Married on Mondays Page 11

  CHAPTER 26

  DéJà

  Four o’clock, Saturday afternoon, DéJà parked behind the dean’s cottage, grabbed her bag. As usual the door was unlocked. When she entered, the dean was on his hands and knees.

  Black leather shorts suctioned against his body like a second skin. The suspenders strapped over his bare chest and back.

  DéJà dropped her black travel bag at her feet. She spoke down to him with authority, “Slave.”

  “Yes, Mistress DéJà.”

  “Up on your knees now.” She walked around him, stopped in front of him, tapped his pubic area with her finger. His plastic groin cup was under his shorts. “Take that shit off. All of it,” she said.

  “Yes, Domina DéJà.”

  “And lick my bag,” she added.

  She removed her red skirt and panties. “Don’t look at my pussy unless I tell you. Look at my pussy again, and I’m going to punish your ass.” She removed her shirt and bra. Stood before him.

  “Yes, Mistress DéJà.” The dean’s head hung low. He stared at her feet. His tongue stroked the side of her bag as he removed his shorts.

  “Now, lick my toes like a good little boy. Lick all my toes!” She grabbed the back of his head. Shoved his head to her foot. “Do it now!”

  “I don’t want to,” he said.

  “Oh, you are going to,” she said. “Hand me my rope. Hands out in front!” She looped the black nylon rope in a figure eight, secured the middle with an extra loop and a knot.

  Standing naked in front him, she jerked the rope, then said, “You think I’m playing. I told you not to look at me. Get your facemask.”

  “But, I,” he said, hopelessly looking at his wrists, then up at his mask that was suspended in the air. “I can’t.” The mask was attached to a metal-link chain that hung from the ceiling. The center of the living room was where she had chained him for flogging during previous sessions.

  “You are pathetic. Down on all fours. You’re a bad dog. And bad dogs need to be disciplined.”

  “Thank you, Mistress DéJà. I am pathetic,” the dean said, hanging his head lower. He placed his bound hands on the floor.

  DéJà removed his mask from the hook. Retrieved a black patent leather corset, thong, thigh-high boots, and her cat-o’-nine-tails whip from her bag. Stepping into the thong, she put her ass in front of the dean’s face, then inserted the string between her cheeks. “Do I have a pretty ass?”

  “Very pretty, Mistress DéJà.”

  “Kiss my ass,” she demanded.

  The dean did as instructed.

  The silver metal links of her corset overlapped until her titties sandwiched tight together. “Put on my boots,” she said, standing over him. “And don’t touch my pussy.”

  With his hands tied, the dean struggled to put on the thigh-high boots.

  “Hurry up! I don’t have all day!” she yelled.

  The dean was an obedient slave.

  Her boots were on, but crooked. She shoved his facemask over his head. “If you can’t do it right, you don’t deserve to see!” She slapped her whip against his naked ass.

  “Mistress DéJà, please, no flagellation. Remember? My wife’s birthday is today,” the dean pleaded.

  “Don’t you ever make the mistake of telling your mistress what to do,” she said, thinking about how unappreciative, disrespectful, and disobedient Foxy and Victoria were this week.

  “Sorry, Domina DéJà.”

  DéJà opened the lid on the snakes’ aquarium. Two brown-and-red boa constrictors crept over the top, then zigzagged in her direction. Their tongues slithered in and out of their mouths. She picked one up, draped it over her shoulders. The smooth underbelly felt sensual against her bare arms.

  “Mistress DéJà, may I go to the bathroom? I have to pee,” the dean said.

  “You’d better hold it,” she said, feathering her cat-o’-nine-tails over his back.

  The snakes fascinated her. She watched the one on the floor crawl toward the dean. “What’s that! You didn’t… ahhhh!” he yelled.

  DéJà laughed as the snake crept up the dean’s thigh and onto his back. The girth of the boa constrictors were the size of cantaloupes. The snake in her arms started coiling around her shoulders. She stretched it back out. The constrictor on the dean’s back slowly coiled around his waist.

  “Mistress DéJà, I don’t think this was a good idea,” the dean said. “This snake could crush me to death. Please untie me.”

  “Shut up. Speak when you’re spoken to.”

  “Yes, Mistress DéJà,” he said.

