Politics. Escorts. Blackmail. (5 page)

She could go down on a penis to the point where a man could actually feel her trying to swallow it. And Mr. 51 was hooked. She was unique, she knew it, and he could swear by it.

She closed her mouth around his penis and brought her lips back up to the head, then all the way back down again.

He stared and held his breath, looking as though he was holding back his ejaculation with all of his might. The veins of his forehead were pronounced; his eyes were wide, his lips were pursed, and his wide nostrils were even more flared. He was silent, like he was in shock, like he’d never seen it before, even though he’d received Manhattan’s head many, many times. He still seemed amazed.

She gave short oral strokes of the corona of his head, the widest part of his tip, and then halfway down the outer skin of his shaft and back up to the tip. Then she took her hand and spit as much saliva as she could to ease her motions, keeping her hand on him while she repositioned herself from beside him to move over and in between his legs, laying before him, giving him her sultry, hungry eyes, saying, “This suck-off is totally for you.”

He looked at her sexy gaze and his dick throbbed to expand another half-inch. He closed his eyes, going to another place as she continued the rhythm of expert attention that involved both her mouth and her hand on his shaft and base, and tip. All dick bases were covered.

Then he moaned a grandiose moan.

She could taste his pre-cum and she continued, positioning, sucking, going deep by opening wide, giving firm licks while tightening up the pressure with her hands like the tightness of a virgin vagina. She used more saliva and rolled the blade of her tongue to accompany the insides of her mouth while she went deep, and then swallowed again. She sucked the top half while her hands stroked the bottom half, giving pressure with her lips. She sandwiched his shaft with up and down motions and brought her hand to the tip, just under the frenulum, the underside of the head, and then his breaths grew shorter. She then used her hands only.

His eyes popped open. “Oh damn. Here it comes. I’m coming.” He sounded like he was in a panic, either welcoming its arrival or dreading it.

She felt the vibrating of his sperm traveling up his shaft by the throbbing stream of pressure against her right hand. He shot his stream up and out and along her fingers in spurts. She watched his flow and so did he, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes as the final drops subsided. He jerked, sensitive to the touch as she still stroked him, massaging his melting spill along his hot shaft.

Unlike hers, there seemed to be nothing fake about his orgasm.

“Damn. Why in the hell can’t I have that every day? Uh, uh, uh.” With sweat along his forehead, he shook his head and looked at the mess he made.

A while later, after they showered together, they cuddled in bed, under the covers, watching the local news on television. Just as he reached over to hug her, breaking news was announced by a blonde, female news anchor.

“A member of the U.S. House of Representatives, Eric Walters, has been accused of soliciting a transsexual on an adult website, e-mailing a shirtless photo from his iPhone and sending sex texts. The recipient allegedly discovered Mr. Walters was a married congressman and turned over the e-mail and photos to Channel 2 news. We are investigating further, and we’ll have more information on this breaking news story at the top of the hour.”

Mr. 51 looked amazed, moving his hand from around Leilani, saying, “Damn. That was stupid. What a dumbass mess.” He scooted back to lean against the headboard. “Why would he take pictures and post them anywhere? Why would he take pictures at all?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, scooting back next to him. She looked at him as if waiting for him to say more.

He saw her face. “You’re giving me a look.”

She shook her head fast. “Oh, no. Not even. Believe me, I am not one to judge.”

“And you think I shouldn’t judge too, right?”

“No, not at all. I totally wasn’t thinking that.”

He took the remote and turned the volume down, speaking with a suddenly deeper voice. “I know my life has changed with this campaign. I know I can’t do what most people do. My life is an open book now. I have a wife and stepson to think about, too. Things are getting scrutinized now more than ever. Soon, I won’t be able to go anywhere. I’ve gotta keep my nose clean. Don’t think I don’t know all of that.”

“Really. I’ve never thought that. You’re fine.”

Sounding more certain than he looked, he said, “I’m pretty sure this is my last time doing this.”

“Okay. I understand. But are you sure?”

He reached over and grabbed his bottled water and took a swig. He swallowed and said, “I don’t know. All I know is, my sex drive is too high for one woman. It always has been. I think I’ve toned it down, but it’s funny, my wife doesn’t think so.”

“I totally think you have a healthy sex drive.”

