on her ass, propped up on her elbows, staring up at him, unmoving.

Victor continued to stroke himself, squeeze himself up as proud as his pride could be, the whole time holding her with a twisted smirk. He took inventory of his wife beneath him. Faint red marks, minor scratches, evidence of their brief struggle.

She stared up at him with what appeared to be an evil mien, but her body began to move, slowly squirm. She gradually parted her thick, chocolate thighs, spread her feet out wider, lifted her legs, noticed how Victor's eyes lowered from hers to that damp reservoir between them.

Victor smirked, growled, "You're disrespectful. I should teach you some respect. I should make you suck my dick," closing the distance.

"Put that thing next to my mouth, and I'll fucking bite it off," Zakia promised.

"Oh yeah?"

Victor slapped her square on her outer left thigh; the impact echoed down the hall. Zakia flinched, mewled out a soft moan, bit her bottom lip, squirmed more. He did it again; Zakia's eyes squinted, she licked her lips.

"You ain't gonna do shit." Victor weaved his fingers through her loose dreads disheveled in their scuffle, clutched a fistful, yanked her head back, and sunk his teeth into the side of her neck. Zakia moaned again, squirmed. She did absolutely nothing to resist. "You ain't gonna do nothing but what the fuck I tell you to do." He slapped her inner thighs by her knees, knocked her thighs apart, knocked them open long enough to pounce on top of her and wedge himself in between.

"You're fucking weak, you piece of fucking shit," Zakia pronounced, sinking all ten of her Gucci-tipped nails into his chest. She made a show of trying to squirm out from underneath him when Victor wrestled to spread her thick thighs wide, squirmed, but conveniently left her legs open long enough for him to position the head of his dick at her entrance.

"You're nothing. You're not a man. Just a little, pathetic boy," she continued, clawing at his chest.

"Little boy? I'll show you a little boy," Victor slurred, ignoring her futile attempts. He slapped her lightly across her face again. Zakia rolled her eyes, refocused back on him, bit her bottom lip sexily. She continued to dig her nails into his flesh, claw at his chest, close to breaking skin.

The gesture did nothing.

"This little, pathetic boy is gonna fuck you..." Victor held his shaft at the base, swiped it between her wet lips, "...just like the weak..." he penetrated her with the head, "...helpless…" he sunk in her a few inches, "...submissive..." halfway, "...woman that you are."

Zakia was so wet that he only had to hit her off with two good strokes before he sunk all the way into her warm flesh to the hilt.

Zakia's eyes rolled behind fluttered eyelids, she lost her breath. When she found it, she panted, "Oh, you...you fu...fucking...bastard! Ohhh, shit...you...motherfucka," in a throaty moan when the full length of his thick dick sunk in to hit rock bottom.

She continued to claw at his chest, fingers gripping a tight clutch at his pecs, squeezing, nothing compared to the force she applied before. Inches of rock hard flesh deep in her belly sure had a way of taking most of the fight out of her. She instinctively spread her legs wider the moment Victor slammed his body down on her with his full weight, wide enough to swallow him in as deep as he desired. He dug up in that pussy with pounding thrusts. He held her legs wide open by her knees, and stuffed his dick up in her like he was determined to prove a point.

"You...called me...weak, a little boy? You really...got...no fucking clue...do you? You could...never win...against me."

He easily overpowered her, fucked her, hard, their bodies squeaking and sliding all over the polished hardwood floor from the ice water and body moisture in the hallway from the struggle.

"You...fucking...son of a bitch! I don't believe...you're doing...this...to me. You're just gonna…take this...pussy...like this? Continue to...fuck me...like this?" Zakia panted, her head bobbing, tits jiggling, body rocking under the weight of his consistent thrusting.

"You're still...weak. Aghhh...fuck, you...motherfucka! Fuck! You...agghhh...shit! You can't even... take me...like a man. Can't even...fuck me...right, you fucking bitch! Is that...ohhh, shit...the best...you can do? Is this...how hard...you can...fuck me?! You can't...fuck me...any harder...than that?!"

She flailed her arms as if he was actually taking it by force, all the while squirming, moaning, putting up a shallow fight back. He pumped into her so hard, manhandled her so viciously, literally fucked her entire body every few inches across the surface of their slippery hardwood hallway floor, that she blindly kicked the corner of a small end table toppling it over.

A small, African voodoo head statue on a stand, one of four, something Victor purchased in Egypt, shattered on the floor in twenty pieces. He froze, stared down on it, his eyes widening at the sight of several fragments of one of his prized possessions destroyed in complete disbelief.

"BITCH! Do you…do you know how much I paid for that? You...ooohhh...I'm gonna make you pay for that!" Victor panted in excited breaths. He threw her legs up over his shoulders, twisted her body like a pretzel to tie her up helplessly.

"You're gonna pay for that. Yeah, I'm gonna take every single penny out taxing this motherfucking ass!" Victor hit her with short, powerful, jab-like strokes. "Two thousand dollars. That's...how...much...it ...cost!" Victor popped in short breaths, slamming his dick up in her with each word. "A dollar a stroke, and your...highfalutin ass...ain't even...up to...one hundred yet!"

$$ $$ $$

Victor could feel his body heating up after close to ten minutes of fucking Zakia as if he was settling a vendetta.

Through the midst of it all, he could see that she loved it.

That sweet, tingly sensation of an imminent orgasm traveled throughout his entire body. He fucked Zakia hard, viscously, gave her powerful snaps of his waist, something that left her pussy sloshing with each long in and out stroke. He slammed it up in her, determined to deepen her womb, knock out her back walls, ravish her fiercely.

"You...mother…fucka," Victor sighed, his passion overtaking him. "Oh, I got...your ass...now." More thrusting, a light sweat, more panting. "I'm gonna...make sure...you never...disrespect...me...ever..."

Zakia, sensing Victor too lost in the throes of ecstasy, too lost in her tight, wet passage that she squeezed on him to take back her position of control, wiggled herself loose. She popped up to her feet from beneath him. Victor was so intent on making her eat her words through the sausage he stuffed in her womb, that she managed to stand to her feet; she separated herself from him still kneeled on hardwood, panting, his hard dick shining, glazed in a thick film of her essence.

"I told you – you're weak. No focus. No vision. Look at you. Too busy running your big mouth instead of handling your business. Big, muscular body, even bigger dick, but with little brains. What do I have to do, break something else that you value to get your attention?"

Zakia hustled over to the small stand that held the other three African statues. Their eyes met. Victor subtly shook his head. Zakia picked up an artifact. She tossed it between both hands, playing catch.

"Do I have your attention now? Because you clearly can't stay concentrated long enough to take this ass if I handed it to you on a silver..." Zakia began at the edge of the hall before she choked on her words, dropped the piece on the shelf, and laughed, when Victor popped up to his feet, and lunged at her.

Zakia spun around, became the swift gazelle, ran off down the hall. The echo of her laugh chased her in the same pace as her lover, a black panther, one hunting for his sexual kill. She could only run so far. She make it to the bedroom, breeched the entrance, trapped, cornered herself, before Victor pounced on his prey, his momentum of the run crashing into her stationary physical. He lifted Zakia off her feet, friskily slammed her across the bed, two sweaty piles of flesh bouncing in spirited abandon on the surface of memory foam.

Victor struggled with that feisty, naked, chocolate feminine body underneath his naked, masculine body. Tussled with a Zakia who squirmed, wrestled with a Zakia who put up half the fight as previous, a Zakia who made a grand show of making him work for that physical pleasure, without really making him work for it, until he pinned her flat out on her stomach on the center of their bed, all of his body weight over hers. She weakly struggled, wiggled, knew it was futile, utterly useless. He outweighed her by over seventy pounds, was just too strong, a conqueror who held his concubine under his complete control.

"You think you can get away from me in my house?" Victor breathed heavily in her ear.

She wiggled even more, but Victor had her at his mercy; flat on her stomach, him on top, over her entire body like a human blanket, his powerful hands held her arms spread wide by her wrists. He sunk his teeth into the back of her neck, bit her with force, heard Zakia hiss, squirm, moan, sigh in passion, spread her thighs wide, wider, prop her ass back in a lewd grind on his hard erection, something that caused his hardness to slip in between her cheeks. He bit her again, didn't feed her hunger, sunk his teeth into the most sensitive parts of her flesh, refused entry, worked his way around until he trapped her earlobe between his lips.