  The lower body of the snake wrapped his inner thigh. The dean reached between his legs and fell on his head. “My nuts. She’s crushing my nuts.” He tried to grab the boa but couldn’t.

  “Stop whining,” DéJà said.

  The dean was speechless. DéJà realized he was serious. She knelt, let go of her snake, got on her knees. While DéJà unwound the snake’s tail from the dean’s inner thigh, the snake on her shoulders slowly coiled around her neck. The struggle to save her life before the constrictor crushed her was more immediate and more difficult than she’d imagined.

  The dean was still speechless. The snake was tight against his dick and balls.

  Okay, DéJà, you will not be defeated by no damn snakes. What were you thinking? “Ugh, ugh. Ha, ha.” She managed to get the snake from around her neck and back into the cage.

  She struggled to unwrap the other snake from the dean’s thigh and groin. She grabbed the tip of the snake’s tail. Its mouth opened wide, head reared back, fangs protruding. “Oh, shit.” DéJà backed away. Regrouped. Okay, DéJà. Snakes will strike if they feel threatened. Take your time.

  Sitting still until the snake closed its mouth, she unwrapped the upper half, placed it over her left shoulder. The snake slowly transitioned from the dean’s body to hers. DéJà put the snake in the aquarium and secured the latch.

  The dean’s hands were cupped over his dick and balls.

  DéJà untied the rope. “Are you okay, slave?” she asked, slapping his face. “Say something.”

  The dean whispered, “That was the best session ever. I feel great.”

  DéJà never knew what would excite her clients, but the snake episode would not repeat. Not with her.

  CHAPTER 27

  Winton

  Sometimes a woman had to confront her husband head-on when her talking, crying, begging, having an attitude, and withholding sex hadn’t gotten his attention. His wife was miserable, lonely, on the verge of an emotional breakdown, and he hadn’t cared for three years. Not once had he asked Foxy, “Baby, are you okay?”

  Nothing Foxy had done had gotten his attention until he’d learned she’d made a fool of Winton Brown. Lied to him about Dallas being her cousin. She was engaged to that motherfucker. Giving his pussy to a man she’d convinced him to represent… for free! Men were sleazy. Women were scandalous.

  Thursday night he’d made it home before ten o’clock, not to appease his wife, but to see if she’d have the decency to bring her cheating behind home at a respectable hour. Women. Her lying ass actually said, “I’ll see you when you get here,” like she was at home. No wife of his was going to fuck around on him.

  It didn’t matter if he was irrational. If he had another woman. If he was being vengeful. His wife should’ve realized she married a man and not just any man. Foxy Montgomery, a waitress at a pastry shop, snagged Winton Brown, the number one attorney in the damn country. She should’ve realized her place. And she should’ve kept her legs closed. Even if he wasn’t fucking her, that was still his pussy. The rock on her finger, the license filed at city hall, the house she lived in all meant she belonged to him.

  He clenched his teeth. Flinched his jaws. Winton needed a strategy. Could a love lost be renewed? Maybe if he tried dating his wife like he’d done before he proposed, he could learn to be the husband he once was. What had made him stray? Oh, yeah. No kids. Her refusal to have his child was the demise
of their marriage and solely her fault.

  For the first time in years, Winton entered his house on a Saturday night. The living room was dark. He flipped the light switch. The first order of business was to remove the four white wedding photo albums from the living room mantel. He stacked them in his arms. If the fireplace was lit, he’d have burned the albums to a crisp.

  Winton glanced around a room he hadn’t stood in for months. He checked to make sure the DVDs of the wedding and the CDs with all the pictures were in the back sleeves. The photo album opened up to pages with pictures of Dallas with Victoria, DéJà, and Foxy. He’d feel better if Dallas was an ugly man, but the brother was handsome.

  “Fuck Foxy and her family, keeping this shit from me.”

  A dim hallway light led the way to the dark bedroom. Entering his wife’s bathroom, he considered moving her to one of the guest bedrooms. Or he could put her ass out. Winton turned up the track lighting, sat the photo albums on the vanity, removed his clothes, filled the spa tub with warm water. He went to the wet bar, got a bottle of cognac and a snifter. He brushed his teeth without toothpaste. Didn’t want to ruin his palate for the alcohol. He sat in the tub. Wow, when was the last time he had relaxed at home? Sitting in his wife’s bathtub alone, he actually enjoyed being there. A peaceful energy floated in the air.

