Power Couple (13 page)

I'd allowed too many bitches to suck my husband's dick, and I wasn't going down that road again. “No, that's okay, Tamara. I got this.”

“Come on, babe. Let her suck it,” Maverick interjected pitifully.

“No, I got it.”

Maverick made a whiny sound of protest and Tamara gnawed at her bottom lip as if pondering a way to get his dick inside her mouth.

“Just hold it steady for me, Tamara. I'll do the rest.”

Tamara deliberately put a flimsy grasp on his dick.

To mess with her head, I flicked my tongue against her strawberries and cream-coated fingers. She let out a soft moan as she slid her hand up and down Maverick's shaft.

I had both those motherfuckers—Maverick and Tamara—whimpering and writhing like two dogs in heat. As she gave my husband a handjob, I lifted up my caftan and then squatted over the gooey dick she was holding. I had pushed down only halfway when Maverick started twitching in a familiar way that told me he was already busting a nut.

After he finished coming, I eased off Maverick and lay with my legs gapped open. I beckoned Tamara.

At first she seemed resistant to eating my pussy, but then she came crawling over to me. Maverick's dick sprang back to life as he watched Tamara slurping on my pussy.

I sat up a little, stroking Tamara's hair as I watched her devour my pussy. I wondered if her fiancé was aware that he was engaged to a big freak. Probably not.

And though Tamara loved to run her mouth and gossip with her ex-chef friend about what went on in my household, I doubted if she'd divulge that her job description had changed from chef to in-house pussy eater.

CHAPTER 18

A
fter Tamara cleaned up and left, Maverick and I lay cuddled together in bed, talking about our fun night and gazing at the dick pictures I'd taken. It felt good to have my man back. He didn't mention anything about wanting me to make an appointment for him with the escort service, and I was careful not to bring up the subject of Sophia and our unborn child

We were deliriously happy, and in order to keep us that way, I'd have to get some more freaky ideas from Grandma Eula Mae's tapes. Once I started throwing some old school-style whore-fucking on him, I'd be able to change Maverick's adverse feelings about the way our child was being brought into the world.

Hell, by the time I finished fucking him every which way, he'd be ecstatic over the idea that I had a functioning pussy that wouldn't have to be benched for the duration of a pregnancy.

I had a fleeting thought of my unfortunate incident with Michelangelo and quickly dismissed it from my mind. He had caught me in a weak moment. It was my husband that I truly loved.

To ensure that what had gone on in our dining room remained private, I had reminded Tamara of the confidentiality agreement she had signed when she began working with us. She was so embarrassed about eating strawberries and cum-cream out of my pussy that she readily agreed to keep quiet on the subject.

Finally, my marriage was back on track and all was right with my world.

Well, almost everything was right in my world. I still had to contend with the bullshit that was going on with Ralphie. I dreaded his reaction after he was eliminated from the show tomorrow, but I'd deal with that when the time came.

Even though Maverick and I had already fucked three times tonight, I wanted to make sure that he had no energy left for extramarital affairs. So, when he was about to doze off, I shook him awake and handed him my phone. “Scroll through the pictures,” I whispered. As I expected, the images of his dessert-decorated dick aroused him. I climbed on top of him and fucked him once again.

While we were going at it, he mumbled that we should raise Tamara's pay even higher for the inconvenience of her gaining a few extra pounds from constantly eating sugary desserts out of my pussy.

Oh, so this motherfucker wants Tamara involved in our sex life on a regular basis.
I hoped I hadn't created another monster, but as long as Tamara kept her tongue in me and off my husband, I could deal with her joining us in bed. Or more accurately, joining us on the dining room floor.

• • •

It was a fucking zoo on the set. The D-list celebrities that were hired as guest-judges to replace the piece that featured the contestants' mothers were not working out very well. We'd known in advance that they wouldn't have the slightest idea of how to describe food, and so they were provided with a list of key phrases. Apparently, they were all too lazy and egotistical to prepare for the camera by studying. They were winging it, and ruining the segment.

This one bitch, a former model that looked like a cat woman from too much plastic surgery, kept saying every dish tasted divine.