"I'm weak? No focus, no vision? You still want to talk shit to me? Threaten to destroy my shit?" Victor laughed, in the next breath, growled, "Yeah, you're the fucking hardheaded one, cause your ass still ain't learn yet. But today, yeah, today I'll teach you." He spread her legs open from behind. He slid his hand down between them, found her nature, slipped two fingers deep in Zakia's soaking wet pussy.

"You…you stupid motherfucka! Your...fingers? Just...just two of them? Two? That's…that's it?" Zakia slurred, grunting, panting. She arched her back, threw her ass up on those two digits defiantly, forced them to sink in deeper, to the hilt, but just as quick, instantly squirmed away to remove them from her insides like she really didn't want them there.

"This...this is the best you can do? Finger me, with two measly fingers? Your fingers? In my pussy? Are you fucking serious? What are you, on your first date, in junior high?! Ha! And there I was thinking for one brief moment that you were actually going to teach me something. Fucking pathetic. You're not a man. Just like I said, you're nothing but a little boy! You couldn't take nothing, even if I…uugghhh!" Zakia gurgled when Victor positioned his dick at her entrance, and in her extremely excited state, her open passage soaked, slid it up in her to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

"You were saying something? I can't hear you. What happened? Cat got your tongue? Naw, it ain't the cat. It's this fucking black, rabid pit-bull ripping apart your lil kitten!" Victor said, pounding her out from the back. With Zakia flat on her stomach, and Victor jackhammering her g-spot and clit furiously, Zakia desperately tried to hold on, but couldn't.

She lost it.

"Oh...fuck! That's...it! That's...it, my king. Give me...what I want. Take...what you want. Fucking... take me! Take me, baby. Conquer me! Make me...make me...submit, my king!" she panted like a crazed woman, throwing her ass up at the precise time her excited lover thrust his hips down.

Zakia came, hard.

Victor didn't let up.

He hovered over her in a push-up stance, and fucked her flat out on her stomach with her legs spread wide. He knew that position pummeled her g-spot. He never removed himself from her insides as he snatched Zakia up by her waist, positioned her on her hands and knees, got her in that style of doggy, wrapped his hands tightly around her slim, sweaty waist, and commenced to yanking her back on him, forcing her to swallow all of his dick. He lifted one foot to plant it solidly on the bed, tilted his entire body sideways, angled himself to make sure she felt every inch.

"You want me to...take it? That's what you wanted...this whole time? Why you was...acting like... such a little...prissy fucking diva? You got it. Watch me...take what's...mine!" Victor huffed, slamming his dick in her from all angles.

Victor pressed one hand on the top of her back, the other pressed the side of her face in a pillow. He positioned her ass vulnerably high in the air, spread her meaty cheeks with both hands, held her lewdly open, completely at his mercy, and stared down on his thick shaft sliding in and out of her tight, wet, pink ring squeezing and releasing on each stroke.

Victor fucked her hard and furious, fast and deep.

"Take...it! Keep...taking...me! Be...a man! Fucking...be a man!" Zakia panted.

He dug that pussy out from all angles – side to side, up and down, side...up, side...down, culminating into a corkscrew twirl – stroking and long-dicking his wife with a sexually charged stamina that even impressed himself.

"Agghhh...fuck! Agghh...fuck me! I...love it! Keep...fucking me! Don't...stop! Don't fucking stop! Make me...submit!"

Five minutes...ten...fifteen.

Nonstop pleasurable punishment.

Twenty minutes straight of two bodies sweating, grunting, moaning, panting, squealing, and he felt it again – Zakia's orgasm. Her second. Less than thirty seconds later, the third. He continued to beat on the levees between her thighs, did it too long, applied too much pressure, shattered them. Her damn broke for a fourth time. Her natural essence spilled in clear, silky rivers; she puddled the sheets underneath. She clutched two fistfuls of silk sheets, her screams, her cries of passion were muffled in a mouthful of down feathers as her teeth sunk down on the corner of a pillow. Zakia held her ass up high in the air, their skin slapped, her ass getting banged on, the entire bed shook underneath.

Victor punished that pussy, and Zakia took her punishment like a grown ass woman. When he fucked that pussy long enough, strong enough, and made the statement of knocking that fifth orgasm out of her, reaching his point of no return, Victor slid it up in her to the hilt, and let her have it.

"I...own this shit! I...claimed this shit! This pussy...this body...everything...is all mine!" Victor chanted like an African tribal leader at the outset of an embattled war, his war cry carrying throughout the entire first floor. His orgasm shot through the head of his dick in three healthy streams, flowed in spurts, and fertilized every acre of Zakia's land as he filled from behind.

It took time, several grinds, several pumps, and an almost unwilling refusal to concede, but he finally stroked her long enough to fully work out and transfer every drop of himself, deep up into her. His orgasm took so much out of him that he actually got light-headed.

His body swayed, resembled a drunk stumbling out of a bar, before he eased himself from her soaked insides, and weakly collapsed on the bed, flat out on his back, by her side. Zakia, panting heavily, collapsed down right behind him; she fell flat out on her stomach. They both lay in bed, sweaty piles of exhausted flesh. The only sounds: their pants flowing in sync like music.

"You know…you know you don't...own anything, right? Anything you think...you own, it's only because I...I gave it to you," Zakia panted, making sure she cleared that up the moment she managed to catch most of her breath.

She cleared away the veil of loose dreads from her perspired face, and pierced her husband on her side with slanted eyes. She gave him a look that spoke of her willingness to let him win a game he clearly thought he had the advantage on.

"Yeah, you did. But I did claim this," Victor said, returning his deep gaze into her eyes. "Claim something, my beautiful, African queen, that will be in my possession, for life."

The Anonymous Black Files is not only a thought provoking read, but it is geared to initiate further discussion. Here are some questions regarding the Case Files to initiate dialogue:

1. When is the appropriate time to have sex in a new relationship?

2. What is your mate's most redeeming quality? Does he/she agree?

3. Would you analyze your lover different based on their previous lovers?

4. Can a couple have a fruitful relationship if they began on questionable terms, such as a husband cheating, and then leaving his wife for another woman?

5. If your mate made a sex tape prior to your relationship and you found out, would you end the relationship?

6. Can you be in love with more than one person at a time?

7. Does sending racy messages/pictures online to strangers constitute as cheating?

8. Is chivalry dead?

9. If you described yourself as an animal what would you consider yourself to be? Would your mate agree?

10. Is sex appeal physical or mental?

scroll down for a sneak peek of the smash follow-up...

The Anonymous Black Files 2.0: Deception

THE ANONYMOUS BLACK FILES 2.0:

DECEPTION

How well do you know the one you’re sleeping with?

Dr. Anonymous Black is forced back into a world he fought to leave behind.

To avoid the wrath of a bloodthirsty mob boss, Black embarks on one last mission with his wife, Kiara, to infiltrate a state-of-the-art bioscience laboratory specializing in genome mining on cancer research.

Between paralleling the dynamics of his own life with those of his more infamous clientele – Khalid & Ashanti: high-stake stick-up artists; Desmond & Elisha: an NBA great and his behind the scenes bombshell; Rasheed & Veronique: a power couple engaged in open relations with American’s elite – Dr. Black struggles with incorporating the same deceptive tactics he attempts to root out his clients, and breach an impenetrable security system to steal invaluable intellectual property rumored to cure all cancers to satisfy the unquenchable thirst of a notorious crime boss.

The Anonymous Black Files 2.0: Deception, the third installment in the ABF series, is an opus of erotic Case Files delving into the dark side of relational dishonesty and deceit, fused with a symphony of suspense and psychological principles from the infamous sex therapist, Dr. Black, that only KM Cudjoe could create.

Initial Mission

Halogen Biosciences Corporation.

A state-of-the-art biosciences laboratory pegged by the Center for Disease Control and Prevention as one of the leading science centers in the country.

Their specialty: cancer research.

Dr. Black sat virtually motionless in the driver’s seat of his four-door Audi A8 between two other vehicles almost four blocks away from that oval-shaped, impressive display of architectural ingenuity. Sat in his two thousand dollar, tailored, navy blue Armani suit. Italian wingtips; close to half that. Crisp waves, a razor sharp edge-up, neatly trimmed beard. Diamond studs in his ears, a presidential Rolex on his right wrist, on his left, diamond-cut Gucci links; heavy weight platinum. Surrounded by technology, inside and outside of his vehicle, Dr. Black mirrored a suave Wall Street exec, the nose of his six months old, steel grey Maserati facing what held his focus for the last forty-five minutes.

