Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Reviews are very important to an author and we need all we can get.
So I see a lot of people downloading the book, but no one has posted a review.
My nails are biting and even though I've receive a few offline comments here and there I still wanted you guys to go back on the site after your purchase and post your review.
The link is: http://www.lulu.com/content/1658557
If you purchased through Paypal, you can post your review on the guestbook on my website at:
This also goes for the 1000 or so who have downloaded the free book Love Like This and also Sex Weed has no reviews for it either. I'd appreciate any and everything that you can do for me.
BTW, His Substitute Wife has a countdown clock. For those who have asked, it's going to post on January 3rd, when everyone should be back at work and "comfortable."
Thanks for passing the word about the book and keep doing it because I'd love for a lot of readers for this one.
It's going to be differenet from my others because it's feeling a lot different. Wanna get freaky but I can't.. yet. You'll see what I mean.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
When I changed over sites I pretty much shut down the other links and forgot that I did that. So now I have to go through the process of finding the story and posting it somewhere.
Thanks for being so interested in it guys. you make a sistah feel good.
BTW, i just updated my Love A Black Woman blog with a guest author ya'll just gotta read about. he was awesome.
Friday, December 21, 2007
And the winner is reader, Carmel Beauty. She guessed the books that metioned it and it took so long to find out if her answer was right because I had to reread the durn book just to find out if she was right. I had really forgotten.
Thanks for playing, Carmel and you should be receiving Maniac Neighbor - an unpublished short story by me soon and will be available on Amazon Shorts soon.
Kisses, hugs and Season's Greetings to all
Many readers have asked me, “when are you going to get done with the book?” Here is a post where I will post works in progress and write in the comments what’s the update.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
With the New Year, we’ll be starting with His Substitute Wife—My Sister.
To subscribe to this story, please Click Here.
To read an excerpt, CLick Here.
If you’ve already read the excerpt and have already subscribed to Sylvia Hubbard’s Stories, then pass this to a friend, reader, book club member and anyone else you want to get involved in the book.
PREMISE OF THE BOOK SOON SOON TO COME
NEW READERS PLEASE READ: Sylvia Hubbard produces these romance suspense/ sensual noir stories mostly from the top of her head. She tries to post at least three times a week, but there is a warning that she can’t be bought for the ending (unless you’re a big publisher and just want the story) and do not call her phone in the middle of the night begging for the rest of the story. There is interaction throughout the story between the writer and readers (meaning she’ll answer any misunderstandings in the story), but no threats to tie her to the computer have worked. (She’s been doing this for the past two years almost and only have had to take out two restraining orders, LOL.) We hope to see you on the blog! And welcome.
To read a previous live book preview, please Click Here.
Best Wishes to celebrate more Holidays to come!
Author, Blogger, and Divorced Mother of Three
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Publisher: Genesis Press
ISBN-10: 1585712507; ISBN-13: 978-1585712502
When your life has been terrorized by violence, how do you manage to go forward, looking over your shoulder at every turn? This is the daily question that haunts Caitlyn Thompson. She has been in hiding from an ex-boyfriend for three years, always careful not to slip up and allow him to find her again. Working for a neighborhood youth center, she has found her niche. This is something she believes in, having grown up in inner-city New Jersey herself. Submitting a grant request to a wealthy philanthropist foundation, Caitlyn is soon to meet the man who will make her want to stop running, want to trust and love again; Marcel Baptiste. It will take a will of iron and a courage she didn’t know she possessed to battle her fears and open up to the wealthy entrepreneur. But when violence comes knocking again, will she have the courage to face her biggest nightmare?
Author's Website: http://www.laconnietaylorjones.com/
LaConnie Taylor-Jones holds advanced degrees in community public health and business administration and has written several scientific research publications for the past fifteen years. When not writing, she’s involved with the Contra Costa Alumnae chapter of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., the African American Community Health Advisory Committee, and Black Women Organized for Political. An active member of the San Francisco Area and Black Diamonds chapters of RWA since 2003, Ms. Taylor-Jones has combined her writing skills with a twenty-five-year passion for reading romance in the completion of two full-length multicultural romance novels, When I’m With You and When A Man Loves A Woman.
What led you to the idea of writing this book, and then to the actual writing of it?The thing that got me from reader to author was my husband. In the spring of ’03, I was in bed reading a novel that was horrible. It was pass midnight and I think my husband was tired of hearing me whine about the book because he said, “Honey, if you can write a better book, do it, but baby, turn out the lights.” I took him up on the challenged and I’ve never looked back. The inspiration for both When I’m With You and When A Man Loves A Woman came from my experience as a health educator. For the last fifteen years, I’ve taught health education primarily to African American women in community-based settings. Oftentimes, before I can lecture on the risk factors associated with chronic diseases disproportionally impacting African Americans, I have to deal with the soci-economic deterrents women face. Unfortunately, abusive relationships top the list.
What aspect of writing do you love the best, and which do you hate the most?
I absolutely love sitting down in front of a blank computer screen and begin the process of bringing my characters and story plot to life. I’m very meticulous with this process because it’s important for me to give my readers a quality product. I want them to not only enjoy the story but understand the characters and their plight the way I do. Believe it or not, I also enjoy working on the revisions from my editor. She’s fantastic and so far, we’ve been able to work in total sync to take my writing to the next level.
Perhaps the one thing that I can live without is the tight turn-around deadlines I face once my book enters the production process. Sometimes, my revision deadlines come at a not-so-convenient time!!!
What do you feel is the key to writing convincing characters?
An author must know every aspect of their characters. I don’t simply mean know their external characteristics (i.e. physical make-up), but an author must be intimately familiar with their internal characteristics - their thoughts, their likes, dislikes, and what they would and would not do in certain situations. Once this happens, it’s very easy to translate this on to paper to the point the characters become so vivid, readers momentarily have a hard time figuring out what’s real and what’s Memorex.
What inspired you to become a romance writer?
I’ve been an avid romance reader since I was a junior in college. In fact, I flunked an organic chemistry mid-term because I stayed up all night to finish reading my first romance novel. So, let it go on the record that the genre chose me!!
What one thing about writing do you wish other non-writers would understand?When an author says their characters are talking to them, they aren’t crazy nor or they ready to be hauled off to the nearest mental institution!!
What is a favorite book from your childhood?
There are two: The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Hawthorne) and The Catcher In The Rye (J.D. Salinger)
What was the last book to keep you up at night reading it?
The Hunted by L.A. Banks. It’s an awesome read and one I highly recommend!!!
How can readers get in contact with you? I always enjoy hearing from readers. My website address is: http://www.laconnietaylorjones.com/.
Also, readers can follow the link on my contact page and drop me a note via e-mail at: email@example.com.Plus, there’s also my snail mail address, which is 3377 Deer Valley Road – Antioch, CA 94531
OTHER STOPS ON HER BLOG TOUR ARE AS FOLLOWS:
8-9 pm eastern
contact firstname.lastname@example.org for telephone chat reservations
Monday, December 10, 2007
HIS SUBSTITUTE WIFE... My Sister
© 2008 Sylvia Hubbard
“He agreed to this?” Charisse asked incredulously, not believing what her sister was asking her to do after explaining why the process had failed. “You want me to have sex with your husband?”
