Power Couple (6 page)

I grabbed Maverick by the shoulders as he pumped dick into me. I opened my eyes and watched the muscles in his arms bulging with every stroke. God, how I loved his strong, beautifully sculpted body. After all these years of being together, I still adored my husband and experienced fireworks and all kinds of explosions whenever he made love to me.

“Do you forgive me for fucking that whore last night?” he murmured as he drove his curved thickness inside me, stroking deeply and caressing my most sensitive places. “Do you forgive me?” he repeated.

I nodded.

“Don't nod your head; say it!”

“I forgive you for fucking that whore last night,” I whimpered as sparks of electricity popped off inside me. He began pounding my walls and my toes curled as a familiar warm feeling began to flood my system. On the verge of an orgasm, I cried out his name.

“Can I fuck her again?” he requested, taking advantage of the fact that my brain had turned to mush.

“Yes, baby,” I responded, but I didn't mean it. I was in the moment, merely saying what he wanted to hear. Feeling good, I threw the pussy at him, humping and working as hard as he was—desper
ately trying to get there. Then I felt it. A sensation akin to hot lava gushing through my bloodstream. “Oh, Mav; oh, baby!”

“You ready to cum on this big dick, Cori?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I whimpered, almost there.

“Is your pussy juice gonna run down my dick and drench my balls?”

My husband had such a filthy mind and he loved talking dirty, but I was so close to the finish line, I was no longer capable of speaking coherently. I could only grunt out responses.

“I told Katya I was going to let her lick your cum off my nuts. Are you good with that, babe?”

Needing to concentrate on my orgasm, I ignored his question.

“Is it okay if Katya comes back over?”

Maverick could be annoyingly persistent, and for the sole purpose of shutting him up, I uttered in frustration, “Yeah, okay.”

Finally, I felt explosives beginning to detonate, and an incredibly intense orgasm skyrocketed through me. “Yes. Mmm. Oh, God, yes!” I screamed the words.

Then Maverick let go. He'd been holding back, waiting for me. At the moment of his climax, he exclaimed, “I'm gonna fuck the shit out of both you and Katya tonight.”

Half-crazy from coming, I joined in, ranting and raving about how good he was going to fuck me and his whore. But it was only talk. I didn't mean it. Maverick had to be out of his mind if he believed I'd ever allow that Russian bitch to get back in my bed, again!

CHAPTER 8

I
arrived on the set an hour and a half late, and Josh was having a fit over having to film out of sequence for the second day in a row.

“We need you on the set, like, now, Cori,” he said with a neck roll.

That bastard had tried it! I couldn't believe Josh had the audacity to bark at me in front of the crew. For his sake, he needed to be grateful that the kids were off-set and hadn't witnessed him disrespecting me. If they had been around, it was highly likely that I would have come out of my nigger bag and cursed him out the way Grandma Eula Mae used to curse out her daughters and grandchildren after she started getting senile.

Mistaking her twin daughters (my mom and my Aunt Chloe) for the hoes that used to work for her back in the day, Grandma Eula Mae would launch into shocking diatribes laced with generous amounts of foul language whenever my mom or Aunt Chloe gently tried to coerce her away from the stove. She was constantly setting off the smoke detector, but that didn't stop her from standing in front of the stove for hours on end cooking up a bunch of bullshit. It was such a pity that she'd lost her amazing cooking skills with the onset of dementia. But you couldn't tell her that she wasn't still the best cook in Philadelphia.

Once when my mom and aunt attempted to escort Grandma Eula Mae out of the kitchen, she yanked away from them and grabbed a huge skillet and began her rant:

“If you black-ass, tar-baby bitches don't get your stank, cum-dribbling coochie holes out of my kitchen and get back upstairs, you'd better. Instead of flapping your thick liver-lips at me, you need to be wrapping them around the dicks of those peckerwoods that paid good money for your services. Now, get the hell out of my muthafuckin' kitchen before I knock some sense into your nappy heads with this here skillet! Get on up those stairs and cater to my customers.”

Then she mumbled under her breath, “You heifers need to be grateful that I don't allow nigga men with their big ol' horse dicks inside my establishment. If I let nigga men get ahold of you, your pussy holes would be stretched out of shape and not worth a plug nickel.”

Startled, my cousins and I would giggle uncomfortably whenever Grandma Eula Mae forgot she was our grandmother and lapsed into the role of a hell-raising madam. My mother and aunt, however, didn't find it funny. They loathed being reminded that their fine educations and refined ways had been purchased with whorehouse money.

In her final year, as her mental status seriously began to decline, Grandma Eula Mae no longer recognized any member of the family. She mistook my cousins, our mothers, and me as being part of her stable of whores. She would unleash scathing recriminations upon us, her words generously peppered with the vilest profanity I'd ever heard. From listening to my grandmother, I had learned to curse like a sailor, and therefore, Josh was lucky that I'd only given him the finger as I made my way to my dressing room.