“She’d hardly call it healthy. She tries her best to satisfy me. Sometimes twice a day. Thing is, our schedules are so different, and I’m getting busier.” He set the bottle back down.

“I’ll bet.”

He glanced at the TV again. “But anyway, this guy, this Eric Walters cat, he just was sloppy. Sloppy won’t work in politics.”

“Well, you can bet Lip Service is careful. You can trust us.”

“I can imagine there’d be a lot at stake for you all.” He folded his hands along his chest.

“True.” She placed her hand on his.

He asked, “You still thinking about going back home? Being with your guy?”

“He’s not my guy. He’s my ex, for sure.” She got a bit closer. “Not ready to leave New York. Working for Lip Service is fine. It’s hard to walk away from.”

“Would you ever do it on your own? Here or in Vegas. Actually, there might be even more money in Vegas. All of this is legal there, right?”

“I really think that it is legal in some areas, but it’s less lucrative. There’s not as much risk out there. I mean, there’s an escort service flyer handed out to tourists every step they take. Not sure if I’d prefer to be on my own.”

Suddenly, his phone rang and he grabbed it, sending the caller straight to voice mail. It rang again and he sent it to voice mail again. Just as he began to look back up he asked, as if it was routine, “You think maybe I can get some pussy now?”

She answered quickly, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yes, it is.” He pulled the sheets away from his body to expose his hard-on, and pressed 1 for his voice mail. He listened and then sent a text, before dialing his secretary. “Got your message. Thanks for telling me. Yeah. I’m good. Listen. Send a car to pick me up at the Court Hotel in thirty minutes to take me to Maxwell’s Steakhouse on Forty-Eighth. Please make a reservation under my name for two. If my wife calls, let her know I got her message, please, that I sent her a text, and that I’ll meet her for dinner at 7:30. Bye.” He hung up and set the phone down on the bed between them.

“No meeting after all?” Leilani asked.

“No. CNN canceled my interview to cover the latest Eric Walters sex text madness. He’s about to issue a statement of apology, and resign.”

He stood from the bed and went to the bathroom, dick stiff like he could hang a towel on it.

Leilani glanced over as a new text came in on his phone.

He said from the bathroom, “If my dick would go down I could pee and then get that pussy before I leave. If not, I’ll be at home in the shower tonight choking my dick in your name, wishing I did.”

She smiled and put the phone on the nightstand, and adjusted herself so that when he came out, he could see her on all fours.

Moments later, after he flushed the toilet and washed his hands, his penis saw her and bounced its way back into hard state. “Damn.”

She saw his dick excitement. “Wow. You really are something. Like, totally amazing.”

He took a condom and immediately penetrated her, fucking her deep like it was sexercise, bucking her by using repeated hip strength with such intense force it looked like he was riding a bull.

She ground her hips back at him in exact measure.

He said, as if on a wild high, “This is the fucking life.”

Friday—June 17, 2011

K
emba Price’s story was a little different from the others. His Protestant mother disapproved of her one and only son’s questionable lifestyle. Price was the name he gave himself when he came to the states. He was born Kemba Abais, in a town called Mombasa, off the coast of Kenya.

When he was a teen, he’d sneak out of their apartment late at night to play gigolo, meeting the wealthy American tourist women at the Indian Ocean Beach Club resort. They were mainly lonely, wealthy, adventurous, older women who traveled for vacation sex. Usually white women. They’d come to town looking for a good time with African men, even though prostitution was illegal. He knew for a fact that one in five single women who visited from rich countries were looking to hook up. The sex tourism industry there was booming, much like it was for men who looked for vacation sex in Brazil.

His Kenyan mother couldn’t quite put her finger on what her tall, dark, and mature-looking son was doing with his time. But one thing was for sure, whatever it was, he wasn’t stopping. She threatened to lock him out of their one-bedroom apartment, where he slept on the living room sofa, if he didn’t come home at a decent hour. One night she found the stash of cash he’d hidden under one of the cushions, but she couldn’t get an answer out of him as to where it came from. But by the next night when he arrived back home, his mother was gone. And inside of a brown paper bag was all of his money, along with a gold and white Bible. He was devastated. Christian or not, she left her son and moved on with her life. He wasn’t just a child abandoned by his Egyptian father, whom he’d only met once when he was twelve, but he was also abandoned by his mother when he was nineteen—abandoned because she couldn’t deal with her suspicions of him being a prostitute.