Time on the dash: 3:47 pm.

Scratch that: 3:48.

Dr. Black cut his eyes down to his iPhone in the palm of his hand. An invisible, wireless earpiece in his right ear plugged him into a dark world of cyberspace. Neo in a modern-day Matrix. His thumbs tap-danced across the screen, the keyboard lit up. He documented in shorthand on an Excel spreadsheet a series of summaries; the approximate age, race, and gender of every person, or vehicle, that entered or exited through the main entrance or side parking lot designated for ‘Employees Only’. Entered information on a spreadsheet designed with algorithms and formulas to determine any discrepancies of who, and when, anyone was going in or out of that building, day or night.

On that evening, everything was in order. Just as predicted.

Incoming call: Kiara.

“I’m pulling up now.”

Dr. Black lifted his eyes from his iPhone to that heavily guarded, twenty-five floor building, elevated by massive polished steel beams, and equally polished mirrored-glass. One equipped with motion-sensitive, infrared, heat seeking, night-vision cameras atop the left and right quadrants. A building rumored to be connected to the latest developments in Artificial Intelligence, and new age technology that could communicate with satellites.

“I’m here. I see you, even if you don’t see me.”

At the far end of the parking lot, an armed security guard emerged from a bulletproof glass enclosure. He approached an immaculate, two-door, eggshell, Mercedes Benz S550. Dr. Black heard every word Kiara said to soften and disarm that six-foot, two hundred and thirty pound, clean cut professional sentry. He smiled, nodded, lifted the vertical gate, waved her in.

“You made that look easy.”

Dr. Black analyzed the dual images of his wife in the flesh about three blocks away emerging from her vehicle, and through several camera angles of her on his tablet on the passenger seat, courtesy of his hack into Halogen’s security system. A hack into a system toted as virtually impenetrable.

“Disarming a rent-a-cop who wore his emotions on his sleeve was the easy part.”

Kiara rose from eighty grand worth of rolling envy on five-inch, D’Orsay sides, soft cream Blahniks. Fourteen-karat gold Donna Karen sunglasses. She slid them on, the Transition lens darkening to a rich cocoa, almost identical to her skin tone, shielding her piercing light grey eyes that surveyed the parking lot, searched for her soul mate with a subtle eye, couldn’t find him, but knew he was there, before she closed the driver’s door behind her.

Cream attaché case in hand, Kiara casually smoothed out a skin-tight, charcoal grey Donna Karen skirt over her twenty-eight inch waist, and pronounced forty-four inch hips. That DK designer spoiling the world with an ample amount of toned, caramel thighs; the matching form-fitted blazer and white dress shirt underneath, revealing just enough cleavage to be thoroughly enticing, but kept it in good taste to max out the image of a powerful business executive.

Kiara headed towards the entrance, toyed with her hair, adjusted the miniature earpiece in her right ear, said, “Now comes the real challenge: gaining entry into the laboratory.”

“Your mindset will determine that. Think of what’s on the line. We already did our homework, know who the target is, the mark.”

“Dr. Bulliet. Dr. Philip Bulliet.”

“A Biochemist specializing in micro-organisms.”

“A Biochemist scientific journals tote as an actual genius, who just happens to be an introvert.”

“An introvert who has a weakness.”

“Beautiful women,” Kiara said, minimizing the movements of her lips as she approached the building's main entrance to conceal her furtive conversation.

“And you are one of the most beautiful.”

It was subtly, barely recognizable, but Kiara smirked, then purred, “You can kiss my ass after dinner tonight. No need to do it now. I’m already committed. I’m just disappointed that we had to take it back to this.”

Dr. Black took a deep breath, sighed, “Baby, Tony’s a simple man, with simple primitive needs. When he stormed into our office a few weeks ago requesting our…assistance in this matter, as you could imagine, my initial intentions were to turn him down. I was just as reluctant as you. Attempting to gain access into a state-of-the-art, security-sensitive laboratory specializing in cancer research would give anyone pause. Diving back into a world of crime and deception, abandoning the evolved image of a Salim that I consider myself the architect of, and resorting back to the characteristics of a Rasheed, wasn’t something I planned on when I woke up that morning.”

“Don’t forget the forced character shift on my end: shedding the proverbial skin of a Naomi, and taking on the personality of a Veronique. A woman who predicates her entire livelihood on exploiting weaknesses, mastering deception, and seducing anyone who would fall victim to her physical prowess. A modern day Siren.”

Another vehicle entered the parking lot of Halogen, an employee, a chemist, which his records indicated worked on the fifth floor.

No anomalies.

Dr. Black monitored the woman as she interacted with the security guard with cordial words, and returned casually, “Veronique’s seduction was never just physical. The physical, that’s only temporary. Her seduction always ran deeper. Psychological. Spiritual. Emotional. Her Personal Interviews are a virtual playlist of how she learned to play on a man’s emotions. Played on man’s insatiable desire for sex. Well, not just men.

“She also found the same sex, women, just as compelling, challenging, sometimes even more so. A woman who sought out to quench their thirst by tapping into a women’s inherent desire for intimacy, security, their sexuality, visualizing both sexes, equally, one in the same, as victims. A woman who patiently studied what she described as her ‘prey’, for months, first drawing her targets in by her alluring appearance, then, penetrating their mind by affecting the image of a fantasy morphed into flesh.

“This is a woman who mastered this art, turning virtually any man, or woman, that she set her sights on into a virtual slave to her. Case in point: her first encounter with Rasheed. This was a man who confessed how he instantly fell under her spell, how his thoughts became consumed with her. A man driven mad. Before he knew what hit him, he completely lost the ability to think straight, and did things he never, ever fathomed doing just a few months prior to making acquaintances with her. That was her power, her persuasion, her weapon to wield, slaying anyone who fell victim to her blade.”

“Some would say there’s an easier explanation to all of that. It’s called being pussy whipped.”

Dr. Black chuckled, said, “If it was just the pussy, I would agree. Let’s not forget about that throat too. But every true seductress knows the lure always begins by stimulating the mind first, creating the fantasy, drawing them in by enticing the eyes, then follow up with the dagger through the heart with the physical –allowing him to sink his flesh dagger up in between her thighs. Cause you women and that pussy…whew! That pussy is a motherfucka.”

Kiara smirked, pursed her lips, unconsciously ran her fingers through her jet-black hair with streaks of auburn highlights flowing halfway down her back, said, “Oh, believe me, I know. And not just because I possess one.”

“But Veronique’s tight, wet orifice alone could never explain the genuine love Rasheed established for her over the years. Her sex, her physical body, might have been that initial pierce in his heart, the impetus leading him blindly to her charms, but it was Veronique’s ability to penetrate deep within Rasheed’s psyche, his mind, and finding out what motivated him, his unspoken desires, holding that, and maintaining it, that became his undoing. She became a master at making men fall in love with her, as a person, far beyond how deep she could accept his flesh pipe down her throat, or her physical mastery with Kegals.”

“Bathsheba from the Old Testament.”

“I’m leaning more towards Cleopatra’s seduction over Caesar and Antony. Speaking of Caesar, are you ready to engage in your own little game of mental warfare?”

“An Asiatic Trojan house in a tight skirt. I’m entering the building now.”

Kiara reached for one of the clear, dual glass doors to the main entrance.

*** *** ***

Dr. Black widened the image on that small screen with his index finger and thumb, zoomed in on Kiara as she approached the main desk; she was greeted by a receptionist.

It only took moments of Kiara trading several words with the woman before it became obvious that her seduction worked well beyond just captivating the security guard. The blonde smiled brightly, blushed, shared more than she should have, and enthusiastically gestured for Kiara to take a seat in their pristine lobby made up entirely of ivory, silver, mirrors and glass.

“I’m in.”

“I see you,” Dr. Black said, “Don’t forget: the primal laws of attraction.”

“The allure cannot be subjective, monitored.”

“It must always come off as natural. What else?”

“Occam’s Razor. All things being equal, the simplest solution is the best.”

“I told you, you’re a natural.”

“And I told you, ass kissing should be saved for later.”

“Stay focused.”

“I am. You just do the same on your end.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Are you serious? I made it this far, and you’re gonna ask me that, now?”

“Humor me.”

