Naughty

by Velvet

  Johannesburg was balmy and in the mid-seventies when they landed. The crew was staying at the Park Hyatt, a short distance from the airport and within walking distance of several trendy boutiques and jewelry stores. Kennedy’s plan was to check into the hotel, change, and then hit a few shops. She was in the market for a gold toggle bracelet and what better place to shop for gold than in the land of gold mines? But once she reached the room, the bed began to whisper her name, and before she knew what hit her, she was out for the count; so much for spending a few hundred rand.

  And just like déjà vu, she was back on the plane for the return flight to New York. While Monica reviewed the first-class passenger log, Kennedy opened several bottles of wine for the preflight beverage service. Stepping out of the galley as the passengers began to board, she nearly fainted when she saw him walk down the breezeway and onto the plane. There in the flesh was Nigel Charles. He looked like a model gracing the runway, in his slate gray suit, lavender shirt, and matching tie. The suit was tailored and hugged his shoulders ever so slightly, showing off his physique. His bronze face was clean-shaven, exposing his perfectly square jawline. His eyes were intense, his nose was a straight slope, and his lips were full. He was even finer than she remembered. His good looks began to make her moist, and she wanted to go into the lavatory and masturbate.

  “Good afternoon and welcome to Pan-Afrika.” Kennedy smiled nervously, trying to mask her desire.

  He looked at her and returned the smile. “Good afternoon.”

  She wanted to snatch off the stupid blue and white plaid apron around her waist and expose her curves, so he could take notice. Instead, she quickly smoothed down the front pockets and casually ran her hand through her hair. He proceeded to his seat without looking back. His lack of attention made her wish she were also a first-class passenger instead of an in-flight waitress. She retreated back to the galley and discreetly watched as he settled into his seat, buckled up, and took out an assortment of newspapers. Kennedy inhaled and walked over to his seat, wondering if he would remember her from his last flight.

  “Would you care for a beverage before we depart from the gate?”

  “Yes, I would.” He smiled. “I understand there are some outstanding vineyards in South Africa. What would you recommend?” he asked, looking up at her.

  She searched his eyes for a hint of recognition, but there wasn’t any, so she went into her spiel. “We have a rich, fruity-tasting Bouchard Finlayson Kaaimansgat Chardonnay.”

  “That’s a mouthful,” he interrupted.

  She chuckled and continued. “We also have a mature oak-fermented Sauvignon Blanc. And, if you’re into reds, we have an awesome Cabernet Sauvignon by Kleine Zalze, as well as a full-bodied Merlot.”

  “I’ll have the Cabernet,” he said, opening one of his newspapers.

  “Excellent choice.” She smiled weakly and retreated to the galley. “Excellent choice,” she silently mimicked herself. “What a lame response. Couldn’t you—”

  “Who the hell are you talking to?” Monica asked.

  “Nobody.” She reached for the bottle of wine. “Just talking.”

  “Well, you know what they say? It’s okay to talk, as long as you don’t answer yourself.” Monica peeked her head out of the galley and looked down the aisle. “Girl, have you seen that handsome specimen in row two?”

  “Yep.” Kennedy nodded.

  “Yep?” Monica looked puzzled. “Is that all you have to say? Girl, that man is fine with a ph, as in PHINE!” She put her index finger in her mouth and bit down, emphasizing the point.

  “He ain’t all that,” Kennedy lied, not wanting to reveal her attraction.

  “Girl, you must be blind. He looks like a cross between Gary Dourdan and Vin Diesel. I tell you, if I wasn’t married, I’d be all over him. You’re free and single. Go get the four-one-one.” Monica nudged her with her elbow. “What are you waiting for?”

  Little did Monica know that Kennedy could have walked right over and straddled him without an ounce of shame in her game. She had a tender spot for Vin Diesel, and since she couldn’t have him, Nigel Charles would do just fine. But she had to maintain her composure. Any form of desperation on her part would be an instant turnoff. “If he’s interested, let him approach me.”