Beryl Thomas was one of the white women he serviced. Twenty years his senior, she was trying to get her groove back in Kenya. She changed everything for him and made him her studly, six-foot-six, dread-wearing sex king. Then she made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: one summer, five years after his mother left, she brought him back to New York City with her.

Months later, Money spotted him at the Mark Hotel on the East Side and added him as her one and only male employee, after so many requests had come in to Lip Service from females looking for straight men. And of course Money had to taste-test Kemba for herself. She approved big time and put him on the payroll immediately, naming him Harlem.

He quickly became a paid call guy, actually living in Harlem, the heart of Manhattan, in a grand condo. It was a penthouse suite for which his sugar momma, Beryl, paid five thousand per month out of her advertising agency executive money, in a nineteen-unit luxury building called the Lenox Grand, complete with hardwood floors, a chef’s kitchen, and vanilla marble tile throughout. Her style was all white with silver accents. The only spot of color was a huge, orange shag rug in the sunken living room.

They were in an open relationship, and all he had to do was service her and be available when she needed him. She accepted the fact that he was an escort. Though they did manage to do what needed to be done to please each other, and say what needed to be said to each other, they made sure to get along, knowing it was hard enough to deal with the straight-laced societal standards of fidelity. Their standards were anything but straight-laced.

The rules they had were mainly hers and he obliged.

Both benefitted greatly.

She got her boy-toy stud who was hung like a horse.

And he got to live like a king and not even have to spend his own money.

It was ten in the morning when Beryl greeted him as he stepped into the kitchen area from their master bedroom. Their sprawling condo smelled like maple bacon and coffee.

“Hi, there,” she said to him.

“Hey.” His voice was deep.

“What do you have going on today?” Sitting at the bar on a white leather stool, Beryl split her focus between her iPhone and Kemba as he adjusted the strap on his gym bag, standing tall before her, looking like the hunk that he was.

“Not much. A client at midnight.” Kemba’s words were drizzled with a hint of Swahili.

“Why so late?” She took a crisp strip of bacon from the white saucer before her and bit it.

“Somebody’s sneaking out, I guess. A married woman, ya know.”

She chewed, swallowed, and smirked. “Oh, really? She’s going to sneak out of bed to get dicked down and then slip back into bed before her man wakes up, huh?” She sipped hazelnut coffee from her ceramic cup and crossed her healthy legs. She wore white silk pajamas, and her jet black hair was draped along her wide shoulders.

“I don’t ask. All I know is, it’ll be quick.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “You’re not having breakfast this morning?” She smiled.

“Nope. Plus you know I don’t eat swine.”

“There’s oatmeal in there. I could make you a smoothie if you want.”

“I’ll grab some juice at the gym. I’ve gotta catch this Insanity class. It starts in ten minutes.”

“Okay.” She watched him switch his bag to his other shoulder and asked, “Will I see you later on?”

“Maybe so. You don’t have anything going on yourself, hey?”

“No. Not today. I might get away for the weekend with Ryan, though.”

“I see” was all he said.

“Yes, that’s what I might do.” She bounced her leg and looked at him.

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“So, don’t you even want to know where?”

“Nope.”

“You know, it would be nice if you’d ask every now and then, Kemba. At least act like you care.” She took another sip. Her happy level decreased.

“I do care. I know who Ryan is. You’re safe. I know what he does for you. I know you’re going away. No secrets. Done deal.”

“Yep. Done deal.” She nodded and gave him a sarcastic wink.

He smiled. “Good. You have a good day, now.”

“You too.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Her words were weak and she gave her focus to her phone.

Kemba placed his hand on the vanilla skin of Beryl’s arm as he leaned in to kiss her on the lips.

She puckered and acted lazy until his lips met hers. He gave her a smack and her eyes showed she could possibly warm up. She placed her hand between his legs, taking hold of his heavy penis beneath his sweatsuit. He was at half attention.

Kemba was very large, just the way Beryl liked her men. She claimed she couldn’t feel anything that wasn’t a donkey dick that required a double-extra large-sized condom. She liked the Mandingo type, and she had one in Kemba.

He grinned as he moved her hand.