Kiara took a deep breath, said in a soft whisper, “Dr. Bulliet’s computer,” barely moving her lips, sensing the eyes of the receptionist gravitating to her every move. “Gain access to his files, download all of his software on Genome-mining. I swear, what is this world coming to when the mafia has an interest in stealing cancer research?”

“When the world of profits on cancer research has reached into the billions. When the world couldn’t keep up with the population’s demand for food, and began to pump animals with unheard of chemicals to escalate their growth, which we eat, and assimilate, resulting in the World Health Organization deeming cancer one of the top killers on the planet.”

“Spoken like a true activist on why we should adopt a vegan diet.”

“Can’t do it. From the beginning of time, man has been a meat-eater, and I’m definitely a carnivore. I love to eat flesh too much.”

“Eating flesh? You just had to make that sound sexual, didn’t you? I’m sure there was some kind of double-entendre mixed up in there,” Kiara sighed sexily. She unconsciously ran her tongue across her top lip, adjusted herself in her seat, folded one leg over the other.

“There’s duality in virtually everything in life. Good and evil. Yin and Yang. Black and white. Up and down. Even the words we speak. If I were to mention how we’re scheduled to dine out at Rafael’s tonight after we wrap this up, then after, how I’m going enjoy my...dessert with my beautiful wife adorned in lingerie, in bed, I’m sure you can see the double-entendre in that.”

“Considering you never mentioned just exactly what you’re going to be eating for dessert? Yeah, point taken. But if we’re planning on dining out at Rafael’s tonight, it appears we’re going to have to make those reservations for three,” Kiara said mysteriously.

Dr. Black focused on the screen, noticed Kiara occasionally directing her attention to the receptionist. His fingers swept over the face, brushed aside files, manipulated the security system, pulled up the main camera in the lobby, zoomed in on the woman behind the desk.

A late-twenties platinum blonde. Tight ponytail up top, a row of razor sharp bangs up front. Piercing aquamarine eyes. Black designer glasses. She wore a large, white, fluffy shirt, the neck open just enough to remain within professional standards, yet couldn’t conceal an inviting invitation on a set of luscious D’s veiled behind a gaudy display of cosmetic pearls.

Enough sex appeal to draw anyone with eyes into her vortex.

The woman held an uncanny resemblance to Pamela Anderson, in her Baywatch years; blonde, bubbly, beautiful, but with curves more up to the times.

Simply put – she was built like a cosmetically constructed brick shithouse.

Kiara was confident that her tenure within the company exceeded far beyond any proficiency in Microsoft Word, or her ability to type over seventy-five words per minute. A thin headset hugged the back of her head, receiver in her ear, a mouthpiece by her thick, lip-gloss coated lips. Three calls accepted in the last seven minutes. Most of her other moments were spent making occasional eyes at that bombshell of a caramel skinned black woman who introduced herself as an Analytics Inspector affiliated with the FDA seated across the room.

“Another admirer?” Dr. Black posed, monitoring a woman who clearly set her sights more on inspecting his wife than tending to her duties as a receptionist.

“One that seems to be in heat. If she were a feline, she’d be spraying this entire lobby with her pheromones hunting for a mate. I can practically smell her feminine fragrance from here,” Kiara sighed, confirming her suspicions with a subtle wink; the blonde arched a subtle eyebrow, melted into a sly smirk, shyly bit her bottom lip.

“Reminds me of Salim and Naomi.”

“Not quite. Salim and Naomi engaged in threesomes as a married couple to maintain the spice in their marriage. Inviting this delicious looking Playboy bunny out to eat with us, in all ways, clearly comes with an ulterior motive,” Kiara explained, deliciously licking her lips again.

She noticed how the blonde unconsciously mirrored her moves – adjusted herself in her seat, licked her lips, smiled – then placed her gold fountain pen in the corner of her mouth. She constantly played with it between her lips, kept it in her mouth, her ‘tell’ in Kiara’s eyes revealing a woman with an obvious oral fetish.

“Desmond and Elisha?” Dr. Black inquired.

“I was thinking more in line with Khalid and Ashanti. A relationship birthed between two opportunists. One that matured into a union of co-dependency, with the other only seeking to feed from the other. Khalid never intended to find love when he sought out Ashanti as a mate. She was nothing more than a trophy, eye candy, a symbol of his success. A possession to flaunt, no different from any one of his several homes, the yacht, or the custom bulletproof Bugatti. A criminal mastermind. One who made and maintained his millions exploiting situations to his benefit.

“Ashanti, on the other hand, was an Instagram sensation with a zillions followers, who openly professed that the idea of true love was a fairy tale notion for children. How involving herself with Khalid wasn’t a decision made with her heart, but with her pocketbook. How she viewed their relationship as a strategic move, aligning herself with an underground celebrity, someone connected to the streets with power and prestige, whose material wealth she could exploit and showcase on all of her social media sites to amass more followers.

“Both Khalid and Ashanti could have cared less about the other’s wants, needs, goals. They only fed off each other’s vanity, their narcissism, their self-serving desires. Both living with their own sense of a warped reality. Both mastering the ability to steal the other from their worlds and tap into a world of constant fantasy, and fed it through sex, fame, money, or power.”

“Sort of like feeding on this blonde if we lure her back to our nice little humble abode later in the evening and…indulge in what she so deliciously has to offer. That would be selfish, self-serving. A satisfaction of our desires,” Dr. Black returned.

“Well, not just done primarily for our gratification, but to penetrate deeper into this organization, for someone else.”

“Tony,” Dr. Black mentioned. “You still have to admit, it would be interesting.”

“What? A married couple seducing an early twenty-something blonde, toting measurements that’s battling with the incomparable Coco, with an obvious oral fetish? Are you kidding me? Interesting is an understatement. Within an hour of remaining behind closed doors with this little blonde Barbie doll, I’d have her eating out the palm of my hand. And I’m sure you could guess what would be soon to follow – finding out how good she is with that tongue of hers, by sampling a taste of what I possess between my…”

Kiara stopped short and sat up at full attention at the approach of a gentleman in a crisp blue suit. Dr. Black zoomed in on the man’s face on his tablet. He snatched up his phone, pulled up the company’s file, found the profile of Dr. Bulliet, his photo ID.

Jackpot!

“Kiara, remember: steal him from this world of reality,” Dr. Black declared firmly into Kiara’s earpiece as she stood with her gazed fixed on him, attaché case in hand, “lure him into your world, a world of fantasy. You know your mission: he has to take you into his office. His computer, it has closed access to any outside connections. When you get in there, you have to distract him long enough to…” Dr. Black clarified, until Kiara ran her finger over her right ear to subtly cut off the feed.

Everything went silent; Dr. Black was disconnected from any other word of their conversation.

All he could do was watch through Halogen’s security system as Kiara reached out to shake their potential mark’s hand, trade brief small talk with her bubbly aura, and present him with her counterfeit credentials. The moment Dr. Bulliet turned his back on Kiara to lead them to his office, she flashed a brief glimpse at a camera she knew her husband to be monitoring from somewhere afar, and winked.

…….End transmission.

Case File #41 – Khalid & Ashanti

“You’re just fucking around, right? Yeah, you gotta be. Cause the answer’s simple: J-Lo.”

“J-Lo? I mean, I’ll give you. That’s one bad ass Boricua if I ever seen one. No question. But, come on, it’s not even close. Beyoncé, hands down.”

“Beyoncé? So let me get this straight. If you could only fuck one famous Diva, you’d choose Beyoncé over J-Lo?”

“Every day of the week, including weekends too. But I can understand why you wouldn’t. You’re not a thinker, no long-term visual. You see, that’s the problem when big companies outsource and hire high school dropouts from temp agencies. No capacity to think further than one or two steps ahead of what’s right in front of you.”

The security guard shook his head. His estimate of his co-worker, clearly a lost cause. He sat back in his high-back office chair, kicked his legs up on the face of a pristine, 20-foot circular workstation in the main lobby of Olain Laboratories, and flipped through the pages of an Entrepreneur magazine with his attention directed more on the latest venture capital-backed businesses than his partner seated by his side.

“I would expect a comment like that coming from a guy who graduated from Harvard, but still ended up doing…well, what do you know. Working as a security guard, sitting right next to a high school dropout outsourced from a temp agency,” the second security guard returned snidely, before snapping up his own magazine; an Entertainment Weekly.