  The more liquor he consumed, the more his stomach tightened. Sharing time with his mistress was rewarding. His marriage was not. Isis made him happy because she was happy. Foxy was miserable when she was with him. But she wasn’t always miserable. She used to be happy.

  Winton reflected on the day he first saw Foxy. She was strutting her stuff through the mall, laughing with two women she’d introduced as her sisters. They were beautiful too, but Foxy stood out. Her big booty, large breasts, sexy pouting lips, and confident yet cool attitude let him know she was the one for him. He knew the moment he saw her, she’d become his wife. He leaned back in the tub and smiled.

  When she looked into his eyes, he saw the brightest light, and then she smiled at him and said, “Hi, Winton Brown. I’m Foxy.”

  The way she’d said “Foxy” excited every nerve in his body. Those were the days when he couldn’t get enough of Foxy. Had to see her every moment he wasn’t working. He’d had the highest-quality diamond flown in from Africa and set in platinum. Her engagement ring had to outshine every woman’s engagement ring. He took a week off from work. Took Foxy island-hopping in the Caribbean. Unlike other women, she never asked him for anything. Appreciated all he’d done. She fully supported him. Was a great listener and gave intelligent advice on some of his cases.

  “Hmm.” Winton sat up.

  There was a technicality in Dallas’s case. From a speeding ticket to being sentenced to death, every action in law required processing paperwork. Incorrect documentation, failure to submit proper documentation, and Dallas could have a warrant issued for his arrest.

  Winton had approved the paperwork for filing, but if he could get it back from his assistant first thing in the morning, then he’d file Dallas’s paperwork in his bottom drawer. Winton smiled. He reserved the right to change his mind. See if Foxy goes running down to central lockup to bail her cousin out.

  He stepped out of the tub, rubbed body oil on his wet skin, toweled off the excess, then admired his physique. His dark skin glistened like that of a bodybuilder ready for competition. His big dick and sagging nuts should be an exclusive playground for his wife like they were during their first year of marriage. As he stared in the mirror, a visual of Nova’s lips flashed, causing his dick to rise. Damn that Nova was good. Could he make love to his wife and not think about Nova? Isis? He’d try.

  It was impossible to make love to his wife when his bed was empty. He went to his study. No Foxy. Opened the door to the garage; Foxy’s car still wasn’t there. He called her phone. No answer. Called again. Got his wife’s voicemail again. He ended the call. He was not sitting outside another man’s house to reconfirm what he already knew. Winton was not losing his wife to Dallas. Fuck! Foxy was winning this round, but he refused to give up the fight.

  That’s what he got for coming home early. Three years of sleeping in his mistresses’ beds, and the one fucking night he decides to come home, what the fuck happened? Now again tonight. It wouldn’t happen a third time. Winton put on his pajamas and went to sleep alone at eleven. Awakened by his phone, Winton checked his caller ID. It wasn’t his wife. It was Nova.

  “Hey, you okay?” he asked

  She whispered, “Yeah, baby. I’m okay.” Then she moaned, “I need you to come over and let me suck your dick.”

  Instantly, his dick got hard as a damn brick. He stood to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Um. I don’t know how to answer that?”

  “Pleeease, baby. I want to empty those huge succulent nuts, swallow your cum, then feel your balls slam against my forehead while you lick my pussy.”

  Whew! Had he died and gone to heaven? Winton turned on the lamp, sat on the edge of his bed. Going to visit Nova at—he glanced at the clock—midnight wasn’t smart. “This is Winton,” he said.

  “You don’t think I know who I called?”

  “Look, why don’t I see you in my office first thing Monday morning. You’ll be okay. Good night,” he said, ending their call before he changed his mind.

  His phone rang again. This time it was Isis.

  “What happened? I thought you were coming over,” she said sleepily.

  Isis’s timing was impeccable once more. His life would be miserable without her. If all he had was Foxy, they’d be divorced by now.

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  Winton stepped into a pair of sweatpants, slipped on a T-shirt and his sandals, grabbed his wallet and keys, and left.