If he talked to me one more time out the side of his neck, he was going to get cursed out, Grandma Eula Mae-style.

Gina was inside my dressing room waiting for me. “Morning, Cori. How you feeling?” she asked as she pulled out a flat-iron from her overstuffed work bag.

To be honest, my life sucks! My husband wants to bite a Russian bitch's pussy on a regular basis and additionally, he wants me to participate in the freak show. He wants me to lay back and watch while she licks my cooch juice off his balls.

If I had told Gina the truth about how I was feeling, she would have possibly fainted. So, I simply said, “I'm not having a good day, thanks to that prissy bitch, Josh. It would behoove him to keep his distance from me, today.”

Not wanting to get in the middle of beef between Josh and me, Gina wisely refrained from commenting and merely murmured a sound of understanding. As she worked on my hair, Clayton tapped on the door and came in.

“Sorry to barge in on you, Cori, but Josh is having a hissy fit. He said he needs you on the set ASAP. He wants me to get started on your makeup right away.”

I didn't like having two people working on me at the same time, but not having a legitimate excuse to go against Josh's wishes, I sighed and nodded in solemn acceptance.

While Gina and Clayton hovered over me with curling irons, makeup brushes, and other beauty tools, my thoughts wandered back to my marital problems. Before I'd left for work this morning, Maverick had confided that he felt completely obsessed with the idea of unleashing his inner freak on Katya. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that he get psychiatric treatment, but after giving the idea a little more thought, I changed my mind.

We were part of a culture where surgeons and well-respected medical doctors were known to snap selfies while posing with celebrities who were lying unconscious on operating tables, and there was no way I could trust that a psychiatrist wouldn't run to TMZ with Maverick's perverted sex secrets. If word got out that the beloved, All-American golden boy, Maverick Brown, was going around leaving teeth marks all over a hooker's body, his career would be
over. And there was no doubt in my mind that my reputation would be tarnished along with his. As much as I loved Maverick, I wasn't willing to go down with his sinking ship.

In retrospect, I wished I hadn't selected Katya from the dozens of photos that the escort agency provided on their website. I didn't like the bitch's Siberian husky eyes, and I should have followed my gut instinct and skipped past her photo. It took a really demented bitch to encourage a man to put teeth imprints all over her body and beg him to treat her like she was literally a piece of meat.

Never in a million years would I have imagined that my husband had some sort of carnivorous fetish. Maybe his proclivity toward biting had something to do with our vegetarian lifestyle. Perhaps if I reintroduced meat back into our diet, Maverick would get over his newfound biting obsession.

There was a knock on my dressing room door.

“See who it is and get rid of 'em,” I ordered.

Clayton and Gina both rushed to the door, eager to see who had the balls to interrupt my beautifying procedure. Clayton opened the door to a mere crack.

“Yes?” he said.

“Can I speak to Cori, please?” said a female voice.

“She's busy,” Clayton growled.

“Let her in,” I said, curious to see who the hell had the gall to disturb me while I was getting ready for the camera. I was surprised to see the sole black female contestant. I didn't know much about her. Couldn't recall her name or whether or not the meal she had prepared yesterday was appealing. But it took a lot of chutzpah for a contestant to knock on my dressing room door. I looked her over. She was sweaty. Her makeup was dripping off her face and her hair had shriveled into a fuzzy Afro on one side and was limp and lifeless on the other. Maybe this impromptu visit
wasn't boldness at all, but was actually an act of sheer desperation.

“My name is LaTasha. I'm from Philly, like you,” she said, beaming at me.

“What can I do for you LaTasha?” I replied brusquely, ignoring the fact that we shared the same hometown.

“Being that we're both Philly girls, I figured you'd understand how embarrassed I'll be if I'm seen like this when the show airs.” She waved her hand along the fuzzy side of her head. “They've had us holed up in one of the kitchens for hours, practicing various recipes from your last cookbook. There's so much heat in the kitchen, my hair and makeup is ruined,” LaTasha complained.

Wondering what in the hell she expected me to do, I looked at her like she was from another planet.

“We're not allowed to bring anything with us from the hotel, and…” She trailed off and cut an eye at Gina. “I was wondering if I could borrow your flat-iron so I can bump my hair.”

“Hair and makeup services are only for judges and the host—not contestants,” Gina reminded her.

“I know, but look at me!” Grimacing, she gestured toward her hair. “I have to do something about this mess before I go back on set with all those cameras pointed in my face.”

“I don't bring extra equipment with me, and I can't let you borrow any of the equipment I use on Cori's hair. That's unsanitary.”

“That's okay, let her borrow one of the flat-irons,” I said, sounding kindhearted. Being an African American woman, LaTasha was a reflection of me, and I simply couldn't have her hair looking a hot mess on my show.