“Alright, you want to do this? Let’s do this. I’ll even break it down so someone like yourself can even understand. Beyoncé. Let’s look at the stats: Texas born and bred, cornbread and collard greens fed, down south country-girl thickness. And I mean, seriously, have you ever seen her videos? Seen the way that woman moves her body, her hips? The woman’s a fucking magician!

“Close your eyes and get a visual of this, are you with me? Just imagine…concentrate…imagine her moving like that – on your dick. Jesus! What man could withstand that? Then there’s that look in her eyes. I’m telling you, I’ve seen that look before. Met a stripper like that a few years ago. Shit, she damn near bankrupted me!”

The man lost himself to the reminisce, traveled back to a time where bottled memories gave him joy, only to snap back seconds later, and sigh, “That kind of look in a woman’s eyes, that kind of concentrated seduction, the intensity, the focus. I’m telling you – she’s guaranteed to be a full-fledged, bona fide, uncontrollable fuck-fest in the bedroom. I’d bet my pension that’s at least one of the reasons Jay-Z stayed with her for so long. And that’s fucking Jay-Z! She’s got it all. Beauty, brains, sex appeal off the fucking Richter Scale, and a tight, honey-colored body that’s…”

“Not even close to J-Lo’s,” that voice of opposition blurted. “I’ll admit it, Beyoncé, that’s a phenomenal fucking choice. Easily one of the top three in entertainment divas. Let’s not forget about Rhianna. But J-Lo? Cut the shit. That’s one hundred percent Boricua right there. Bronx born and bred, red beans and rice fed, started out as a dancer on In Living Color. Guaranteed to know Merengue, Salsa, Bachetta, all types of shit. That means there’s natural rhythm in those hips, not that scripted, choreographed shit. Then the kicker, that secret weapon – that fat fucking ass. Hands down, one of the top three most talked about asses in the industry, probably only second to Serena Williams and Kim K.

“Wait a minute. Have you ever even fucked a Spanish woman before? I’m sure they had Spanish women in Haaaarvard, but it’s clear you haven’t had one. Because if you had, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Those mommi’s…my god! Once they get a long, fat dick up in em, once you really start stroking em good, and they start speaking that ‘Meda-meda, aie-papi-chulo,’ shit, it’s like they become possessed! You could bet your Harvard degree and pension on Beyoncé, but I’d bet a lifetime of real world, blue-collar paychecks on J-Lo. She got that good, good fucking grease.”

The first security guard stopped flipping through the pages of his magazine, lifted his head, sliced his eyes over to his partner on his side.

“Good grease? Grease? What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Good grease. You never heard of that? Come on, man, get with the times. Good grease. It’s like saying her pussy is fire, or, she got that fire pussy.”

“Fire pussy?” the man chuckled. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to stick my dick in any pussy that has anything to do with fire.”

“It’s just a fucking saying, you moron. Jeez, come out from under that rock and join us in the age of social media, why don’t cha. The pussy’s fire. She got that good grease. Here, let me break it down so someone like yourself can even understand,” the second security guard said, echoing his partner’s previous disparaging tone.

“Just think of hair grease. How slippery it is, slick. How once it gets on your fingers, it’s like they’re always wet. Yeah, that’s J-Lo.” The man gave his partner an animated nod along with a cheesy smile. “Beyoncé gets filthy when she got that liquor in her. Grinding on that wood, swerving on that big body Benz, surfing all in that good, good. But J-Lo got that…”

“What the…what the hell?” The first security guard immediately kicked his feet down from the desktop. He leaned forward, zeroed in on one of eight images on a twenty-two inch computer screen monitoring the entire exterior of the building. “What the hell is that?”

His fingers prattled over the keyboard. A camera image, the third left on the bottom row. He zoomed in on the outer perimeter. Sheaths of rain distorted a clear image, but both men leaned forward to make out what appeared to be three women standing just outside the main gate.

They were soaked.

There was a vehicle, about ten years old, a two-door convertible Jaguar, with its hood propped up several yards away; a trail of smoke bellowed in thick clouds from the engine to dissolve into the night sky.

The first security guard wheeled himself over to the landline on the desk.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m calling it in.” He reached for the receiver.

“Calling it in? For what?”

“What do you mean, for what? I have to. That’s protocol.”

“Protocol? Fuck that protocol. Don, are you fucking kidding me? Look at them!” The second security guard pointed a sharp finger at the screen.

Three women.

From first glance, two of them appeared to be Spanish, both about five and a half feet tall, both propped up in four-inch stilettos.

One wore a large black leather trench, the other, a half jean jacket, and very, very skimpy cut-off blue jean shorts.

The last, light brown skin, more almond, maybe mulatto, a tiny blue jacket, black spandex, with exotic features, slanted eyes, and long wavy hair reminiscent of a Cherokee.

All three women were relatively young; maybe in their mid-twenties. All three considerably proportioned, with the Spanish female in the jean jacket clearly standing out with the shapeliest physique amongst her cohorts.

The second security guard was mesmerized, he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen.

The first security guard could.

He turned back to his partner, sighed, “Doesn’t matter. We can get fired. Do you hear me? Fired! I’m not losing my fucking pension trying to be Captain Save-a-Hoe, rescuing some damsels in distress. I have to call this in.”

“Don, now…now just hold on. Wait a minute,” the second security guard physically reached out to place his hand on the receiver, stopped his partner cold from dialing out, “According to protocol, the only thing we have to call in is any breaches, any threats. Look. Does that look like a threat to you?”

He pointed at the screen, then hit his partner with a stern nod.

“That right there, that’s not a threat. Well, the only threat I see is that petite Latina girl threatening to fucking murder on those tiny little shorts she got on.”

“Vince...”

“Five minutes. Seriously, what are we really doing anyways? Getting them out of the rain, calling a tow truck, maybe a cab? Be a fucking gentleman, for once, or at least a good Samaritan. After that, then we can call it in.”

It was impossible for the first security guard to ignore the look in his partner’s eyes. Eyes that took little to no stock in the precarious position they were placing themselves in by opening that door to allow those three mysterious women entry. Eyes that twinkled more in avarice than procedure, considering they continued to wander back on those three feminine specimens on the screen with a particular glint to them.

On the surface, there actually appeared to be sincerity in his tone.

On the surface. His partner knew better.

He shook his head, sighed heavily, “Vince, this is a bad idea. Really bad.”

“Says who, the fucking ‘report it in’ police? Stop being such a fucking pussy. Don, five minutes. Just give me five minutes with them.”

The first security guard took a moment, nervously tapped his fingers on the desk, looked at the screen, the women, his partner, finally hissed, “Shit Don. Shit! Look, we’re just taking them off the street, getting em out of the rain. Vince, five minutes. I’m serious. Five minutes, and I’m calling it in. And for the record, if anything happens, this is on you.”

The second security guard slapped his partner lively on his shoulder. “When they get in here, remember what you just said: if anything happens, this is all on me.”

*** *** ***

Surveillance.

One of the aspects on every mission Khalid could honestly say he enjoyed. To play through from the outset to end any plan he orchestrated was the equivalent of a symphony.

The instruments.

The audience.

The crescendo.

The climax.

He sat in the back seat, behind the driver, in a four-door Ford F-150 outfitted with plumber’s equipment; Javier’s Plumbing decals plastered on the doors and hood. Two passengers in the front. Silence in the cabin. Khalid well versed enough in his profession to keep all conversation in those moments minimal.

11:21 pm.

The conductor tapped his miniature metal rod against the stand.

The symphony begins.

Khalid mindlessly ran his left thumb along the length of his neatly trimmed beard, his whole aura stoic, a heightened sense of focus. Three sets of eyes at exactly thirty-two yards to their eleven o’ clock. The conductor raised both hands, prepared the orchestra. Khalid kept his eyes on the woman with the light blue fall jacket, a jacket barely concealing a pearl white acrylic bodysuit underneath.

Ashanti.

She was the first to scurry out of the elements, hustle under the steel veranda to the outer entrance. She leaned on the buzzer, pressed it with urgency with two of her close associates – Juanita, Tandy – playing her close. The women were set into motion exactly twelve minutes and nineteen seconds prior; they stood at the buzzer for the last three.

A low level of tension, it sweltered in the silence of the cabin like an invisible fog. Ashanti and her team, they should have breached the perimeter by now. They were being timed, had to be on schedule, no more than fifteen minutes, or the contingency had to be put into play. Then it happened – two security guards came into view at the main entrance, with the shorter of the two chivalrously holding one of the glass doors open for them; the women quickly bustled inside.