  CHAPTER 28

  Foxy

  To thine own self be true.

  Foxy jiggled her ass, swung her hair, sang out loud. If she had more space, she would’ve bounced her booty to the floor like Beyoncé. Dallas danced with her.

  “These front-row seats are amazing!” she yelled, gyrating harder.

  Dallas received lots of perks from the CEOs he represented. Foxy was anxious to utilize their VIP backstage passes, but she was more concerned about Winton and Isis. Plus her feet were throbbing from standing and dancing the entire time Beyoncé performed.

  Before the last song ended, Dallas said, “Here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.” He rubbed his hands together like a child in a video-game store. Reminded her of Winton’s excitement for Nova.

  “My feet are killing me! I don’t want to go backstage!”

  Dallas stopped dancing. “Are you serious?”

  “Go without me. I’ll take a taxi to your house.”

  She knew he wouldn’t put her in a cab. The ride to his house was quiet. They showered. Dallas massaged her feet until she fell asleep. Foxy awakened in Dallas’s arms. She glanced over his shoulder at the clock, midnight. It was time to go home. She had to figure out where this Isis woman lived. What she looked like. Foxy hated admitting the woman had gotten to her.

  Tapping Dallas on his chest, she said, “Baby, give me a kiss. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “You’re going to make things worse. Nothing good can come out of you tracking Winton. Stay,” Dallas said, hugging her tighter.

  “You never tire of asking me to stay?” she said, squirming away from him.

  “Never have. Never will. But it’s Saturday, and you always stay with me on Saturday nights. We’ve had a great evening. Dinner, concert, plus I gave away my VIP passes to be here with you.”

  Foxy sat on the edge of the bed. Tonight she was more concerned with where her husband was. Softly she said, “I want to stay,” not knowing if Winton would come home. Had she asked for more of her husband’s time than she wanted? Maybe her timing was off for asking him. She’d assumed her request went unheard. Wasn’t sure what she’d do if Winton stayed at Isis’s all night again. Not knowing was better. She could pretend her husban
d wasn’t cheating. Knowing the truth hurt. Dallas was right.

  “Dallas?”

  “Yes, baby,” he said, massaging her back.

  “Make love to me.”

  She didn’t have to ask twice.

  Dallas gently laid her body down. He caressed her feet, kissed her arches, licked the ball, then sucked each of her toes. Tears escaped Foxy’s eyes. Tears of joy, pain, love, and sorrow connected as they flowed into her hair. Why was love a complicated emotion to grasp? Love definitely wasn’t everlasting.

  Hate was hate. If someone said, “I hate you,” their feelings were clear. If someone said, “I’m happy,” happiness was happiness. When Foxy said “I love you” to Dallas or confessed to herself “I still love my husband,” the meanings manifested the greatest love and the deepest hate.

  Why couldn’t Winton love her the way Dallas had?

  Dallas raised her leg, pressed his lips to the back of her knee. His tongue danced in the groove. Lowering her leg, he trailed his fingertips over her pubic hairs, between her thighs separating them.

  His movements were slow and deliberate as he passionately kissed her clit. He nestled his tongue in the upper left side of her crevice next to her shaft. His tongue stiffened. The tip flickered in her left groove.

  His hands slid up her stomach to her breasts. He teased her nipples, suctioned her shaft into his mouth. Foxy came and cried at the same time. This time she didn’t say, “I’ll see you in a few hours.” Foxy eased out of bed and went home.

  Opening her eyes, Foxy rolled over. Her husband’s side of the bed was neatly tucked. Not because he’d tucked the sheet as he’d normally do when he got out of bed. Two nights in a row, Winton hadn’t come home.

  She sat on the floor, exercised, stretched, then went to her bathroom. The tub was filled with used water and their four wedding albums.

  “Fuck you, Winton! Stay with that tramp-ass bitch!” Foxy cried. “I hate you!”

  Why hadn’t she kept walking that day in the mall? Why had he done and said all the right things to win her heart? She drained the tub, sat on the bathroom floor, placed her hands over her face, and cried. “He used to hold my hand in public. Open doors. Surprise me with red and white roses. He told me, ‘The white is for our everlasting friendship. Red is for the love I have in my heart for you, baby.’”