LaTasha spilled all kinds of tea while she was working on her hair. She gave us the rundown on all the other contestants. We found out that Touki, the petite Asian girl who smiled so sweetly during filming, was a demanding diva off camera. Yancy Dunlap,
the Baptist preacher, tended to spread malicious gossip that kept the contestants bickering and at each other's throats. The dwarf was a nasty little bastard who masturbated so much, he was given a single room. Becca, the Wiccan chick who dressed in all black, had a drinking problem, and when intoxicated, she would threaten her cast mates with witchcraft powers and had even alluded to casting spells on the judges and me.

All of that was interesting, but I was more interested in learning who was talking smack about me.

LaTasha had a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth, but I appreciated getting a heads-up on who my enemies were. According to LaTasha, the gay guy, Lionel, who always wore bright-yellow suspenders, said he wouldn't dream of serving my heart attack food to any of his friends or loved ones. He went as far as to say that unhealthy slop like mine should be banned from television.

Although I was deeply offended, the yellow suspenders-wearing guy had a point. I no longer ate the artery-clogging crap I was famous for, either. But still, how dare he come on my show and openly criticize my food among the cast? Colorful and zany, he was proving to be an interesting character on the show. But I didn't care how entertaining he was—Yellow Suspenders was not going to make it to the final four. He could kiss his culinary dreams goodbye; he was out of here!

LaTasha also disclosed that all the female contestants had the hots for Michelangelo, the super-hot black guy, but he didn't pay any of them a bit of attention.

“We think he has a big crush on you, Cori,” LaTasha divulged.

“Me?” I was pleasantly surprised.

“He's never said anything, but he's constantly flipping the pages of your cookbooks, committing all your recipes to memory. And you should see the way his face lights up when you arrive on set.”

With the insanity going on in my life right now, and having a husband who was obsessed with a skinny Russian prostitute, my ego could use a boost. Discovering that Michelangelo appreciated a chocolate sister with curves lifted my spirit.

Today, the contestants were being challenged to prepare my special meatloaf, glazed carrots, collard greens, and biscuits and gravy. I didn't care if Michelangelo's dish looked like dog food and tasted even worse; he could count on me for a high score.

LaTasha got her hair under control and then touched up her makeup, but instead of leaving, she continued to hang around my dressing room, talking nonstop and helping herself to the coffee that was on hand for Gina, Clayton, and Robin. Personally, I didn't touch the stuff. Green tea was all I needed to get my day started.

Weary of hearing LaTasha's mouth, Gina rolled her eyes. I could tell she was ready to toss LaTasha out of the dressing room. But I found the bubbly contestant to be amusing and encouraged her to give me the four-one-one on all the contestants.

She gulped coffee and smacked her lips. “This stuff is good. You're lucky they don't make you drink the swill they give us. The coffee we get tastes like dishwater. I thought it would be free-flowing considering all the pressure we're under on the show, but the contestants only get one measly cup per day.”

I grunted in a noncommittal way. I didn't want LaTasha to get the idea that venting to me would change her circumstances. Suffering was a part of being a contestant on a cooking reality show. Everyone knew that.

Of course, I'd gone from college straight to culinary stardom and had no idea what it was like to struggle. I didn't want to know, either.

“At the hotel, I was sharing a room with Heather. She's pretty cool,” LaTasha said. “From what I could tell, she didn't have any annoying quirks or bad habits. Seems like the moment I got used
to her, they moved me to a different room with a new roommate. And they did it in the middle of the night. Seems like the people who run this show…” She paused and looked at me sheepishly. “I'm not referring to you, Cori, but those other folks seem to want to keep us disoriented and tired. Now, I'm sharing a room with Becca. Since we're not allowed to leave the hotel, the only way I can get away from her and have some personal space is to either hang out in the group suite or go sit in the lobby. It's like we're in jail.”

LaTasha and her complaints were starting to irk me. “You were well aware of the rules when you signed on.”

“But you don't understand. That Wiccan chick is such a disgusting slob. I complained to some of the show's staff that she has a drinking problem, but instead of them trying to help her, they give her more alcohol. There's more booze being offered than coffee, and coffee is what we need since they only allow us a few hours of sleep every night.”

I'd heard that the contestants were all sleep-deprived. The producers felt that keeping them frustrated and in a state of confusion would trigger high emotional responses when they were involved in stressful situations during the show. To have a contestant completely lose it during an episode ensured great ratings. But they always edited out anything that made the show look bad.

“Becca shouldn't be on this show,” LaTasha continued. “She should be in rehab. Sharing a room with her is starting to mess with my sanity. Did I mention that last night she was walking around the room butt-ass naked and drinking straight out of a whiskey bottle? Having her as a roommate is abusive. I shouldn't have to look at her naked, boney ass every night. Could you put in a word and try to get me another roommate?”