The first octave.

Thirteen minutes and twenty-three…

Twenty-four…

Twenty-five seconds.

Khalid’s cohorts in the front cabin. They passed eyes at each other before the passenger peered over his shoulder at Khalid in the back.

“Start em,” Khalid announced, hitting the stop clock on his watch; his partners instantly following suit, “We hit it in ten.”

*** *** ***

Don was the head of security for Olain, the leader in a division of eight other guards.

He was in charge of a laboratory that manufactured drugs estimated to be worth hundreds of millions, and simply allowing those three women, women who coincidentally popped out of nowhere in the middle of the night at their high-tech laboratory, should have set off his senses to kick start the extensive three-months of training he received for the position.

It didn’t.

In fact, it did the opposite.

Not another soul outside of his conscience would acknowledge the feelings he was experiencing. He was star struck. Actually star struck. While it was clear that his partner, Vince, clearly couldn’t take his eyes off the thickest of the three, a Spanish woman soaked in her skimpy two-piece jean get-up, Don found himself enamored by the shortest of the three, what he equated to be the perfect combination of a Spanish and African goddess standing before him.

“Oh my God. It's friggin pouring out there,” Ashanti sighed, more to herself than anyone else. She took less than ten steps inside before she stripped herself of her soaked light blue jacket, snapped the water from it, then brushed away beads of raindrops out of her unblemished caramel face. “I can’t thank you guys enough for getting us out of that.”

Juanita and Tandy followed suit, took measures to dry themselves from the elements by shedding wet attire. They both revealed tiny ensembles that were tight, and wet, garments that clung to their skin like adhesives. Vince fell helplessly under their spell, hypnotized, especially by a considerably thicker Juanita who totted measurements virtually identical to Maliah Michel.

With her jean jacket shed, Juanita exposed the tiniest bikini top he ever seen. Nothing but a set of designer strings, doing little to nothing to cover a collage of tattoos over her chest, back, two full sleeves, and a pair of damp, frayed, daisy duke shorts cut off to the point that most of her fleshy ass cheeks spilled out with a vengeance and not a shred of remorse.

“Where you guys headed?” Vince posed, unaware that his will power was so weak he couldn’t even conjure up the strength to peel his eyes away from the tatted up vixen.

“We were headed over to Atlantis, but, as you can see…” Tandy sighed, her innocent child-like voice sexy and seductive, gesturing to their disabled vehicle in the distance.

“Atlantis? You mean the strip club, over on the east end?” Vince said, his eyes lit up.

“Yeah,” Juanita said mindlessly. She ran her French-tipped fingers down the length of black curly locks long enough to touch the crown of her ass, and wrung it out over her shoulder like damp clothes. “We supposed to be up on that stage right now. But naw, fucking with T, and that raggedy ass Jag, and this puta is costing me money right now.”

“Bitch, I’m losing money too. Or did you forget, we do one of our last sets together?”

Tandy finally shrugged that heavy eight-pound leather from over her shoulders; it sloshed into a pile around her ankles on the polished linoleum. A tight, black, spaghetti-string top that read ‘If I Licked It, It’s Mine’ squeezed in a pair of D’s. A belly piercing. A nine-inch acrylic mini-skirt over thigh-high, black fishnet stockings. Despite the trench, the rain acted as the perfect catalyst to dampen her shirt, a shirt Tandy had no problem peeling from over her head.

No bra.

She stood before both guards, topless.

“T!” Ashanti chanted with a light chuckle when she caught sight of it.

“What? These aren’t little boys. These are grown ass men. I’m fucking soaked, and it ain’t like they ain’t never seen a pair of tits before,” Tandy returned. “I’m sure they’ve been to a strip club at least once in their life. And shit, for the eight grand I paid, I’ma show these motherfuckas off every chance I get.”

She wrung out her tiny damp t-shirt into a small puddle on pristine tiles, her massive D-cup standing proud, her pierced nipples erect. The gesture did just as it was intended to do – it left both security guards speechless.

Ashanti took note.

Her girl temporarily distracted Olain’s primary security team, her gesture so brazen it allowed Ashanti the perfect window to place what appeared to be an iPhone on the side of the workstation next to the main server, and connect the device into the USB drive. In less than five seconds, a small green meter bar swept across the face of the phone.

Connection complete.

The device compromised the security system, allowed a successful hack into the system’s mainframe.

Khalid had eyes and ears. They were in.

The second octave.

Only Ashanti could pick up Khalid’s voice in her small earpiece. He said, “Ten minutes. You know what to do,” and received a subtly nod from Ashanti in return.

“Well, let me make a call. I got a friend with a garage, and a tow truck,” Don mentioned, finally conjuring up the strength to peel his eyes away from that large breasted woman. He headed towards the receiver on the desk. “It’s a little late, but if I tell him it’s important, I’m sure he can make it out to…”

“A tow truck?” Ashanti casually stepped out in front of him in that black bodysuit, blocked his path. She used her shapely physique to distract him from the device being discovered. “Don’t bother. I can have a friend here in a half hour to pick us up, and take care of her car. And besides...” Ashanti ran her hand deliberately over her large chest, directed attention to her pronounced cleavage bursting out the top, peered up innocently into his eyes, “...I wouldn’t want to trouble you. If anything, we owe you.” Her tongue swept across her top lip as if she was tasting her own sweetness. “For the meantime, I don’t see why we can’t, you know…make the most out of this time before he gets here.”

Ashanti could detect the reluctance on the part of the larger security guard; the obvious decision maker of the two. It began to wane under the subtly gyration of her twenty-six inch waist and forty-nine inch hips. Ashanti moved slow, studied the security guard, gauged him, lured him in to the point that his eyes gradually lowered to follow her every seductive move.

“T,” Ashanti nudged the first security guard back into his office chair, gestured Tandy over with curling finger, “Come here.”

Tandy knew her role, the position she was supposed to play. She sashayed over to the first security guard, her stride long and confident, her huge breasts standing out firm, swaying in a hypnotizing cadence with each step.

“I…you…you don’t owe me…it’s no big deal,” Don stuttered, his eyes slicing back and forth between Ashanti, the woman he coveted, to Tandy, the petite woman approaching to stand topless before him.

“Sure we do, and don’t be timid,” Tandy said, “Little boys are timid. Who likes little boys? I like men. And a real man knows how to take charge of a situation.”

*** *** ***

Khalid and his team were falling behind. Behind by at least eight minutes. Khalid knew it.

The symphony was out of sync.

The security guards took longer than anticipated to take the bait, but they took it. Three strippers that shut down any club they entered was astronomically difficult for a full-blooded heterosexual male to pass up on.

Those security guards didn’t.

Khalid was banking on that – literally.

With Ashanti planting that high-grade jamming device by the security’s surveillance system, the alarms were temporarily disabled. It allowed them a ten-minute window; the cameras monitoring all points of entry, and the inner perimeter, ran on a continuous loop.

The eyes of an entire laboratory system frozen in time.

Khalid forced the orchestra of his heist back into synchronization, used another encrypted cell phone to hack into the digital lock on one of the back entrances, gained entry in seconds. He breached the perimeter of the west end quadrant. He kept his eyes on the screen. Kept his eyes on the action going on in the main lobby with Ashanti and her girls as he hurried in a jog-like pace down a long polished hallway to Olain’s main storage facility.

An estimated fifty-seven point six million in a chemically enhanced, synthesized version of OxyContin. Those were the legal estimates, what insurance covered.

On the street, chopped down and bagged up, over one hundred million. The drug was divided into four storage containers.

No need to be greedy. Greed, the bane of men of weak character.

The mission was simple: only hit one.

$14.4 million divided three ways.

$4.8 million dollars apiece.

Khalid took the stairs, his footsteps echoing in that pristine white stairwell as he leapt them two and three at a time, to the fourth floor, the lightweight nylon backpack strapped to his back no longer registering with his adrenaline piqued. Ashanti sat in the center of that large workstation, one foot hiked up on the desk at an angle, the other planted in the seat of a rolling office chair, her legs obscenely spread wide. She held one hand over her right breast, the other lowered between her thighs.

Khalid closed in on the outer doors of the laboratory they were to hit.

One last glance down to the iPhone, and the images in the lobby.

Tandy.

She was topless.