Josh corrected her over and over, explaining that every dish
couldn't possibly taste divine. He urged her to give a more in-depth critique and to speak in food language.

While the contestants were off-set, the director coached her. “It's loaded with salt and has too much garlic. Though I appreciate your effort, this is an overly ambitious attempt to recreate one of Cori's most famous signature dishes,” the director said, giving the idiot former model a word-for-word description of the preacher's dish. He practiced the spiel with her for over thirty minutes.

But when the cat-faced model returned to the judges' table, she smiled for the cameras and simply said in a breathy voice, “This dish is divine, darling!”

For once, Josh and I were in agreement. We shared a look of mutual disgust.

When the model got to Michelangelo's dish, she said, “This plate of food is not only divine; it's also sexy, like the man who prepared it.” Then she batted her lashes flirtatiously and tried to flash the bright smile that she'd been known for back in the eighties. Problem was, her skin was pulled too tight to replicate that famous grin and what she produced looked more like a grotesque grimace than an alluring smile.

Her behavior was embarrassing, causing me to cringe. What a disaster!
Cookin' with Cori
was turning into a freak show right before my eyes.

Fortunately, some of the other celebrity judges were more willing to follow the script that had been written for them, but they often strayed, adding their own personal remarks and impromptu entertainment segments.

For instance, a burned-out country singer followed the script when he described Becca's terrible food, but at the conclusion of his critique, he began to ham it up by suddenly bursting into a country song. The nutcase singer serenaded us with an inappro
priate little ditty about spaghetti and cheese. The song had nothing whatsoever to do with the soul food he'd sampled. I suppose it had been so long since the washed-up bastard had had an opportunity to sing to an audience, he couldn't resist using my show with its millions of viewers as a vehicle to try and revive his dead career.

Of course the song could be edited out, but still…the nerve of him.

Were all the celebrities we'd hired suffering from some type of brain disorder? The lack of professionalism they displayed was almost as bad as the crude behavior of Ralphie's foster mother. Maybe if Josh hadn't cut corners and had spent money on big-name celebrities instead of hiring a group of has-beens, we wouldn't have had to suffer through multiple takes.

Sadly, it seemed that my chances of winning an Emmy this year were dwindling swiftly. All because I'd been kind enough to step in and prevent Ralphie from being unfairly eliminated. Nice guys finish last, I thought with a defeated sigh.

At last, we were down to the eliminations and Ralphie appeared distraught when he found himself standing next to Becca, who had actually done a horrible job. One side of her fried pork chop had been burned to a crisp and the other side was barely cooked.

Ralphie's meal, on the other hand, had been cooked to perfection. I felt so guilty, it was hard to look at him.

After I rattled off all the criticisms the judges had with Becca's food, I turned to Ralphie and gave an Oscar-worthy speech. “Ralphie, after being a front-runner throughout this competition, you really dropped the ball tonight. We asked you to prepare one of my signature dishes with a twist and you gave us chicken and dumplings that was so greasy, it was barely edible. Slimy chicken skin floated in your broth. Your carrots weren't cooked long enough and were hard and inedible. Your dumplings were like clumps of unseasoned flour that stuck in the judges' throats.” I shook my
head solemnly. “I don't know what went wrong, but your meal was a disaster.”

I was lying through my teeth. Ralphie's flavorful food had been switched with some crap the behind-the-scenes chefs had concocted.

Ralphie dropped his head in contrition as I falsely accused him of a number of culinary sins.

“I don't know what went wrong, Cori. I tasted my dish and it seemed, uh, well, to me it tasted perfect.”

“Sadly, your dish was far from perfect,” I replied. Then I looked from Ralphie to Becca, as if trying to decide whom to send home. Finally, after a lengthy amount of time had passed, I said the fateful words… “Becca, by a wing and a prayer, you're safe tonight. And that means, Ralphie, it's time for you to turn off your burners and exit Cori's Kitchen.”

Ralphie's knees visibly buckled and he made a pitiful croaking sound as if his life had just come to an end. Barely able to stand, he would have never made it back to his workstation. Fortunately, the segment where he was supposed to walk back to his station and turn off the flames of his stove had been prerecorded at the beginning of the competition. All he had to do was turn around and walk off set.

