Vengeance (20 page)

MICHAEL:
OKAY, COOL. THANK YOU.

ME:
NO WORRIES. IF I CAN HELP YOU, I WILL. YOU HAVE MY WORD.

MICHAEL:
YOU’RE THE BEST.

I started conniving a plan in my head right then and there. So far I had merely been stringing him along. Now it was time to actually exact some revenge on his ass. Time kills all deals so I was sure he was starting to panic. He kept texting me to try to seem relevant somehow. Soon he would start lying about having other opportunities that he didn’t want to pass up if I wasn’t serious. He would try to spin the tables and act like he was doing me a favor by offering up his acting skills, instead of the other way around. It was the oldest game in the book, but what people never realized was that artist development executives, publishers, agents, and the rest invented the game. Sure, there were some truly significant people who did have deals coming at them right and left—I was one of them—but most were peddling a crock of shit.

Michael was a peddler just like Bianca and Cherie. I was still stringing them along as well but planned to save the best for last. I wanted to ruin all of them—even if it was by reputation only—and make them pay for the rest of their natural lives.

As Glaze came out of one of the bedrooms, freshly bathed and wearing a towel, it all became clear.

“After this trip, I want you to meet me back in Atlanta. I’ll get you a room at the W, and fill you in. I need you to do something for me.”

“Will it be fun?” she asked with a wink.

“Yes, it’ll be a lot of fun, but don’t you dare wink at me.”

She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“I’ll be right back. Put some music on up in this bitch!”

“Whatever you say, Mistress.”

I walked down the hallway to find Piece of Shit. I heard a shower running in the last room at the end on the left as “Sexy and I Know It” by LMFAO starting emitting from the built-in speakers throughout the home.

I walked into the bedroom. It had twin beds decorated in pink and yellow. The room for the kids—little girls—and Piece of Shit knew that was exactly where he belonged—
biotch!

The bathroom was adorned with pastel wallpaper and pink and yellow soap dishes and towels. Piece of Shit was on all fours, looking pitiful as he tried to scrub as water got all into his eyes.

“Look at you,” I started in. “A sick-looking runt of the litter, with a wet ass, soggy ass.”

He didn’t respond. He just kept scrubbing himself.

“Scrub harder! Get all that stank bitch’s pussy off you. I know you two were doing disgusting things before I got here.”

He wanted to say something but knew better.

“Scrub that dick raw! I want it to be red when you crawl out that motherfucking shower!”

I kicked the toilet seat down with my foot and then sat down on the lid. I spotted Piece of Shit’s toiletry bag on the counter and started rummaging through it. He was an attractive man, but too average to be seen with me. He also kept himself well-groomed. I pulled out a half-empty bottle of aftershave and grimaced.

“Did you scrub that dick raw?” I asked.

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Stand up and let me see.”

He didn’t look up at me but hesitated.

“You have my permission to stand up, Piece of Shit.”

As he stood, I could see that his dick was hard—my meanness turned him on—pulsating, and clearly irritated from scrubbing it so hard. He had rubbed a layer of dead skin away and exposed a fresh layer of epidermal cells . . . and some new nerves.

Before he could stick and move, I splashed all the remaining aftershave on his dick. He stifled a scream and then took all the pain. I halfway admired Piece of Shit at that moment.

“Yeah, claim that pain!” I yelled out.

He took a series of heavy breaths and then grinned. And there it was: the reason why Piece of Shit and Glaze engaged in such debauchery with me. It satisfied their individual needs to be dominated. I personally was not down for the pain, but I was more than willing to inflict it. Some people in the BDSM community liked to be both a giver and taker of pain. Not the kid. I had endured enough pain by the time I was sixteen. Besides, I was not about to trust anyone to put me in bondage and not take a ton of photos and make them go viral. Hell to the no!

When I was younger, I had run across this chick who got paid to fuck married men in their asses with strap-on dicks. Their wives would hire her and then watch her while she did it. It was then that I realized that people never really knew what the fuck other people did in the privacy of their own homes. Some believed that everything was acceptable in a marital bed. And some simply wanted to fuck the masses, have one-night stands, and live their lives. Whatever worked for them! What worked for me was having an outlet for my pain and that meant controlling other people in the process of hurting them physically!