She hiked her skirt up around her waist, straddled the first security guard, face forward, her huge tits inches from his face. She performed a sensual lap dance on top of him. Ashanti’s number two Boricua bombshell. Juanita. She distracted the second security guard. They were both just outside the range of the camera’s line of vision, but Khalid could make out enough to know the nine minutes they had remaining should be plenty.

The third octave.

*** *** ***

“So, what do you think?” Tandy propped her hands up under her hefty breasts, jiggled them in his face, “Money well spent? Or, do you think I should get a refund?”

She lifted them up one at a time, as if to analyze them herself. She noticed how her deliberate jiggle hypnotized him, left his mouth hanging agape. She waved them closer, antagonized him.

“No…no. Who…who...whoever did them, they…they definitely did you justice,” Don professed, meaning every word of it.

They were beautiful. Smooth, perfect symmetry, soft and firm. Her nipple piercings and the simple two-word tattoo – Fallen Angel – over her left breast only enhanced what he considered a feminine work of art. He licked his lips deliciously, never once lifting his eyes to the petite woman who possessed them. Those two flesh pillows in his face possessed the power to block out the entire world around him.

“They’re…they’re perfect. But…but,” Don stuttered, occasionally cutting his eyes over to that third brown-skinned beauty by the workstation. A vixen he wanted more than those other two combined.

“They are, right? Perfect to look at. Perfect to touch. Perfect to…lick.”

Tandy lifted her left breast just a couple of inches from Don’s lips again. She peered down into his face, read his hesitation, his reluctance, his fear. His timidity angered her.

“You know, there’s nothing more pathetic than a man that doesn’t know how to take advantage of an opportunity when one is right in his face. Literally, right in his fucking face! That’s not a man. That’s a little bitch. And the only thing a little bitch is good for is to…ahhh, there you go. That’s it, motherfucka. Be a real man, conquer!” Tandy hissed the second Don took the hint.

He reached out to wrap both hands around one of her huge breasts, pulled it to his mouth. His lips tickled her nipples, his tongue danced over her piercings. He sucked on her breasts, one at a time, like a baby with a bottle.

Tandy lowered her eyes to a security guard who quickly became her fiend, her junkie experiencing his first hit. She hummed in delight under the massage of his bathing tongue, held a sinister smirk at her power to make men grovel, and literally bow down on their knees, to do her bidding.

“That’s it. There you go. Handle. Take care of this bitch how you supposed to,” Tandy stressed, embracing the sides of his head to position him perfectly. She lured him completely under her spell, spewed dirty words of encouragement to inject him with confidence, and simultaneously screwed her hips onto his lap as if she was riding him.

Ashanti reveled in the visual of the security guard making a meal of her girlfriend’s chest. She subtly cast her eyes down to the monitor disabling the security system. The countdown on the timer indicated they had just over sixteen minutes before Olain’s security system would go back online.

Ashanti and Khalid went over the plan for the Olain heist for the last week, ironed out every minute detail for over an hour the night before. For the last seven days, she could think of nothing else. At that very moment, her mind was on the mission. But the visual of Tandy manipulating that security guard, and an echo in her memory of the previous night, caused her to boldly maneuver her hand deeper between her thighs, place her index and middle finger over her clit, and gently caress herself reflecting on the glorious conclusion of how her night with Khalid finally ended.

He fucked the shit out of her like a savage for over three hours – nonstop.

He started in the missionary position, up close and personal. A position that symbolized their intimacy, their connection, their love. Dug up in her, deep, readjusted her back-walls. The whole time with his face pressed against the side of hers, in her ear, whispering a thug’s venom, his dominance, spreading open her fleshy ass cheeks underneath to allow for no interference on his journey inside her.

Next, he twisted her on her side, held one leg open by her ankle, damn near pressed it to the side of her head while the other was pinned to the bed. Spread her open mercilessly on the center of their queen-sized, and traveled up in her guts with strokes that were delivered as if he was sending a message.

He finished off the night in a position that they both equally desired, anticipated, expected – doggy style.

A position which allowed him to methodically long-dick her with his thick nine inches, side to side, up and down, stroke her with a passion to prolong and maximize both of their pleasure. He kept her on her hands and knees, face and chest pressed to the bed, ass high in the air, for over forty-five minutes.

He spoiled her with the dick, kept raw dick in her, snatched reality from her to sweep her into another world in those precious moments. A world of complete ecstasy. He reminded her to remember that sensation, that experience, and how the money from the heist promised them a similar experience the following weekend – on the white sands of Saint Croix.

The fucking was good.

Really good.

The idea of an all-expenses paid shopping spree at high-end boutiques like Gucci, Fendi, and Prada for a whole new wardrobe, with jewels and shoes to match, and vacationing on a Caribbean island, even better.

The best, what really pushed Ashanti over the edge to climax four times, and even squirt like a water gun, twice, soaking the sheets, crying out Khalid’s name over…and over…and over, was the money he guaranteed her for her participation.

Ashanti promised Khalid she could handle things on her end, take care of the security. Manipulating men to the point where they lost track of time was her bread and butter. She even assured him she had two of the perfect co-conspirators in mind. Ruthless gangstresses draped in ink and four-inch stilettos, ready to ride-or-die whenever the prospect of big money was involved.

And when she turned to notice her girl, Juanita, with the second security guard, she knew without question that she made the right choice.

The fourth octave.

*** *** ***

“Ohh…oh, shit!” Vince hissed through clenched teeth, his face strained as if he was in actual pain.

He sat in his office chair, partially reclined, head back, mouth open, with his dark blue security slacks down around his ankles.

“Fuck! Ohhh…fuck! Shit! Fuck! I never…I never felt something so…oh shit,” he continued rambling, squeezing the arms of the cushioned chair in a white-knuckle grip, eyes closed.

Juanita was on her knees between his thighs, her head in his lap.

From Ashanti’s viewpoint, all she could make out was the back of Juanita’s slowly bobbing head, and nothing else; her thick crown of jet-black, damp, curly locks acted as the perfect veil to shield his entire waist down to the floor. Ashanti nonchalantly peeled down the right shoulder of her bodysuit with her eyes glued on Juanita; her firm C-cup popped out.

She whispered to herself, “Damn, gurl. Calm the fuck down. The plan was to distract him, not suck his fucking dick off. Don’t finish him, before we finish, what we gotta do.”

Ashanti sucked on her fingertips, coated them in saliva, swirled her nipple between them, the other hand massaged two fingers in smooth circles over her clit.

Oh, how she wished she could have finger-fucked herself at that very moment.

Not because of Tandy, but because of Juanita.

Only the two of them knew of the secrets they shared. Of the secret Ashanti discovered about the insatiable Boricua. That whenever her girl wound herself up, programmed her mind into a certain mode, that whenever Juanita was ‘on’, it would have been almost impossible to turn her ‘off’.

“Yeah…ahhh, hell yeah,” Vince sighed in a long breath, “You got…got that shit, mommi. FUCK! Fucking Boricuas! Yo, D, this mommi...right here...this Boricua...right here…” Vince collected two handfuls of Juanita’s thick locks, wrapped it up, held it on the back of her head to completely expose her lips working his dick over in her mouth, “This is what the fuck I was talking about right here. This shit right here…this butter pecan princess…I fucking told you! This motherfucking badass Boricua…shit! It ain’t nothing like it.”

Juanita held the shaft of his thick, vein-covered, seven and a half inches, worked her saliva-coated hand up and down the length of him. With her other hand, she delicately caressed and massaged his cum-bloated sac. She sucked on that black dick – swirled her tongue around the swollen head, stroked her hand up in perfect harmony with her head lowering in his lap to pull him deeper in her mouth – until she warmed herself up, and easily took the entire length of him down her throat, nestling her lips in his lap.

It was obvious – Juanita completely tuned everything else out, everything around her. Nothing mattered to her at the time. Nothing but bobbing her head up and down in his lap, sucking and fucking his dick with her throat with loud slurps that left his hard dick soaked in her saliva.

That was something Ashanti expected, hoped for, predicted.

Ashanti knew her girl, and knew that while she was solely in it for the money, her girl, Juanita, would be down to get her lips wet for other reasons than just the hundred racks she was promised.

Juanita was her girl, but there was no doubt about it – she was a slut.

A stone-cold, ruthless slut.

Hands down the coldest, most ruthless, heartless slut Ashanti had ever met.