She told him, “It’s okay. I’ll get mine later. Maybe I’ll stop by after your class and pick you up so we can go have a healthy lunch somewhere. What about the Uptown Juice Bar? Then we can come back here and relax before your appointment with Ms. Sneaky-Ass Wife.”

“That’s fine. Give me a couple of hours.”

“Okay. Call me when you’re just about done and I’ll swing by.”

“Done deal.”

With a Roman nose, and skin as dark as Wesley Snipes’s, Kemba stood in his black and white Nikes, wearing a black bandana over his head. His dreads hung down his wide back.

He took a step toward the door, then looked back toward her again, giving her a look as though he was thinking twice. “Naw. You’ll get yours now.”

Her eyes smiled.

He headed back her way and she instantly opened her robe, showing that she was braless, wearing only white panties.

Kemba put his bag down and gripped her breasts with his large, dark hands, brought his chiseled face to her cleavage, then squeezed them together. She gave a look of approval and placed her hands along the side of his face. He put his mouth to her left nipple and spread his generous lips around it, meeting the tawny peak with his long tongue, licking her as her tip hardened against his lips. He kissed her nipple like it was her clit, and began sucking it, flicking it, in and out of his mouth while massaging her right breast. He brought both breasts together and aligned both nipples, placing his mouth on the right nipple, then the left, the right, then the left, back and forth quickly. He began sucking the right one, when she said, “You are so damn hot.”

Beryl rubbed her waxed pussy beneath the lace fabric of her underwear.

Kemba sucked harder and nursed on her breast, suckling it as though it was nourishment, and teasing it.

She leaned her head back and said, “Oh, baby, shit. You’re about to make Momma come.” Her self-pleasing hand movement sped up.

At that second, he ceased his mouth and hand grip, leaned over to pick up his bag, and headed to the door, smiling a teasing good-bye. She gave him a look as if to say they’d definitely finish it off later.

He closed the door, and readjusted his pants to make room for his long member, now three-quarters hard. He took the elevator, nodded to the doorman, and walked down the street the short distance to his sanctuary, Planet Fitness, on the corner of 126th and Lenox.

Just as he approached the popular gym he glanced across the street at a restaurant, and his eyes zeroed in on a woman as she exited from a shiny, black stretch limousine. Her driver held the door open. She was tall, slender, and just as dark as he was, dressed in all black.

She was very conservative.

Very regal.

And very sexy.

She didn’t turn in his direction, yet he examined her backside and made a mental note of her figure as she headed into the soul food restaurant called Sylvia’s. Then she was gone.

He slowed his pace, kept looking for a lingering moment, even after her visual disappeared.

He shook his head and went inside, but not before he turned back around for a last glance of where she was.

And then he heard, “Oh excuse me, dude.” This from a red-boned man, who looked startled as he jumped back a quarter inch to keep from bumping Kemba with his arm.

“Hey man, no problem. That was on me.” Kemba froze in place. He knew the man’s face. He’d seen him before. And he knew his name. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No problem.” They sidestepped each other for about three seconds, and the man laughed. “Sorry, dude.”

“Naw. It’s cool. I’ll go first,” Kemba said.

“You do that.” The man gestured with his hand.

“Thanks,” Kemba said, as the man held open the glass door.

“My pleasure.” The man watched Kemba.

Kemba looked back again, saw him looking, smiled, and headed inside.
Damn
, he said to himself.
Shit.
He couldn’t figure out what it was that caused him to be full-on, 100 percent rigid in his pants. Was it the woman across the street, or the man he knew as Romeo?

About two hours later, Beryl waited outside in a taxi just as Kemba came out, white towel around his neck, gym bag slung over his shoulder. He stepped toward the cab just as he noticed the big black limousine across the street start to slowly pull away from the curb. He kept his eyes on the person in the backseat and made his way into the taxi and took a deep breath as that person’s eyes found their way to him.

Their eyes locked.

He sat in the backseat next to Beryl and adjusted his bag just as the limo pulled down the street.

Then he realized both he and his woman had noticed the long black car with the tall, black woman dressed in black.

He said, “Hey.”

Beryl, wearing all white, turned to him in silence after watching the car disappear, saying nothing.

Mrs. Ursula Ellington, political wife, had the attention of the both of them.