…. To Be Continued January 2008 @ http://www.sylviahubbard.blogspot.com/
Monday, November 26, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Oh you guys are funny, but thanks so much for the props. I love knowing you guys are forgetting work, sneaking places to read because you’re supposed to be doing something else, refreshing the screen awaiting on the next installment, staying late at work to see if I posted something late, burning food, and reading while driving.
Even though some of these are dangerous activities its nice to know that I keep your attention with Shane and “the brothers.” (At least I’m away from the twins.)
Okay, responding to questions and comments:
READ MORE BY CLICKING HERE!
Monday, November 19, 2007
I can officially say I have fans due to Google Alert who's let me know that people actually sit around and wait for me to post online. I thought I was the only one who wanted to know that, LOL.
This weekend I started working on organizing all the websites that I have my readers jumping around to. I wanted one big website where you can find me and all the things I do and to also put a lot of my web post in one big blog. So I started this one up on wordpress to get it going and low and behold as soon as I posted the first thing, I got a comment from someone. I was shocked because the website couldn't have been less than an hour old.
When I related that to my daughter, she thought that was spooky, but I didn't. I liked knowing my fans care so much about me that they want to know what I'm doing all the time. As long as they aren't banging on my door demanding for the next chapter of the rollercoaster ride story I'm working on, then I'm cool with it. (Now I have received threats close to this. I won't name the perps, BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I've just renewed the restraining order though, LOL.)
Anyhoo, on to updates and so forth
I was at a Sigma Gamma Rho Sorority event this weekend and one of the soros said that a friend of her was reading one of my books and saying that she (the soro) needed to get a copy. (Gawd! Can't remember her name right now). But whoever you are! Thank you! So much! That validates that you guys really do pass the word and in the words of Sally Fields, "You Like Me! You really like me!"
PASS THIS TO FIVE READERS RIGHT NOW!!! THANKS!
Connect with me at: http://myspace.com/sylviahubbard or http://360.yahoo.com/sylviahubbard1
Get easy, one-click access to your favorites. Make Yahoo! your homepage.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
We're up to Chapter 10 and the response has been phenomenal, but make sure you're telling five friends or even making donations to the funds to help me.
While this is going on, I'm going through Sex Weed before I turn it over for editing and I'm finishing up some short stories which I hope to post before I finish up this story.
I found a case of disc's with stories on them and I'm sorting through the mess to find a lot of the early ideas I played around with but never finished.
I'll be sharing them with you soon.
As for our next live story, The Substitute Wife. I'll post the synopsis in December and you can invite your bookclub or reading group to join along for the ride in Jan. I hope it's as fun and exciting as our last years story Sin's Iniquity.
I'm looking forward to it, but for now, I'll finish up Drawing the Line, get to The Substitute wife and then I should be done with Dark Facade by that time. Let's pray and hope cause that's the best sotry but I'm having such a hard time with it technically.
Have a great week and see you online.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
So I did a Yahoo search. I was impressed that it pulled up:
Even though it doesn't lead to the story, it leads to the blogspot posts where the URL of Drawing The Line is at. hint hint wordpress
All the other search engines are whack... err... I mean weak.
Anyhoo, I'm on Chapter 3. And not one person has posted a comment, but I'm getting over 100 hits a day so I'm trying to figure out who's there.
Just so I can hurry this up for you, here's the URL:
Come join us and let me know you're there! Can't do it cause you're at work. You can also subscribe just for that blog at:
See ya there!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Connect with me at: http://myspace.com/sylviahubbard or http://360.yahoo.com/sylviahubbard1
Get easy, one-click access to your favorites. Make Yahoo! your homepage.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
I hated saying Goodbye to Dyson and the twins and Melissa and so forth, but life must go on and now I'm going to concentrate on Dark Facade.
Thank you for waiting.
Sylvia is Tired.
Here's the deal.
I'll give the book another once over and on Nov 12th I'll post it for download for $1.
If you've already downloaded this book and can't get it, then either http://www.paypal.com/ me $1 to email@example.com, or click on the button:
I look forward to your comments to post on either my guestbook or at the sex weed lulu site.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Connect with me at: http://myspace.com/sylviahubbard or http://360.yahoo.com/sylviahubbard1
Do You Yahoo!?
Tired of spam? Yahoo! Mail has the best spam protection around
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
“Hello.” Thin lips parted to reveal yellowed dentures.
The poodle growled.
Sweat oozed from my pores.
The old man sniffed the air. “Oh, that’s quite an interesting smell. What is that? Tar, paint and… cake or something?” He tilted his head, sniffed again. “I don’t think I’ve ever smelled that combination before.”
Schi moved into action. “Please exit the elevator. This is an emergency.”
“Oh, certainly.” The poodle growled again. “Hush up, Fluffy. I know this isn’t our floor but we have to concede to the emergency.”
Noticed the cane in his free hand.
Knocking against the compartment.
Swung it side to side as he left the elevator.
Stopped beside me.
“Oh my, do you have a bird?” Hands fished a handkerchief from his back pocket as the dark glasses stared at us.
I hated when I couldn’t see the eyes.
“No sir.” I avoided brushing against him; pushed Les into the elevator.
The old man sneezed three quick times. “Someone must have something with down in it. I only get like this around feathers. But,” head tilted toward the sky, “it’s too hot for down.” Glasses rotated back in our direction. “Why would you be wearing down in this hot weather?”
TMI which could mean FUBAR for us later.
Time to get the hell out of here.
“Have a great night, sir.” Schi pushed at the button; eyes went wide as Les groaned and shifted on the gurney.
Old school cocked his head; listened as the doors moved to close. I took a step forward;
prepared to slap a hand or stick out of the way if necessary.
It wasn’t. But we had a new problem: Les was waking up.
My shoulders were in knots; a headache pushed at my temples.
Les coughed, pulled at the restraints, lifted his head.
Once he figured out the deal, he’d yell out for help.
Goddammit, if one of us is gonna be tense, it’s gonna be you.
I leaned forward, grabbed a handful of hair, and spoke into his ear. “Slave, I’m ten times worse than your mistress ever was. I’ll slice off your dick and hand-fuck you up the ass with it if you so much as flex another muscle or make another sound. Try me.” I scraped his cheek with the shank for good measure. Drew blood, which I didn’t mean to do, but what was done, was done.
Les stilled but I wasn’t taking any chances at this point. I stuffed the blindfold into his mouth; pulled the sheet up higher to his cheeks.
The elevator finally reached the lobby. Schi pointed toward the front exit but I stopped her; motioned toward the rear. She didn’t challenge me, just shifted gears and moved like that growling poodle was nipping at her heels.
We encountered no one between the building and the van. We slid the gurney inside and I positioned myself alongside Les for the ride. Schi threw the crosses and strip inside, closed the door and pulled out onto the street.