A slut that bowed down to worship dead presidents on green paper. One whose lust, her appetite for sex, went well beyond the simple enjoyment of a casual fuck. Her specialty: sucking dick. Her delicacy of choice: black dick. A self-proclaimed cum-slut that bragged of her skills, of her art that she perfected, loved, and received just as much pleasure pleasing as the recipient being pleased.

Juanita sucked on that security guard’s dick as if he was the love of her life, pulled more and more of him greedily between her lips, with her other hand, on the sneak tip, she stuffed it between her thighs. Sucking that dick got her pussy soaking wet, drenched. She sneakily shifted the crotch of her tattered jean shorts to the side, stuffed two fingers inside, then three, and tried to raise those wet digits to her lips on the sly to hungrily suck that heavenly nectar before the security guard caught wind of what she was really doing – eating her own pussy on the low.

“What the...oh yeah. This one here...she’s a...she’s a true-to-life, motherfucking freak! Just how I love em,” Vince sighed, staring down on Juanita’s face swallowing his dick, completely mesmerized. “Let me…let me taste you. Let me...let me fuck you. Yeah, let me get up in that fat ass,” Vince panted, his face twisted in the kind of ecstasy that revealed his efforts to contain an orgasm a determined Juanita was so eager to take.

Ashanti rubbed her pussy long enough to feel her G-string getting soaked. She glanced down at the monitor. Khalid, along with his two cohorts, gained access to the storage container; they rapidly transported dozens of bags of high-grade Oxy pills into their duffle bags. The sight of it alone – along with how Tandy was handling – pushed Ashanti that much closer to the edge.

The fifth octave.

“There it is. That’s it, girl. We are soooo close. Get it,” Ashanti thought.

Don, the first security guard.

Ashanti took in the sight of Tandy performing a lascivious lap dance on top of him. A lap dance that got his dick so hard, he unbuckled, and zipped down his slacks to whip it out. A lap dance that got Tandy so hot and bothered, that she eventually hooked two fingers on the crotch of her pink G-string, shifted her panties to the side, flowered herself open, and slid all eight-plus inches of him inside to plant herself firmly in his lap.

“Ooohhh…yeah. Ok, soldier. I can…I can have some fucking fun with some shit like this,” Tandy purred, sliding down the length of him to feel every inch of his thickness deep in her belly.

She only fucked him for a few strokes before she changed her mind. She had something else in store for that thick piece of delightful meat. She quickly slid her soaked pussy from over him, turned around, gave him her back, and squirmed back down on his dick, reverse-cowgirl.

“Just hold on, and you better not cum. Be a fucking man, control that dick, and let me get my shit off, first, then…then you can tear this ass up, and splash that shit all over it. Paint that ass in cum.”

Her eyes fell shut. Deep concentration.

She braced her hands on her knees, arched her back as deep as she could, carefully lifted herself up to the tip, and brought her ass back down…up then down…up then down, along the entire length of Don’s thickness, thoroughly fucking herself. Don could only sit back and enjoy the foreign sensation of Tandy’s soaking wet, tight pussy swirling, bouncing, grinding, and doing tricks on his dick that allowed her to impale herself with his veiny shaft in a consistent rhythm, that stimulated his dick just as much as her clit.

Tandy fucked him with consistent strokes, eyes closed, meditated on that dick like a shaolin monk, fucked him long enough to sigh in a winded breath, “Almost…almost…oh, you motherfucka, right...there! Ooohhh…shit, FUCK!” and burst like a broken fire hydrant to shower a wave of cum all over his dick.

Don felt a sense of accomplishment. Felt something foreign awaken in him.

Something, which strangely enough, a stranger brought out of him.

The way that badass, petite bombshell quivered all over him, the way the warmth of her orgasm left his lap soaked, his hearty eight and a half inches glazed in a thick layer of her cum, she instilled a kind of confidence in him that no other woman managed to instill. He reached out to grip Tandy’s firm, forty-three inch ass cheeks with a newfound sense of confidence, spread her open, and continued to guide her ass up and down on his shaft.

“Naw, beautiful, not yet. I ain’t done with this ass,” Don growled with sweat bubbled up across his forehead.

He refused to give Tandy a break.

Refused to end a moment of new discoveries that redefined another side of his manhood.

Refused to put a stop to a memory that he would bottle, uncap, and drink for years to come.

The sixth octave.

“Oooh, yeah, you got...that shit. There...you go. This some…this some good ass...fucking dick right here. Get...mind control...over that shit...like Debo, motherfucka. Give it...to me. Tear that...shit up, motherfucka. Bang on that shit,” Tandy hissed, her ass bouncing, swirling, grinding.

She rolled her head over her shoulder, peered back at the security guard behind her. She wanted to look into his face, study his expression, collect in her memory the look of another heart stolen as she continued to bounce her ass up and down the length of him. Her head bobbed, her bottom lip hung agape every time Don slammed his waist up to meet her on the down stroke.

Her top lip curled into a sinister snarl, she slurred, “Keep...going…fuck…it! Fuck this pussy!”

“Yeah...yeah...yeah...yeah...yeah,” Don panted over, and over, and over with each stroke.

He tried to give that little nymph on top of him just what she begged for.

He slammed her down on his dick, tried his best to stuff as much of himself in her as he could. Tried to bust her little ass open, and custom-fit himself to her pussy to perfection. Tandy was petite, five-foot-four, one-forty, but she was solid, thick, and no question about it – could handle, and swallow, a big dick like she was built for it.

She worked with him in perfect synch, slammed herself down on the length of him, squirmed on him even more to make sure to swallow every inch, the whole time peering over her shoulder back at him with a taunting look in her eyes.

The seventh octave.

“Ahhh…yeah. Look at you. You…you really trying...to bust...bust my pussy...open, ain’t you?” Tandy panted, almost challenging.

It was cute.

So cute.

She could see his effort, how hard he was trying. Little did he know, it was a lost cause. Tandy was built under the tutelage of straight thugs. Gangstas who built her ‘fuck-game’ up to legendary status, made her was a veteran. She knew how to take dick, swallow inches, and she took that shit like a champ.

“Come on…fuck it. Harder. Harder! Fucking...fuck me! Punish it. Be a man. Fucking...give it to me. Make...me...feel...it!”

“Yeah...oh yeah. Oh shit, hell yeah!”

“Ohmigod...I can’t...can’t hold it! Here...it comes! Oh shit...SHIT!”

Ashanti whipped her head over to Juanita when the second security guard’s cry echoed throughout the spacious lobby. Whipped her head over just in time to catch the tail end of Juanita furiously jerking her hand up and down Vince’s shaft, with his ass popped up off the seat, face-fucking her mouth.

“There…you go. Keep...sucking. Suck…suck all of that shit out,” Vince sighed, staring down on that beautiful Boricua ciphering the cum out of him like she was savoring her last meal.

The agonizing look on his face, the groan that spilled from his lips, Ashanti knew he was cumming in her girl’s mouth. Shooting healthy ribbons of his creamy essence right between her lips. And if she knew anything of her girl, she knew Juanita was such a greedy, cum hungry slut, that she was going to swallow every drop.

That fucking nasty ass bitch did too.

She moaned and swallowed, moaned some more, and swallowed some more, savoring that mouthful of cum, refusing to remove her lips from sucking on that dick as if she just couldn’t get enough. Their times together in secret, the memory of Juanita using her mouth on her, the sight of her girl’s insatiable thirst for cum, along with Khalid cleaning out every bag in that storage container, was enough to push Ashanti over the edge – she came on herself.

“Ah...fuck! Damn, I can’t...take it. This pussy…is too...fucking…gooood!” Vince cried. After a few more pumps, he quickly lifted Tandy from his lap, furiously fisted his dick, and sprayed three streams of cum that splashed all over Tandy’s ass and busted open pussy.

“Ahhh…yeah, there it is. Paint that ass,” Tandy hummed, at the feel of his warmth coating her ass cheeks like human suntan lotion.

The eighth octave.

The timer on the device indicated that the disabling system expired over five minutes ago, but Ashanti knew Khalid and his team were out of the building; they would be miles away from the premises before the security guards knew what hit them.

By the time the revelation of their incompetence would be discovered, an incompetence which resulted in their facility being robbed of over fourteen million in high-end designer drugs, Ashanti and Khalid would be on a flight, so many thousands of feet over the east coast, headed out to the white sands and sunny beaches of Saint Croix.

The night ending with an apple martini in her hand, and Khalid’s head and tongue between her thighs.

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