We ended up out on the beach that night. It was a crazy time. Glaze had purchased and brought everything that I asked for. I put a bridle on Piece of Shit and had him give me a ride up and down the edge of the water. Glaze had a ball gag in her mouth and a zip strip—a row of clothing pins along a line of twine—connected to her nipples, underarms, and clit. When she least expected it, I walked up behind her, pulled the twine, and ripped them all off her at the same time. She was a trooper and didn’t scream. She did almost lose it when I made Piece of Shit scrape her ass with sandpaper and I pushed her out into the salty ocean with all of those small, open cuts.

I started to go hard and bring some electricity into the mix but, again, I was worried about going too far and ending up on
New Day
on CNN with Chris Cuomo or
CNN Tonight
with Don Lemon.

All three of us had a good time, in our own ways. I left the next morning via cab, in disguise again, and met Archie back at the plane. He had grabbed a room at a hotel right by the airport. He had no idea where I had gone off to, and he never would. He probably assumed that I was secretly seeing some man who I didn’t want the world to know about—another celebrity, someone married, a young bull, or a combination of the three: a married celebrity nearly half my age.

I had a big grin on my face as we took off. I was totally relaxed and ready to put Plan A into action!

Friday, August 31, 2012

2:30 p.m.

Atlanta, Georgia

C
ameras, lights, action. The scene was set. I had to pat myself on the back. It was one hell of a plan. I was going to set Michael up for the okey doke and distance myself from the fallout at the same time.

Glaze had met me in Atlanta and I had her go rent a temporary office space in midtown with cash. She put up a placard on the wall beside the door that read
PROVISIONAL ENTERTAINMENT
. Even the name was pure brilliance, since “provisional” meant “arranged or existing for the present.” In this case, “the present” was less than a week and no company by that name actually existed. I made sure by googling it.

I had Glaze call up Michael, express that she was a Hollywood producer currently casting for a new film scheduled to shoot in Atlanta in the spring. I told her to toss out a few heavy-hitter A-list actors and actresses as confirmed leads and send Michael bogus sides that I had fabricated out of my vivid imagination. I didn’t write an entire script but just enough to make it seem realistic. I had turned down enough roles to know what a script layout looked like. I purchased some cheap script-writing software offline and made it happen within the span of an afternoon.

He was going to be auditioning for the role of Choad, the older brother of the main character, Domino, a hit man from Compton, who had come to Atlanta to exact revenge for the murder of his wife by an adversary. The name of the film was called
Vindication
. Every name was well planned out. I was there in Atlanta to get them all back, the name Domino stood for the domino/butterfly effect that my life had turned into that night in October 1987, and Michael was too stupid to put two and two together in regards to Choad. Most people had never heard of the term. However, being the freak that I was, I knew that a “choad” was the area between the penis and the anus and also a common nickname for a dick that was actually wider than it was longer. In other words, Choad was a moniker for “little dick motherfucker.”

We had cameras and microphones set up throughout the office that could not be seen and a DSLR—digital single-lens reflex camera—on a tripod on the opposite side of her desk. She was dressed in a black blazer without a bra, so her tits were titillating—no pun intended—and a short beige skirt with no panties and black fuck-me pumps. She had on glasses to make her seem studious and professional, but I was banking on Michael getting horny the second he walked through the door.

To give the temptation some additional momentum, Glaze had an “actress” there to read with Michael for the role of Choad. She was an up-and-coming porn star named Mrs. Teasedale. She was about five foot four, petite, with couveture skin, meaning that she was like chocolate rich in cocoa butter. Her skin was flawless all over. She drove men crazy. I only hoped that he had not seen any of her work yet. It could’ve ruined my plans. I needed him to believe that she was a real actress. It was customary for someone to read the other part in auditions so that those casting could see how it would all play out on-screen.

Michael knocked on the door promptly at two o’clock. I was across town watching it all on web cam in my studio. That was the only way that I could assure I would be alone, by lying and saying that I wanted to work on my music alone. Diederik and Antonio were off for the day since I had no concrete plans and Kagiso was out by the pool perfecting his moves. He had tried to teach the art form to me, both for self-defense and to relieve stress. Little did he realize that doing those slow, graceful moves were the exact opposite of what relieved my stress. I liked beating asses.