Seven minutes twelve seconds.
Too damn close for comfort.
This last leg of the scenario was six minutes top. I watched the landscape change from pristine clean upscale to marginal and further down, seedy as hell. Too seedy if you asked me. But Barbie demanded the entire degradation process, so here we were. Close enough to a bad area to degrade but hopefully not rough enough to get him maimed or killed before the cavalry arrived.
Schi stopped beside a school playground, left the motor running and opened the rear doors.
The cool air roused Les. “W—where are we?”
“This is your stop, baby.”
I removed the sheet, stifled a laugh as I looked over his rear again, untied the hands. Making sure no traffic moved along the street, I slid the gurney half out the door. Schi tilted it; allowed Les to crumple into the wet grass. His legs were pulled from beneath him and straightened; gave him that drunk, splayed out effect for the hell of it.
We pulled up to the bank of pay phones at a service station three blocks over.
“This is 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The voice was crisp and professional.
“There is a man exposing himself by the Harrison School playground. He’s got on a white Halloween costume but I can see his...his penis sticking out.” Schi’s voice was a half-octave higher than normal.
“We’ll have an officer check it out. What is your—”
Schi replaced the headset; pulled back onto the street.
Flashing lights met us in less than a minute.
I imagined Les’ degradation process was gonna be everything Barbie thought it would be.
Our job complete, we high-fived before Schi began a very, very bad imitation of I’m A Woman, W-O-M-A-N.
Schi pulled off the scrunchie; let the air flow through her hair as she drove home. Another job down, another bit of cash to collect. She rolled her shoulders, let some of the pent-up tension of the night release from her cells.
What was up with Mo?
She’d looked stressed as hell before the scenario but had been fine earlier. And the changing of the script: Don’t use the rear elevator then do use the rear exit.
One thing Schi knew about Mo was this: She never deviated from an uncompromised scenario plan. It was a rule damn near carved in stone.
But she had tonight for no apparent reason Schi could discern. They’d gotten in and out on time and completed the assignment without an obvious hitch.
Schi replayed Mo’s actions over in her head. They’d grown close over the few years they’d known each other; became real friends in every sense of the word. She felt they were close enough that Mo could talk about anything bothering her…but apparently that wasn’t the case.
Her mind travels were interrupted as she spotted the midnight blue Dodge Charger in her driveway.
The shit just got knee deep.
Flash irritation rose within her. This was not the time or the place. All she wanted was a hot bath in her Jacuzzi tub, a glass of Hennessey and sleep. Alone.
She pulled her Lexus beside the car; watched as the slim figure exited the Charger. Cut the engine as a finger tapped on the window, opened the door.
Arms spread wide. “Surprise!”
Surprise was right. Her home was her sanctuary; one that required a specific invitation for entry. This show up unannounced high school stuff didn’t work in her world. Still she hugged the body to her, knowing one touch was dangerous as hell but could think of no quick and plausible reason not to.
“Yes, this is definitely a surprise. What are you doing here?”
A smile parted the succulent lips. “I could lie and say I was in the neighborhood, but the truth is…I wanted to see you. No, I needed to see you. It’s been too long, lover.” Hands squeezed her waist.
“Yeah, it has been a minute.”
“Two months, ten days, fourteen hours and,” —a wristwatch was consulted— “six minutes and some seconds. Nobody’s counting, though.” The body snuggled closer; a leg inserted between Schi’s, trapping her against the car. “Surely you’ve missed me.”
Schi’s loins heated at the contact.
The Devil knows our weaknesses.
And in a moment of weakness, Schi had entertained Judy Molhon. A client. And Judge Greg Molhon’s ex-wife.
Mo would have a coronary after she shit bricks if she found out about this.
Schi let her hands tangle in the thick mane; knew she should walk away but the feel and smell of the soft skin held her captive as she remembered.
Ain’t no loving as good as taboo loving. Having a fling with Judy Molhon and her ex-
husband was as taboo as it got.
Maroon lips parted. “Show me.”
Schi licked the upper lip then the lower, hands cupping and squeezing the healthy breasts. Fingers found the nipples; pulled at the distended tissue through the shirt. Judy’s eyes glazed; pelvis tilted into Schi’s. Schi bunched the front of the slacks; pulled the material taut. Judy mewed.
Once I’ve hit it…I can always hit it.
Schi pushed the body from her, grasped the hand. “Follow me.”
Changing of plans could lead to good things, too.
Saw the streetlamps.
Saw Schi lightly snoring in the passenger seat, breath fogging up the windows.
My side hummed again. Looked down. Lights dancing on the phone. Annette.
Laid my head back; tried to understand.
I wasn’t superstitious. My mind refused what I could not understand. I existed on the real, the seen, the known.
But my butt throbbed like I’d had anal sex.
I moved my hands up my face to my hair. Stopped as fingers felt moisture. Pulled a strand to my nose. Sniffed.
Like that pooled on the plastic.
In Annette’s apartment.
That I hadn’t been too yet.
Heart thudded; arm hairs stood at attention.
The unknown had shown up at my doorstep.
I stared at the sidewalk, the streetlamp; craned my neck to see up the front of the
building. Everything appeared quiet as expected on a weekday night.
Get yourself together! You too old to believe in boogeymen. It was just a dream.
Yeah, I’m dreaming like heck but all I remembered were disjointed anatomical parts—eyes, the
feel of a hand—not the entire Technicolor episode. I needed total recall to understand what the hell was going on with me.
Was this some subconscious shit, some role-play I’d suppressed, playing out in dreamland? Or real intuition, genuine psychically vibrated intuition I needed to heed?
I felt my hair and smell the wet spot again. Naw, this was past subconscious. It was tangible, touchable…the real deal. As my grandmother used to say, “Somebody tryna tell you something, Baby.”
Maybe they were, maybe they weren’t but I couldn’t focus on that right now. Right now I had a job to do.
I shook the memory away and woke Schi.
“Is it time?” She yawned and stretched.
Schi wiggled around on the seat some more.
I was edgy. Fingers gripped, ungripped the steering wheel; stopped my hands from shaking. I felt her watching me.
“Hey, you all right?”
She needed an explanation, but what?
I already know what’s about to happen?
We’re about to get fucked?
Our shit is gonna be whack in less than ten minutes?
Which one was appropriate?
None of the above..or all.
I nodded. “I’m cool.”
“You sure? You look…strange.” She leaned forward, stared through the darkness at my silhouette.
I blinked a couple of time. “I’m cool.”
She nodded. “All right, then, let’s get the party started.” She held up her wrist. “Watch check”—I held up my wrist—“Start.”
We exited the van and moved quickly to the back. Schi pulled out the magnetized crosses and I lifted the two six foot magnetic strips from the van.
My hands trembled as I anchored them to the sides.
Heart triple-timed as we rolled out the gurney, sat our supply bag on top. We looked each other over before grabbing an end and moving forward.
Blood pounded in my ears as we rolled towards the rear entrance.