Sensitive soul that he was, he shook like a leaf and sobbed into his hands. Stumbling as if he were punch-drunk, Ralphie became the first contestant on Cori's Kitchen that required assistance during his walk of shame.

Ralphie's exit was so emotional that the celebrity judges and a few of the remaining contestants were wiping tears from their eyes.

I felt bad for him, too, but I also had a ray of hope regarding the Emmys. With Ralphie's tear-jerking performance, maybe my show would get nominated after all.

CHAPTER 19

B
eing a madam was not easy work. I didn't have to lie on my back to earn a living, but keeping a bunch of whores in line taxed my nerves. On the days that I had to whip their asses, my physical strength was sapped. I didn't play with those bitches; I would beat the
hell out of them when they acted up. I had to. Otherwise, they would have
run all over me.

Out of all of the lowdown things that some of those gals did, I have to say that there's nothing worse than a thieving whore. It's bad for business when customers can't trust that a hooker isn't going to run through their pockets and help herself to money she didn't earn.

I'll never forget the day the police commissioner himself, Paddy O'Grady, came barreling out of one of the rooms, face red with fury and wearing only his boxers. He was gripping the arm of the newest member of my stable, a Spanish gal who went by the name of Margarita.

“I caught myself a thief,” O'Grady bellowed, yanking Margarita forward.

Naked as a jaybird and eyes popping out with fear, Margarita shook her head vigorously, denying that she was a thief. She kept up her protest in rambling Spanish. None of us knew what the hell she was saying. She
fought to break loose from O'Grady's grip, but she couldn't get away. His hold on her was as secure as a handcuff.

He was a big, burly Irish fella with as much tangled red hair on his broad
chest as he had on his head. Even more unruly red hair covered his upper
lip. His wild mustache added to his threatening look. He reminded me
of a big, red-colored grizzly bear. He acted like one, too. None of the gals liked him. Not only because he was a mean ol' cuss, but also due to the unnatural favors he demanded from the gals.

No one wanted to turn a trick for free, so I could understand why Margarita felt she deserved to be compensated, but it boggled my mind why she thought she could pull one over on the police commissioner when he was trained to catch thieves.

“What are you going to do about this pickpocket, Eula Mae?” O'Grady hollered, slamming Margarita against a wall and smacking her across one cheek and then the other. He was heavy-handed and her face turned colors and puffed up right away. I didn't like seeing my merchandise getting damaged with visible marks, and so I told the commissioner to simmer down and let me handle the situation.

“How do you plan to handle it?”

“I'm gonna whip her tail with my razor strap.”

I sent my best gal, Sophronia, to go get my razor strap. I noticed excitement gleaming in her eyes when she raced off to get it. Margarita was Sophronia's biggest competition, and Sophronia was eager for her to get knocked down a peg or two.

Infuriated that Margarita had given the commissioner a reason to raise hell, I grabbed her by her long black hair and tugged her over to my business office, which was nothing more than a small room behind the kitchen of the whorehouse.

Being that I was handling the situation, I expected O'Grady to go back to the bedroom, get dressed, and leave the premises. But he was eager to see the show and followed behind Margarita and me.

“Don't worry, Commissioner. I'm gonna light fire to this whore's ass,” I assured him.

“I want to see how you deal with that thief with my own eyes,” he replied stubbornly.

I'd always whipped my gals in private and on my own terms. I wasn't comfortable with the idea of O'Grady standing around eyeballing a
personal moment between me and a whore. Most Johns who had problems with any of my gals trusted that I'd dispense punishment accordingly. But not O'Grady.

If I would have asked the commissioner to give me some privacy, he would have shut down my business and locked up me and my gals.

Sophronia returned with the strap and O'Grady ordered her to go fetch his clothes. “Fetch” was his exact word. Being the most favored gal at my establishment, Sophronia wasn't accustomed to being treated like a puppy. Sulking, she left my office and went to retrieve the commissioner's clothes.

While I was whooping Margarita's ass, O'Grady pulled out his peter, which was a decent size for a peckerwood.

“Teach that bitch a lesson. Burn that ass up,” he jeered, jerking on his dick as I wailed on Margarita. Margarita wriggled and screamed while O'Grady grunted and panted like an animal. He was fist-fucking himself so vigorously, his ruddy face was slick with perspiration.