Since my studio was soundproof and I had barricaded myself in there by not only locking the door but by also placing a security bar under the knob, I had my laptop on as loud as it would go so I could hear everything.

“Come on in, Mr. Vinson,” Glaze said as she greeted him at the door and led him into the central office space. “This is Duchess.”

Mrs. Teasedale was going by the name of Duchess for the afternoon. It sounded like a great actress name to me. Being that I used a fake name myself, I was always fascinated with the fact that so many celebrities utilized them. Mine was obvious because of Wicket, and most people knew that I was also Ladonna Sterling. They just had no idea that I had started out as Caprice Tatum.

Some simply wanted more exotic names, some had long-ass names, and some had names that were too hard to pronounce. Some of my favorites were Nicki Minaj “Onika Tanya Maraj,” Akon “Aliaune Damala Akon Thiam,” Jane Seymour “Joyce Penelope Wilhelmina Frankenberg,” Stevie Wonder “Stevland Hardaway Morris,” Ralph Lauren “Ralph Lifschitz,” Cher “Cherilyn Sarksian,” and Woody Allen “Allen Stewart Konigsberg.” It always amused me how some papers insisted on using my real name whenever they did an article on me, stating that it was their policy—a damn lie—when they would write articles about tons of other people and
never
use their real names.

“It’s nice to meet you ladies,” Michael said, grinning from ear to ear as he shook their hands. I had the screen split into four so I could see it all from various angles . . . and record it. “I’m so excited for this opportunity.”

“How old are you?” Glaze asked, looking at his headshot and information on the back. “You look older in person. When was this headshot taken?”

Glaze was playing her role and going for the jugular from the onslaught like I had commanded her to do.

“Um, it was taken a year or two ago.” Michael watched as Glaze looked back and forth between him and the photograph. “It might be this goatee,” he added, rubbing his chin.

“So how old are you?”

Duchess looked on, trying to suppress a giggle.

“I can play midtwenties to early thirties.”

Glaze sat down in the leather chair behind the desk, leaving Michael standing in the middle of the floor.

“Have a seat on the sofa with Duchess. Did you memorize your lines?”

“Indeed.” Michael grinned as he sat down. “I’m your Choad.”

“So have you done any love scenes before?” Glaze asked, eyeing him over the top of her glasses. “Are you in shape?”

“I’m in great shape. I work out five to six times a week. As to your other question, no, but I’m not opposed to it, either.”

“Marital status?” Glaze looked over his paperwork. “It doesn’t say on here.”

“Single.”

“Good. That means no one should be tripping if I give you this role.”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t recall any mention of simulated sex scenes in the sides you sent me.”

“Look . . .” Glaze slammed his information down on the table. “I don’t have time for games. I have to get this film casted and into preproduction by the end of the year. If you’re too shy to work that tongue and ass on camera, you should leave now. This is a major motion picture with A-list stars and it is also gritty, violent, and sensual. Moviegoers love sex and violence within the confines of a loud-ass theater. There’s nothing better.”

“I agree,” Michael said anxiously. “Sex and violence are hot together. Like I said, you won’t get any opposition from me. I was merely asking a question.”

Duchess sprung into action then, perfecting her role. She reached over and rubbed him on the thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I don’t bite . . . unless you’re into that sort of thing.”

Michael pushed her hand off.

“I knew you were a punk ass,” I said aloud to myself. “Let me find out you’re scared of pussy unless you’re controlling it.”

Michael had always seemed like that type to me in high school. He seemed to shy away from the aggressive girls and lean toward naïve and gullible chicks like Cherie. Bianca was probably too self-secure for him, so he left her to Herman. He needed a weak-minded broad like Cherie. Because her father worked all the time at his garage, and her mother was too busy trying to recapture her youth on a daily basis, Cherie was always starving for attention. She wanted to be the party person with the party house and while it seemed cool back then, the fact that her parents were rarely around spoke volumes. Yes, I had a lot of nerve, but both my parents were fucktards and her parents were at least normal. They just didn’t care to be bothered with her.