Mind spun; wondered how to cheat the future…if it was, indeed, possible at all.
Nothing beats a failure but a try.
I stopped, threw Schi off-balance.
“Something’s up with the rear elevator. We need to hit the front one.”
Schi looked around. “What do you see?”
A man with a poodle watching us like hawks.
“Nothing. Got a feeling.”
She took a deep breath before nodding. “Ok. Let’s do the front.”
We reversed our steps and headed to the front entrance.
I knew, or rather, I thought I knew what would happen but was it real or only a dream? Was I being a girl, using the female intuition thing? Wasting seconds for nothing?
You’ll know in a minute.
Schi stopped in front of the double doors, scanned the lobby. “Clear.”
We jogged inside, Schi wasting no time stabbing the elevator button.
Forty five seconds. My palms dripped.
The elevator crawled down to us. I kept watch on the hallway to my right which led to the rear elevator.
Heard off-pitch humming before I saw the back of a white head, a fluffy, wiggling dog under his arm, shuffling to the rear door to the outside.
One point for Mo!
I let the air out of my lungs. Our elevator dinged then opened.
Schi hustled inside and pushed at the button to Annette’s floor. I wish we’d had a bypass key;
didn’t want to risk stopping at any other floors but we didn’t.
One minute, nineteen seconds.
Flash sweat coated my upper lip; felt a rivulet run down my spine as the doors sprang open. The hallway was void of tenants. We stopped at Annette’s apartment. Schi turned the knob and we were inside.
The scene was as it had played out in my dream. Plastic sheeting covered the floor and bits of food were littered across it.
Les hung spread eagle, back to us, from hooks in the ceiling. Blind-folded.
Schi scrunched her nose as we side-stepped a puddle of what looked like lemon pudding.
Annette was fisting and stroking her strap-on; truly seemed to be as one with it. A smile moved onto Schi’s face as she watched. Good distraction.
One minute, thirty seconds.
I detached, moved down the dark hallway, hand on the shank in my pocket. The revised script said I had to check out the rooms; meet any enemy head on.
The first was a bathroom. Light reflected off the gleaming ceramic tiles; the mirror showed an empty shower.
The door to my left was open, a lamp burning on the night stand.
Queen-sized bed in the middle, sliding-door closet stood to right. The depth was shallow, probably two feet deep.
Not enough room for the huge shape I remembered to hide.
Scanned under the bed from the doorway. Clear.
Only one other room remained.
The door was closed.
I turned the knob.
Felt the temperature drop a few degrees.
Gripped the shank tighter.
Mo, do the damn thang or take your ass home!
Pushed open the door.
Mattress on the floor.
Camera in front.
Wooden stocks to the side.
Whips—some with metal tips—hung on the wall alongside fly swatters, rump slappers and
Table full of colorful dildos of varying sizes, strapons and lubricant.
Chains drifted down from the ceiling.
No where to hide.
I relaxed, went back to the original plan.
Turned on the lights in all the rooms as I retraced my steps.
Two minutes, thirty seconds.
Annette had turned Les, his over-endowed cock now pointed towards us, as she smeared her hand into the mess on his back and over her plastic cock.
Schi rocked her pelvis back and forward; licked her lips. Bitch-in-heat mode was in full swing.
I bumped her shoulder; gave her the evil eye. No refunds. Do or die.
Annette grabbed Les’ hair; pulled backward. “Slave, what do you want me to do?”
Les’ head lolled around. “F—fuck me p—please.”
Annette nodded at us, spread his ass, pushed the strap-on roughly inside.
Up close, saying Annette looked like Chyna wasn’t quite correct. More like a male body builder drag queen masquerading as Chyna. If she was indeed a woman—and did the “bumping clit thingie” with women—she got my vote for Butch of the Year.
Annette spewed out the derogatory words. Les pumped backward, hips rolling like a woman’s. Annette grasped his cock, stroked up and down the rigid length as she pistoned rapidly into his ass.
Chick has done this before.
In seconds, Les spurted come and hung limply.
Three minutes twenty seconds.
I looked down the lit hallway; needed certainty before we swung into action.
Two points for Mo!
We pulled on latex gloves and moved the gurney across the mess of food. I slipped, thought I’d go down; caught myself before I met food hell.
Les was semi-conscious. He breathed but didn’t move a muscle.
Schi wiped Les down with a towel eliciting a mild moan. I positioned the gurney to catch him when Annette released the chains.
But first, roofing composite.
I smeared it across the front of Les from neck to feet—avoiding the cock— with a wide paint brush. I repeated with the rear, avoiding the lower back and hip region.
Schi still seemed enamored with Les’ cock so I did the honors. Slit the bag down the middle and poured feathers over his head.
The Abominable Snowman with a bare face, cock and ass. We definitely wanted him to be recognizable.
Four minutes thirty-five seconds. Time was running out.
Les began fidgeting. Tried to stand. I lifted his legs.
“W—what’s g—going on?” Breath sour, voice thick.
Annette jumped right back into character. “Shut the fuck up, Slave.” She gave his bare ass a whack with the slapper. “Be bad, Slave. I want you to be bad.” She grabbed the strap-on. “I’ll stuff this shitty cock so far down your throat, you’ll be pissing plastic.
A hellova visual.
Les relaxed; allowed us to place him front down onto the gurney, head cushioned by a pillow.
Schi grabbed the red spray paint and a stencil.
Positioned the plastic over his ass and sprayed inside the rings.
Grabbed the black paint.
Wrote on his lower back.
We all smiled at the red bull’s eye painted on his ass and the words above it: FUCK ME HERE.
“His wife is wrong for that shit there.”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s what she wanted.”
Time to go.
Threw a sheet over Les, tied his hands down and tucked in the edges.
Brushed off an errant feather, removed the blindfold and our “patient” was secure and ready for transport.
The hallway was quiet. We moved carefully toward the elevator. Our mission was three-quarters completed but we still couldn’t risk complications.
The elevator dinged and the doors swung open.
Old school stood in front of me.
Wearing dark glasses.
Dog under his arm.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
I scanned the list a final time. Dressed as paramedics—the easiest way to get Les out of the building without any interference—we sat in our rental van, soon to be pseudo-ambulance, outside Annette’s building. Waiting. The plan as we saw it, mellow from the coke and draped under a sheet, no one would be the wiser.
Les was taking his time. But he was a man and they would stick to their routines. He hadn’t missed a reaming out date previously so I was betting he wouldn’t tonight either.
Schi yawned, shook her head.
I gave her the look. Heffa hadn’t come back right after lunch like she’d promised. She’d managed to ease to the office just in time for a final run-through before picking up the van.
“If lunch time screwing makes you too tired to work, you need to do like Nancy Reagan suggested and ‘just say no,’ Miss Act- Like-She-Don’t-Know-How-Long-Lunch-Is.”
I was met with an eye-roll to rival any sistah’s. “I am not tired from get some at lunch. And for your information,”—body shifted in the seat, picked at imaginary lint—“I got held up in traffic. That’s why I was late.”