  “Cool Ken.” Monica rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’m going to call you.”

  She surely didn’t feel cool. Her panties were moist from the attraction she felt toward him. “Yeah, that’s me,” Kennedy mused, pouring the wine.

  Putting the goblet of wine on a silver tray with the airline’s signature single white rose in a bud vase in the center of the tray, Kennedy walked back over to his seat. “Here’s your Cabernet. Enjoy.”

  “Thanks,” he said, looking up, giving her direct eye contact.

  Kennedy swallowed hard as their eyes locked. For a few seconds, they just stared at each other without saying a word. She could feel a hot sexual desire emanating inside of her, and her mouth began to water at the thought of tasting his dick. She loved giving head and couldn’t help but wonder what type of cock he had—was it small, large, thick, or average size? Did it curve to the right or to the left—but it really didn’t matter, as long as he was well versed at licking clits.

  Nigel returned his gaze to the newspaper, ending their stare-down. Kennedy took the hint and walked away. She immediately went into the lavatory, pulled down her panty hose, put her foot on the tiny sink, and stroked her clit. She closed her eyes and imagined Nigel doing the job. The thought of him between her legs made her cum even faster, and after a few minutes, she had reached orgasm. I’m going to fuck that man, sooner rather than later, she thought, forgetting about her new self-imposed rule of waiting for the perfect relationship.

  6

  “OPEN THEM legs wider, so I can get all the way up in there.”

  “Okay, big daddy,” she panted, and did as instructed.

  He settled his naked body in between her thighs. “That’s what I’m talking about. Now tell me how much you want this dick.”

  She could feel his erection pushing against her and wanted him inside of her badly. His sexual prowess had turned her on, and now she couldn’t get enough of him. “Pleaseeee,” she begged, putting emphasis on the last syllable. “You know I need it.”

  “You need it? How badly do you need it?” he whispered in her ear.

  “I need it like a plant needs water. Like a junkie needs his daily fix.” She bit her bottom lip. “Come on, baby, stop teasing and fuck me,” she said, getting frustrated.

  “Now you sound like a junkie. Are you a junkie, baby?”

  She wrapped her legs tightly around his back, trying to pull him in closer. “You know I’m a junkie for your dick. Now stop playing around, and let’s get down to business,” she said, clenching her ankles together, tightening her vise grip.

  He grabbed his shaft and rubbed the head of his penis against her pussy lips. Teasing her made his dick harder, and he loved prolonging their foreplay, since it made the sex hotter. He released his shaft and stuck two fingers into her wanting hole. She was oozing with wetness, and he couldn’t wait to get inside, but he still had a little more teasing to do. He finger-fucked her repeatedly, until he felt her squirt a stream of cum. He then licked his fingers to savor her juices. “You taste like sweet cream.”

  Unable to wait any longer, she reached underneath him, found his rod, and guided it toward her pussy. “Fuck me. Please,” she begged.

  He was getting weaker by the second and couldn’t prolong the foreplay any longer. He slid his cock into her wetness and went to work. He grabbed her ass and pulled her into him. They fucked in the missionary position for a few minutes, and then he flipped her over. “Get on your knees.”

  She got on all fours and arched her back so that he could penetrate her deeper. “Oh, yeah, that’s it. That’s it!” she screamed out in ecstasy as he pumped her doggy-style.

  He grabbed her hips, increased his pace, and didn’t stop fuck
ing until he exploded deep within her pussy. After their heated climax, they collapsed facedown on the bed and drifted off into a comalike sleep.

  ATLANTA WAS FRAGRANT and in full bloom, reminiscent of the antebellum South. Tyler Reed could picture Rhett and Miss Scarlett lounging underneath the soft, snowy white petals of the dogwood and magnolia trees that dotted the landscape of the city. Being a transplant from New York, Tyler was astounded every spring at the spectacular show Mother Nature put on in this region of the country. April in Paris was nothing more than a mere song compared to April in Atlanta. The city was efflorescent. The overall effect was positively romantic.