I was growing tired, but realized I couldn't finish off the ass whipping until O'Grady had finished whacking off. I took a deep breath and lit into Margarita so hard that blood began to trickle down her butt cheeks.

Sophronia slipped into my office, gawking at Margarita's bloody ass as she held O'Grady's neatly folded clothing.

Never in a million years would I have thought that that would be the moment when Sophronia would fall from grace, but life is full of surprises
.

“Lick the blood, lick it all up,” O'Grady shouted, manhandling his privates at a frantic pace.

I briefly stopped beating on Margarita and stared at the commissioner in confusion.

“Don't stop! Beat the skin off that bitch,” he ordered me.

I quickly raised the strap again and let it cut into Margarita's ass, causing more blood to trail down the back of her thighs.

“Nigga bitch, I told you to lick it up, goddamn it!”

Lick what up? I wondered as I froze, holding my strap midair. I had
a vague idea of what the crazy son of a bitch was telling me to do and the thought made my stomach turn.

With spittle gathered in the corners of his mouth, he looked like a madman as he pointed at Sophronia and then at Margarita's bloody ass. Suddenly enlightened, I nearly collapsed as relief rushed through me with a violent force.

O'Grady wanted Sophronia to lick the blood off Margarita's hind parts.

While Margarita was hunched over and crying her little heart out, I noticed Sophronia trying to inch her way over to the door.

“Where do you think you're going, Sophronia? If you don't do what the commissioner told you to, he's gonna lock your ass up.” I hated putting my best gal in such an awful predicament, but I didn't have a choice.

Margarita was so weak from the beating, she could hardly stand up straight. I had to physically bend her into the right position for Sophronia to work on her.

It was terrible. I had two distressed whores on my hand. Margarita was crying from the pain I'd inflicted upon her and Sophronia was bawling her eyes out over the unnatural deed she was being forced to do.

Fortunately, the disgusting blood licking didn't last too long. O'Grady quickly shot off a load that spilled over his beefy hand.

O'Grady dismissed both Sophronia and Margarita. Sophronia burst out of my office with blood stains around her mouth and down the sides of her face, scaring the dickens out of my other gals.

Despite her inability to speak English, Margarita was able to convey to the gals that Sophronia had sucked the blood out of the cuts on her ass. Back in those days, folks were funny about anyone suspected of dealing in dark arts. Being labeled a bloodsucker didn't go over very well with Sophronia's regulars or with the other whores. Folks were afraid of her and none of the gentlemen callers wanted to be behind closed doors with her, anymore.

Sophronia went from being my number one gal to being dead last.
After a while, she started messing with heroin. When she lost her looks, I had to let her go. She begged me to keep her on, but I couldn't. Her haggard face and tarnished reputation was bad for business.

• • •

I'd wasted my valuable time listening to Grandma Eula Mae talk about that police commissioner, O'Grady and the two prostitutes. Licking and sucking on blood was not the kind of thing I cared to introduce into my bedroom. Disgusted, I turned off the recording. True, I'd been getting some juicy information from Grandma Eula Mae, but I hadn't discovered a damn thing that I could put to use from that particular part of her whore stories. Blood licking—ugh! How revolting!

After talking about the freaky police commissioner, she went on to vent about police corruption and local politics back in the old days. She talked about a bunch of shit I wasn't interested in. I fast-forwarded for five minutes, and when I hit “Play,” she was still going on and on about crooked politicians and dirty cops.

I glanced at the clock and sighed. I wished I could find something juicy to add to my sex repertoire, but I didn't have time to pore through the tapes. Maverick was a presenter at the ESPY Awards ceremony and my glam squad would be arriving at our apartment at any moment to get me ready for the red carpet.

Maverick no longer used the services of the escort agency. With Tamara playing the role of our sex toy, and allowing Maverick to bite her ass, titties, and pussy, he no longer needed Katya. After he finished biting on Tamara, I was right there with a wet pussy for him to bust a load in.

My husband and I were good, again. Our marriage was stronger than ever, and I intended to do everything in my power to keep it that way.