The requisite you-think-I’m-retarded-don’t-you eye-roll was flashed. “Ahem.”
I knew Schi well. Hell, we knew each other well. Didn’t want to call her an outright lie but according to sistah girl’s body language, there was some stretching the facts going on. The bigger question was why?
Schi turned, looked out the window then looked back at me. Sighed. “Look. We’ve been working our tails off for the past few months so I’m on the verge of exhaustion. When we finish with Bill Brownings, I think we ought to take a vacation.”
Vacation? Funny. No vacations for me in four years. No fun in solo vacations and my last with Schi may as well have been alone. She’d definitely left her “mark” on the unsuspecting men at the resort. We should have gone to Hedonism because if there was a Wall of Shame, she’d have been the top photo. Chick was out of control! I did the friend thing; forced her into sex rehab when we returned. What a joke. She was screwing the “moderator” in less than a week!
“We?” I quirked an eyebrow.
“Yes, we.” Schi pursed her lips. “What? You think I’ll leave you again or something?” She waved the air. “You know I’ve slowed down considerably since that time. I was just working out my frustrations back then.”
“I’ll bet.” Now and then, no difference I could see.
“It’s true. Now, I choose carefully…then wear their asses out in bed.”
We giggled. Then a blue Porsche caught my eye. I snapped my fingers. “Time to work.”
Les Hatcher. Think nondescript, dork, nerd. If anyone had told me he owned a leading software company, I’d have called them a lie. Pasty color, tight Duckhead’s buckled high over his gut, maypops on his feet and hair needed a trim bad. Add the Porche and he had the midlife-crisis-need-a-sports-car-to-get-some-pussy look down pat.
Les set then reset the car alarm three times before heading into the building.
OCD? Or just careful?
His silhouette passed beneath the streetlight, dampening my enthusiasm for tonight’s activities. Seeing all that gloriousness—naked—would be hard on the eyes. But like they say: You’ve got to take the good with the bad sometimes. This was definitely a bad sometimes.
My cell phone was ready. Annette would buzz me when Les was relaxed, pliable and totally unaware of the humiliation awaiting him. I smiled.
Let the sploshing begin!
The ringing phone jolted us awake. I glanced down. Annette.
“It’s time?” Schi asked around a yawn.
We stretched a moment before swinging into action. There was a five minute window to get in and get out with another three minute leeway for unforeseen circumstances. Eight minutes, at worse, and not one minute more. Police response time was ten minutes average in this neighborhood. No need to tango with the city cowboys or let Lester’s high lessen before we completed our mission.
“Watch check.” We held out twin timepieces—“Start,”—hit the stopwatch button.
No words as we exited. Schi threw open the back doors, removed two red magnetic crosses while I removed two six foot red magnetized strips.
The van was transformed, allowed the near-sighted and unsuspecting to think it was an ambulance. A gurney was rolled out, our bag of supplies placed on top.
Fifteen seconds. Adrenaline swished through my veins.
We did a quick appearance check then grabbed the gurney, moved towards the front of the building.
Schi had done the recon. She’d scoped the building out religiously, knew the exits, the best ways to get in and out on time. Her assessment: the elevator to the rear was the quickest and quietest for our business.
I looked up the tall front of the building, hoping the nosy were asleep and the insomniacs were watching David Letterman. Schi scanned the lobby before we entered. Empty. So far, so good.
Forty seconds. Sweat on my palms.
The elevator crawled down to us. I tensed as the ONE lit up; prepared to rush inside as it dinged. Doors slid open.
An older gentleman with a dog stood inside.
“My goodness.” Rheumy eyes magnified behind thick lenses vacillated between Schi, myself and the gurney, drinking in everything. “Someone is sick?”
Fifty seconds. Need to get old school out of the way.
“Yes. Could you exit the elevator please?” Schi used her professional voice.
The gentleman wasted precious seconds staring then scooped up the Poodle and moved past us, eyes boring into us, memorizing us for future conversations.
We pushed inside the elevator, Schi stabbing the correct floor button. I gave the man a slight smile; hoped he would turn away, focus on his own business. Let the air out of my lungs as the doors moved to close.
A hand was stuck inside.
Doors sprang wide again.
Old school didn’t take the hint. Patted the dog’s head, sucked on dentures before he spoke. “Ah…could you tell me where the emergency is?”
Curiosity killed the cat. Don’t join the party.
“Did you call 9-1-1?” Schi was edgy now; heard it in her superprofessional tone.
“No.” The head trembled, eyes darted between us.
“Then be thankful it’s not you. Good evening. Please allow the doors to close.” Schi stabbed the buttons again, shifted forward, blocked the entry, dared the man to continue.
The man stepped backward, eyes still soaking in everything.
The doors closed.
One minute ten seconds.
“That was close.” Schi’s gripped the gurney handles. Pale knuckles against gold skin.
“Thirty seconds, no more.”
“Think he’ll remember us?”
Old folks. Settled into the bored life routine. No new adventures. Sure he’d remember us down to the rubber soles of our shoes.
“Probably. Just hope he doesn’t call 9-1-1.”
I should have shut the hell up; left the 9-1-1- reference out.
As you think, as you are.
Felt tension easing up my spine. Knew Schi felt it too.
“Shit!” Schi ran fingers through her hair. “Next, he’ll be over there investigating the van. Shit! Shit! Shit!” A fist pounded the walls of the elevator. “Let’s just get in and out. Quick.”
One minute seventeen seconds.
The hallway was empty of tenants as we traveled to Annette’s apartment. The door was already unlocked, so we opened it and quietly entered.
Many things have I seen in this business but nothing like what awaited me in Annette’s apartment.
Les Hatcher was blindfolded, facing away from us, tied to metal hooks hanging from the ceiling. Spread eagle.
Who would have thought?
Bits of food and other unidentifiable liquids dripped down his body. A collage of colors and textures. Something like lemon pudding covered the plastic-covered floor near me.
I met Schi’s eyes. She scrunched her face and curled her lips. I forced myself to swallow my bile and trained my eyes back on Annette and Les. Annette—definitely Chyna’s look-a-like—had already “strapped up,” was holding a fierce looking whip. She leaned close to his ear.
“Now what do you want me to do, Slave?”
Les’ head lolled around slowly before he answered. “P—please f-fuck me,” he whispered.
Vomit pushed up my esophagus. Barbie Hatcher might know a lot but I was positive she had no inkling of how “out there” ole Les truly was.
Two minutes twenty seconds.
I gulped air then opened our bag; readied our supplies. Annette gave Les’ butts a few more whacks with her whip. I winced at every snap, but Les only moaned and groaned. Like getting beat was the best shit since the invention of chocolate.
Annette met my eyes. I nodded. She smeared some what must have been honey or syrup off his back and onto her strapon. Her fingers then spread Les’ cheeks and she positioned herself, turning Les slightly in the process.
No wonder Barbie was all hot to hold onto this nerd of a man. This mugg was White Mandingo. John Holmes reincarnated. Hung like a fucking stallion.