  Tyler hummed the melody to “April in Paris” as she sped along Piedmont Avenue on her way home. She couldn’t get there fast enough, but first she had a few errands to run. She had a special evening planned for her lover Liz, who’d been working hard lately and desperately needed a dose of relaxation coupled with the best stress reliever of all—SEX.

  Not only was April dogwood season, it was also tax season, and Liz, an accountant, was inundated with W-2s, 1040s, 1041s, 1120s, and schedules from A to Z. Tyler looked at the clock on the dashboard; it was 2:45.

  Liz didn’t get home until after seven, so she had plenty of time to run the three important errands that would complete tonight’s tête-à-tête. The first stop was their favorite restaurant in Little Five Points to pick up dinner, then the package store to buy a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio, Liz’s favorite wine. And finally, the most important stop of all, the natural body shop to buy a bottle of Patchouli scented oil, for a sensual full-body massage after dinner.

  As she drove through L5P, short for Little Five Points, it occurred to her that the neighborhood was an eclectic cross between New York’s Greenwich Village and the French Quarter. Looking at the artsy shops and boutiques that lined Euclid Avenue, it was hard to imagine that twenty years ago, this area was considered seedy and undesirable. Back then, most of the storefronts and theaters were boarded up and in a serious state of decay. Time had surely brought about a positive change. She found a parking space near Ginger Grill, a restaurant that was a taste of the Caribbean in the city. The menu was a hip tropical mix, from lobster fritters and curried crab cakes to jerk chicken and barbecued ribs with honey-rum sauce. She walked into the restaurant and was instantly transported to the islands. Bob Marley and the Wailers were wailing Rebel Music through surround-sound speakers. The ocher-colored walls of the restaurant were covered with photographs of the sandy beaches of Antigua, the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, and brown children splashing in the aqua waters of Barbados. A serene picture of a burnt orange orb dipping into a tranquil sea at sunset hung behind the hostess’s podium. Tyler was lost in thought trying to decide if the picture was taken at Rick’s Café in Negril or on the shores of St. Bart’s.

  “Excuse me, miss, how can I help you?” asked the dreadlock-wearing host, bringing her back to reality.

  “I phoned in a take-out order of blackened salmon, coconut-curried shrimp, and a side of coco bread and calaloo.”

  “What name is the order under?”

  “Tyler Reed,” she replied.

  “Just a minute. Let me check on your order,” he said, and turned toward the kitchen.

  Five minutes later, the host came back to the podium, balancing three large, white foam boxes in his arms. Tyler could see steam wafting through the side of each container and smelled the intoxicating aroma of Caribbean spices.

  “That’ll be $43.87,” he said, carefully placing the boxes in a thick brown paper shopping bag.

  Tyler handed over a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  She had just completed an on-site graphics assignment and as a bonus for being ahead of schedule, the company paid her on the spot, instead of making her wait the customary thirty days.

  Tyler’s freelance career as a graphic artist was sketchy, with assignments coming in dribs and drabs. She suffered through the inconsistencies of a freelance lifestyle because she loved the flexibilily it offered. Deciding which projects to work on and making her own schedule gave her a true sense of freedom. But independence from the confines of the “Big House” came along with a price—giving up medical, dental, two weeks vacation, and a guaranteed paycheck twice a month. When the checks did roll in, she could usually count on a hefty sum.

  Tyler and Liz had been together for five years, so Liz was used to the erratic cash flow. Unlike most couples who argued about money or, more importantly, the lack thereof, they rarely let finances interfere with their romance. Living with an accountant had its advantages as well as its disadvantages. On the upside, Liz outlined a budget for Tyler to follow, so that her funds would last between droughts when the projects were nonexistent. The downside was, if Tyler went over budget one iota, Liz would become irate and give her famous “You Ought to Get a Full-Time J.O.B.” speech. Fortunately, there would be no speeches tonight, only the sweet sound of lovemaking.