Schi groaned. I looked, saw that gleam I knew all too well. Bitch-in-heat mode was coming into play.
Not now, chick.
I pinched her. She gave me an evil look, but who gave a fuck? Dammit, she had to focus! The check was cashed. Do or die. No refunds.
Two minutes thirty seconds.
The head of the plastic penis slowly disappeared between Les’ cheeks. He mewled and began rolling his hips like a woman; meeting each thrust head on. His cock bobbed and swung as Annette pumped him, degrading him the entire time.
Les heated up; back arched, hips rolled, pumped with gusto.
My nerve endings frayed; sent a battalion of arrows to my legs and up my arms. Made me want to scratch an itch.
Annette tore Les’ ass up. She pulled back, held his cheeks wide as she surged deep. In seconds, Les yelped, spurted come into the mess already on the floor. Legs gave way, left him hanging there, suspended by the hooks.
I reached for the latex gloves while Schi stared.
Saw the shape dislodge from the shadows.
Big and moving fast.
Too fast to react.
Opened my mouth to warn Schi.
Felt a thousand bolts zap through my body.
Nasty, food-smushed carpet fibers cushioned my face.
Tan baseboard stared back.
Felt a thump beside me.
Hoped Schi got him.
Couldn’t turn my head; couldn’t tell if I was on the winning team or the losers.
Felt a hand on my back.
Too big, too thick for Schi.
Smelled him then.
Cayenne pepper. Fecund earth. Metal. Blood.
Something ugly this way passes.
Fingers trailed from my neck, down my spine, massaged my lower back.
Shirt was pulled out. Hands reached beneath me, unbuckled my pants.
I willed my muscles to strike, slash out, hack.
Felt cool air on my ass.
Nothing good was coming.
Felt cool metal rubbing across my naked butt.
Between my cheeks.
Pushing at the entrance to my Milky Way.
Metal pushed harder; slid inside.
Breath on my cheek.
“Be careful who you try to fuck over, Mo.”
I knew the voice.
Ghetto gone to school.
Heard the hammer cock.
“You might be the one,”—school was over—“to get fucked.”
The gun boomed.
A date. A simple date.
I inhaled deeply again.
Cecelia and her husband, Sam, had been my neighbors since I moved in. A peculiar pair. They owned a funeral home, a very unique funeral home. Sam did the humans, Cecelia focused on animals. I never understood the need for funerals for pets but according to Cecelia, it was quite profitable.
I also didn’t understand the living arrangements. They had a mini-mansion attached to the funeral home, Sam’s family house. Cecelia, however, said she wouldn’t be caught dead living there. Ironic indeed. Their compromise was the townhouse since Sam refused to keep up two massive homes.
I felt a weight on my bed.
Thinking it was one of the dogs, I turned over slowly.
Familiar hazel eyes.
Inches from mine.
Skullcap covering the remainder of the face.
My arm hair stood erect.
Punch! Chop! Slash his neck!
I was pinned to the bed; no muscles responding to my brain.
But no fear either.
Masculine cologne triggered a memory of…it eluded me.
I needed to look at the rest of him; see if anything jogged my memory bank but… my eyes refused to unlock from his.
He didn’t move.
I didn’t move.
Two pairs of eyes boring into each other’s soul.
Lungs breathing in concert.
Who are you?
I was startled at the telepathy. Amazing.
I have no future with a man!
If you must lie to someone, it should not be yourself. I am your future. Clear as if he had spoken the words aloud.
I felt something akin to…hope tapping at my heart’s door.
Might be, but I’m coming for you. Be ready when I do.
He lifted off the bed and walked to my bedroom door.
Our bodies never touched. No audible words passed. His eyes were branded on my brain.
He turned with a hand on the knob. I watched his lips part. I’m M—
The alarmed screamed.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Barbarosa Madonna Vincente Hatcher.
She’d strolled into our office, eyes shooting rage darts though her speech gave no hint of her malcontent. I knew the shit was about to hit the fan for some unlucky soul.
Blond haired, green eyed, she was decked out in an expensive pantsuit, had a two hundred dollar haircut and I’m more than sure the surgically enhanced body would be judged at least a nine point five on the male ten point scale. It was obvious she was a fitness junkie. She had that “gym” look. Angles and muscles moving in sync.
I’d seen her type plenty of times before.
Married the husband when she was young, dumb and full of come.
Was the woman behind the man as he made a name for himself.
Now fifteen years later, the rose-colored glasses were finally snatched off and she had to face up to what she had. A cooling relationship. Kids half-grown, didn’t need her as much. No career of her own since she was helping hubby further his and besides, no wife of his would be allowed work anyway. All that was facing her was a mausoleum of a house, limp, unfulfilling sex every few months if she begged for it and wrinkles popping up daily. Money was no object and loneliness had become her constant companion.
Get in line sister. You’ve got plenty of company.
Roofing composite. Check.
Barbie explained her predicament in clipped tones. Her husband, Lester, Mr.-Damn-Near-Impotent-For-Her as she called him, was seeing someone else. She knew it.
As she told us, “After you’ve been washing a man’s shit stained shorts for years, you know when some come is added to the mix.” And that’s what she’d been noticing. Come stains. But she and hubby hadn’t had sex in two months.
“He can get it up for some trollop in the mall, but can’t get the sucker to rise to the occasion for me.” Barbie’s face reddened. “Look at me!” Her hands spanned up and down her body. “Men are always picking me up. But do I spread my legs like a bitch? No. Why?” Her lips trembled before she continued. “I—I happened to love the bastard, that’s why.”
Barbie wiped back the tears as we watched. Gave a couple of linebacker snorts into a lacy handkerchief she’d pulled out of her Coach purse before she straightened her back and met our eyes. “There is no way in hell, I’ll let that worm fuck over me and get away with it. Hell, I own that cock swinging between his legs, lock, stock and barrel.” A red fingernail to the chest punctuated her point.
A pissed off Barbie doll.
Schi and I both stifled our laughter as Barbie got straight to business. Brisk and businesslike, she’d let her face morph from rage to placidity, no trace of the uber bitch previously seen in the room, and said simply, “I need to nail a motherfucker to the wall.”
We could do that. That is our specialty after all.
“Want the son-of-a-bitch to remember me all his natural born days and beyond. Feel me?”
We did and planned to make it a hell of a delivery so he’d understand it too.
When we’d delivered our surveillance info a week later, I didn’t know what to expect. Telling me that my husband prefers to be the screwee versus the screwer would fuck with my mind royally. Some bail money would probably have to be arranged before it was all said and done.
Not Barbie. She was all cool; gave little hint that it fazed her much at all. It was when she called us back to give further instructions that I had to sit up and pay attention.
Barbie might look like her namesake but beneath that epidermis lay Shequisha Jenkins gone pale pink.
Shoot, her plan truly made me think twice about ever crossing her because she definitely but the D-E-V in deviant. In fact, as quirky as her mind apparently was, I didn’t understand why Les was in the streets. Hell, he had a freak fest at home!
Red Paint. Check.
Barbie requested a splosh party for ole Les. Splosh party? That was a new one for me but Barbie had narrowed the learning curve pretty fast. Apparently, it’s a party where you get aroused by pouring and smashing edible things on your body prior to having sex. From the photos I’d viewed on the Net, nothing was off limits—cake, honey, syrup, bread, pudding, mashed potatoes, ice cream, if you can smush it, mash it, smash it or pour it, it was fair game. Sticky foreplay, they called it. I shuddered. Sticky food all over me was not my idea of pleasurable foreplay.
I had to hold up a minute because this request was so unusual. Yeah, Les liked being beaten and taking it up the ass, but how the heck would we get him to join into a sploshfest?
Black paint. Check.
The answer was simple: money. No, not for Les. For Annette Hawkins, his dominatrix slash porker buddy. Laugh if you want, but the power of money is no joke. One grand and Annette—think the WWE’s Chyna—was in Schi’s pocket. Schi said she looked like she wanted to be in her pants too. Not my cup of tea but Schi was smiling like it wasn’t a half bad idea. To each his own.
Annette said she had no problem beating Les’ ass then pounding him raw before we did our thing.
She then let Les’ secret out the bag. Seems like many men, Les still hung on to a college tradition that had been a career killer for countless others: he didn’t mind sniffing a line of coke…provided it was free and in the comfort of a select environment. After all, who’s drug testing the CEO?
Annette offered to let him snort a line or two, mellow him out, before she cowered him into submission. Worked for us. As long as we don’t offer the drug, it’s fair game. Besides, it would definitely make him more “agreeable” for our leg of the night anyway.
One thing for sure…we were definitely going to find out!
Monday, October 15, 2007
I know I dipped on you guys in April but my mother took a turn for the worse and I went MIA for a few months. But I'm back and thought I'd continue with my Payback, Inc. story.
I've retooled the entire thing, but I won't start from the beginning here. There may be some overlap but I hope that you'll see how I've made Mo grittier and harder than before. You can read the entire prior chapters on my blog to get up to speed: http://blog.myspace.com/sydneymolare.
But here it is. And as always...send feedback!
After ushering Mrs. Brownings out, I placed the check on Stellae’s desk and waited. It wasn’t long.
“Mo. I see we’ve got another client that needs the works.” Her fingers worried the edges of the check.
“Yep.” I walked past her desk, headed to my office.
“Hey, Mo.” I stopped and turned already knowing where this convo was going. “What does she need…I mean, I know you guys haven’t asked and you don’t seem to need my input…but I think I could make the scenes really interesting. You know…unique.” Eyes pleaded for my approval.
Stellae saw herself as a budding actress. She thought what we did was lollipop-easy-does-it shit; that it would get her “street acting” credo. No where in that gelled head of hers did she have a clue as to what the real deal was. For good reason.
“Did I tell you I had written a play?” She knew good and well she’d told me and had even given me a copy. I nodded my affirmation. “Well the truth is, I really want to direct, not just act. I think that I’m a much better director than actor, anyway.” She bobbed her head, convincing herself. “I’m saying that I think you’re not using all the talent you have available to you. I’m good and I know you’ll like what I come up with.” Hope was written all over her face.
I’d heard this before. She wasn’t ready for the real deal. It’s easy to fantasize about what we do in the field, it’s another thing, totally, to be in the action mix. Shit, we’re afraid when things go differently than planned. Men don’t take well to being messed over by women, especially when it’s done in the name of the wife. If we messed up…we could very well be finished.
My body hit subzero in a flash. A sense of déjà vu pushed at my skull. The memory close but…elusive. I rubbed my arms absently before shaking my head. “No, Stellae. You’re not ready,” I replied firmly.
“I can get ready. Just give me a chance to prove myself. That’s all.” Face still hopeful.
No need in prolonging the hurt. “Maybe later after much training and classes. I can’t risk you right now.”
She slumped back in the seat. “I see.”
Chick didn’t but I wasn’t putting her at risk at this stage of the game. Twenty years old…barely off her mama’s tit. A bullet or an out of control mark could put her in a wheelchair for life or worse…carried out the church doors by six. Without another word, I left the lobby and entered my office.
As I watch my java drip, Schi entered and closed the door quietly behind her. “I heard.”
“Yeah. She been asking you about this?”
“Not straight out. Just hints.” Schi sat in the chenille-covered chair in front of my desk. Leaning back, she pulled a long, dark cigarette from her pocket. A stinky Cuban. She lit the end and drew in a long breath. “Do you think we should replace her? I don’t want her to start looking through the open files, deciding to help us without us knowing it.”
Something to consider. Normally, when we finish a case, the file was shipped out to a security controlled storage facility for one year. After that they were automatically shredded. Nothing was kept on the premises. This way, if we had a break-in, no one learned secrets they shouldn’t.
It also kept our butts out of a sling. Yes, we do everything in a legal manner but we do tap-dance on the edge of breaking the law in some situations. Enough so an irate husband could drum up some trouble. Next thing you know here comes the city’s finest snooping then a search warrant.
We weren’t looking for that at all. If we’re not anonymous and discreet, we’re finished.
“I think things are cool right now. I’ll keep a closer eye on her and double-check the locks on the file cabinets daily.” I took a sip of coffee. “Ready to get down to business?”
“Uh huh.” Schi inhaled a lung full of toxins. “I need to make a run across town.” A smile lurked in the corners of her mouth.
I already knew the deal. That cat slick grin was always there when sex was on her brain and it was always on her brain.
“This a booty call?”
She blew out a plume of smoke. “And you know this. Just a quick pick-me-up before we get started on the day.”
“Why couldn’t y’all do that last night?”
I shook my head at her antics. My smile slowly left my face as Jontel popped into my head. Shit.
Schi saw the change in my expression. “I know what you’re thinking, girl, but stop it now. You know, your condition isn’t a death sentence. If you’re up front with a guy and practice safe sex—”
“I know, Schi.” I had cut her off midsentence. “I’m just not ready to…to…expose myself yet.”
Every few months Schi decided I needed her to barge in, make comments on how I lived. That Mother Hen shit might work on the clients but I was sick of it.
“When are you going to be ready? When you’re sixty? When you’re sitting in a wheelchair?
When?” Schi stood and leaned over the desk.
Schi was definitely pushing the limits our friendship. Yeah she’s just talking but my mind is telling me to slap the shit out of her so she’ll mind her own business.
“You’re not the only one with this problem. Other folks get out there and live with it everyday. They enjoy themselves. I can’t stand how you just let life pass you by. Do you think I’d let it stop me?”
“Probably not. But it ain’t a problem you’ve got…yet, so it’s not the same, is it?”
“Maybe so. Maybe not. I just wish you’d try to do more than work these cases and go home and play with Millionaire and Billionaire,” she said, referring to my two Schnauzers. “That ain’t living.” Schi stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the corner of my desk before standing.
“I know,” I replied quietly. “That ain’t living, it’s existing. And right now, I don’t know how to do anything else.”