  Tyler walked down the street to the liquor store and bought not one but two bottles of wine, just in case their lovemaking lasted until the wee hours. She walked back to the car, put the bags in the backseat, then took out her cell and called Liz’s office.

  “Tyler Reed calling for Elizabeth Alexander.”

  “I’m sorry; she’s gone for the day,” announced the receptionist.

  “Gone?” Tyler couldn’t believe her ears. Liz rarely left before five o’clock, especially during the crunch time of tax season. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No thank you,” she said before hanging up.

  Tyler hit the end call button, then dialed Liz’s cell, but after four rings, her voice mail answered. “You have reached the cellular phone of Elizabeth Alexander. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you.”

  “Hey, babe, it’s me. Where are you? Call me as soon as you get this message.”

  Maybe she’s already at the house, Tyler thought, then hit the speed dial to their home number. Once again, she was greeted with an automated voice. “Hey, babe, pick up.” Tyler waited for a moment. “Okay, call me on the cell.” Her mind began to race, trying to think of where Liz could be. Maybe she was in her office behind closed doors, buried underneath tax returns, and gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed. Or maybe she was comforting a nervous client. People often panicked around the fifteenth of April, thinking Uncle Sam would swoop down and cart them off to jail if their returns were not postmarked by the deadline.

  Tyler drove the short distance home and was surprised to see Liz’s car parked in the driveway. Maybe she’s sick, Tyler thought, pulling in. She parked and reached in the backseat for the food and wine. “Oh, shit,” she said, realizing she’d forgotten to pick up the massage oil.

  Tyler walked around to the side door that faced the driveway. She loved their little house on the hill, as she referred to the cozy bungalow, because the house sat atop a small incline.

  She unlocked the door, walked into the kitchen, and set the bags on the counter. It was quiet inside. I’ll bet she’s asleep, no doubt exhausted from working so hard, she thought, unpacking the food. They had hardwood floors, so she took her shoes off before going into the dining room to clear the table. Tyler was more domestic than Liz. As a child Tyler helped her mother keep a tidy home. Her family wasn’t rich, but her mother always said that cleanliness didn’t have an income bracket. Tyler always wanted the American dream, but her dream included another woman, not a man. Once the table was set, she tiptoed down the hall to check on Liz. Tyler slowly opened the bedroom door.

  Liz was lying on her stomach underneath the covers and didn’t hear the door open. “Hey, babe, are you sick?” she asked, concerned.

  “What are you doing home?” Liz spun around, alarmed.

  “I finished the assignment ahead of schedule and left early. What are you doing home? Are you sick?” she asked again.

  “I, uh, think
I’m coming down with something,” Liz said, pulling the covers up around her bare shoulders. “Can you run to the drugstore and get me some Robitussin?” She coughed.

  “Sure, no problem. Why don’t you put on some pajamas,” Tyler said, and walked over to the bureau to get a nightgown.

  “I’ll get the gown!” Liz shouted and sat up slightly. “Just go to the store,” she insisted.

  “Excuse me?” Tyler was taken aback at her urgent tone.

  “I’m sorry for yelling. I just need that cough syrup.” Liz coughed again.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going.” She walked back toward the bedroom door, but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard . . .

  “Hey, babe, where’re the towels?”

  Tyler spun around, and standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing only a smile, was a strange man. Their eyes met as he tried in vain to cover his rather large manhood with both hands.

  “Who the hell are you?!” she shouted.

  “I’m Wayne,” he said in a deep, husky voice, “and who are you?”

  Tyler ignored his question and glared at Liz, who was clutching the covers tightly underneath her chin. “Who the hell is he?”

  “Wayne is, uh, Wayne is . . .”