Did she really believe I wanted to isolate myself? That I wanted no other human contact than the folks in this office and the clients? Well, hello? I wanted to be loved, touched, stroked just like the next woman. Shit, emotional vacuum gets old quick. But without any good alternatives, that’s where I am.
“All I know is I can’t take rejection at this point in my life or maybe never.”
“You might be surprised how many men won’t reject you. I don’t know what to tell you. If it were me, I’d read up on the new advances with this disease and figure out what I had to do to protect my partner.” Schi scratched at her head. “Hey. You know I read about an Internet service that’s for people—”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe I had it, much less entertain the thought of sex with someone else who had it. If I wanted that, I could have stayed with Jontel.
“It was just a suggestion. Don’t rule it out.” She looked at her watch. “Hey, I’m out of here. I’ll be back in an hour or so. After I get back, I’ll work through lunch. So if you have pulled the preliminary stuff, we can map out the ‘big show’ for Mr. Bill.” Schi laughed.
“And a big show it will be,” I confirmed, waving her out. “Have a good time for me too, will you?”
“Now, if I’ve got to get yours and mine, I might have to take the rest of the day off.”
“On second thought, just have a good time for yourself. You need to get your butt on back here as soon as feasible.”
“Feasible is in the pants of the beholder. Adios.” She winked as she walked out of the door.
I watched go, wanting to trade places, to reverse time. But time waits and reverses for no one.
Somehow, I managed to refocus my attention on our “festivities” for tonight. I pulled the phone to me and dialed up Mrs. Hatcher.
Schi stretched across the across the couch wearing only her thongs, awaiting her lover. She knew she was playing a dangerous game but her uninhibited soul wouldn’t allow her to only stare at the flame. She had to see if it truly burned.
She pulled out a cigarette, flicked her lighter. As the smoke curled to the ceiling, she relaxed further into the couch.
“Put it out,” a gruff voice said behind her.
Schi smiled and inhaled deeply, blew a plume from between her glistening lips. “Make me.” Her juices collected between her lips. She’d known he was already in the house. But she loved it rough and smoking a cigarette pissed him off royally.
Hands twisted in her hair, pulled her head backwards until brown eyes met black. “Put it out and I’ll go easy on you.”
Schi took another drag, held the cigarette out of reach in response, before blowing the smoke into the dark face.
Judge Gregory Molhon.
Mo would shit a brick if she could see her now.
Judge Molhon had been an unwitting participant in a Payback scenario. His wife, Judy, had requested they ‘get the goods on the low-down motherfucker’ eight months ago and they had. A pretty redhead, a little superglue and Judge Molhon had been left holding his dick. Literally. Mrs. Molhon had gotten a tidy divorce settlement as a result.
But Schi had wanted, oh how she’d wanted to ride his fat, black love pole with its red crown before doing the deed. It was the first time she’d wanted to deviate; switch up the pre-planned script for her own sexual satisfaction. She’d stayed the course and three months ago, Fate had intervened and they’d bumped into each other. The judge still didn’t have a clue they’d met before. After all, she had been a redhead with green contacts and bronzing cream slathered from head to toe. No resemblance to her natural state at all. She planned to keep him in the dark, too.
Thick lips parted into a smile/sneer. “Oh, you want to play bad bitch today, huh?”
The hand twisted her strands further, tearing at her scalp, making her arch over the couch. Schi feinted at his wrist with the cigarette. The judge grabbed the hand before the cigarette made contact, rolling Schi onto her stomach and pulling her all the way over the couch and upright.
“You know what happens to little girls who want to act like bad ass bitches, right?”
Schi seriously thought about kicking him in the groin, flipping him in a classic Judo move, but thought better. The average female didn’t disarm a man; leave him staring up at her from the floor. No need to open up a line of questions when all she was after was a thorough fucking. Instead, she whimpered, scrunched up her face as if in pain.
“Oh, you’re worried now?” The judge leveled his eyes with hers. Schi nodded before she let her eyes float to the floor. She’d play along; let him have his fun this time. “That’s better…but you still have to be punished.”
The cigarette was plucked from her fingers and dropped into the aquarium. He led her to a chair. Schi turned to sit and he stopped her.
“I sit; you stand.”
Schi remained still as the judge seated himself. He turned Schi sideways. Hands skimmed over her hips before they cupped the cheeks. The thong was grasped and pulled taut. The string dug into her flesh, but it was all pleasure-pain as far as Schi was concerned. Her clit jumped as he pulled the material even tighter.
Schi stood unmoved as his palm met her buttocks over and over. In her opinion, if you’re gonna spank ass, spank ass! After a few more less than numbing smacks, she turned to meet the judge’s eyes. “That all you got?” she baited.
His nostrils flared, a vessel pulsed in his temple. He released her suddenly; stood and pulled his clothes from his body. Schi couldn’t take her eyes off the cock rising and falling rhythmically beside her. She wanted to drop to her knees, slam her lips around the dripping rod, suck him deep into her throat, make him cum in seconds. But this was his show so she restrained herself.
“Bend over the chair.” A command.
Schi saw his hands twitch as she rested her palms on the seat. She resisted the smile trying to push itself onto her lips. She’d challenged his skills, so she knew he’d give it his all, just like she liked it.
Take it to the head or take your ass home!
Schi watched between her legs as the judge spat into his palms and rubbed them together. One hand rested in the dip of her back before the other swung halfway to the ceiling, returned with the force of a tsunami. Schi was lifted off the floor. She grunted but remained in position. The pain in her buttocks transformed into delicious pleasure by the time it reached her clit. Her pussy was slippery; juice crawled down her leg.
The judge put his back into it; wailed away at her thick hips. Sweat coated his chest and arms, began trailing down his forehead. He smiled as the cheeks reddened but he didn’t stop. His hand throbbed, his cock leaked precum; dripped the viscous fluid onto the carpet unchecked.
Schi upped the ante; thrust her ass into the air meeting him smack for smack.
He unhinged. Slid his hand between her thighs, collected the hot honey and smeared it over her high hole. Schi undulated now; wanted to feel dick inside of her. The judge obliged. He pulled on a condom and smeared more of her pussy juice on the outside. He pushed past her sphincter, planned to ram her, teach her a lesson.
But Schi was no novice to rough trade. Just as he’d slide in as deep as she could stand, she clamped down around his iron cock, vising him with her sphincter. The judge stiffened; unable to move beneath the assault. Schi squeezed tighter. The breath stilled in his chest, black dots danced in front of his eyes as his traitorous balls tightened and gism surged upward before he slumped to the floor.
Schi unbent from the chair, stretched and flexed slowly. She stared at the judge, lips quirked at his loud snores. Baby. It had been a good appetizer but not the whole enchilada by any means.
She nudged his chin with her freshly manicured big toe. It took a moment, but the judge finally half-squinted at her with one barely focused eye.
She gave him her business smile. “Cute warmup” –the smile dropped from her face—“but Mama is still hungry.”
A foot was placed on either side of his head…and she dipped slowly down to cover his face.
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