Maneater

by Mary B. Morrison

  One can throw in the towel and cut one’s losses, but one cannot bring forth charges against a cheating spouse unless one is perhaps married or living in the state of Florida. I ain’t gon’ mention no names, but I wonder if that’s why that famous, multimillionaire couple’s affairs suddenly became hush-hush when a baby was allegedly conceived out of wedlock. Hmm? I’d better shut my mouth. Anywho, what good is a marriage license? Now if you marry the right person, a license may make you wealthy, but how much will it cost you?

  The law cannot make any person accountable; it merely grants an immeasurable tool with no accountability. Every license in America, except a marriage license, has built-in requirements for renewal, or else it does what? It expires. So when a couple decides to get married, they need to determine with their heads if the commitment is one they’re willing to keep forever. Not many couples stay married forever, and of the ones that do, many die unfulfilled.

  What the women in this novel get is what they have had all along. Instead of dating a single man, these women voluntarily consent to marrying…Single Husbands.

  Single Husbands…Three men who married for all the wrong reasons.

  Herschel Henderson said, “I do,” to have access to his wife’s money, Lexington Lewis vowed for his better and her worse, and Brian Flaw meant until death do us part. Herschel has a mistress that he sexes more than his wife, Lexington is making love to as many women as he can at the sex clubs, and Brian is fucking women of every ethnicity because he’s become bored with his sex life. The one thing these men share is despite being married, none of them will give up the sexual freedom they enjoyed as single men.

  Chapter 1

  Brian

  —I, Brian Flaw, take you, Michelle, to be my lawfully wedded wife….

  First Sunday, three o’clock, after church, before Michelle’s mother dropped off the kids at eight, it was yoni massage time. The one day of every month that Brian reaffirmed his love for his wife.

  Brian absolutely adored his wife. She was the mother of his two children, his very best friend, and his confidant. Brian told Michelle everything that he considered significant, but there were a few things not worth mentioning.

  Red satin sheets covered their king-sized bed. A goddess of heavenly beauty stretched from the headboard toward the foot of the bed. The softest cocoa skin he’d ever laid hands upon wrapped around her flesh, making him the happiest man alive.

  Michelle’s yoni was a precious space and sacred temple. She’d taught him to love and respect her pussy before the first time they made love, before their wedding, and before she gave birth to their children, saying to him, “Baby, it’s solely my responsibility to teach you how to appreciate and pleasure my entire body.”

  The day Michelle let him watch her masturbate was etched in his mind forever, but it didn’t have to be. The videotape was safely tucked away in their safe, along with the other XXX-rated home videos they’d done during their ten years of marriage. Brian knew Michelle was especially unique, because she was the only woman that had taught him how to make passionate love to her without fucking her.

  Sitting on the bench at the foot of their bed, Brian buffed his fingernails as he admired his wife. She’d taught him that it was a man’s responsibility to make certain his fingernails didn’t cut or scratch a woman’s delicate pussy, leaving her miserably sore and with painful scars that would hurt her so much she’d resent him and regret having allowed him to touch her sacredness. He’d learned so much from his wife. Michelle was even more beautiful than the day they’d met.

  Brian’s dick got hard. Moving about their spacious bedroom, he lit twelve white candles, dripped a few drops of cinnamon oil on the lamps beside the bed. Then he walked over to their patio and opened the glass door. The salty, warm summer breeze off the ocean engulfed their bedroom.

  Returning to her, he softly kissed her forehead. “Are you relaxed, baby?” he asked Michelle.

  “Yes, baby. I’m relaxed and patiently awaiting my wonderful husband.”

  “I’m here to please you, not just today, but every day. Whatever I have to give, I freely give it unto you.”

  Carefully, Brian placed two red satin pillows under his wife’s head so she could comfortably watch him whenever she desired. Then he put a pillow under both of her knees and one under her curvaceous hips. Once he started massaging his wife, she always got extremely wet, so as a wedding gift, he’d had a tailor make a washable pillow covering, which he put on top of the pillow before placing the pillow inside the satin case.

  Seated at the foot of the bed, Brian whispered, “Spread your legs and bend your knees so I can look at my pretty pussy.”

  Together, they inhaled deep into their bellies, then exhaled as much air as they could, like they did in yoga classes on second Sundays.

  “Inhale again,” he said as they began to breathe deeply two more times.

  Careful not to touch her yoni, Brian’s strong yet smooth hands journeyed up Michelle’s thighs, passionately massaging her legs, abdomen, thighs, breasts, nipples, and other parts of her body to arouse her. Picking up the bottle of Wet, he squeezed a few drops of lubrication in the crevice of his wife’s thighs and on her outer vaginal lips.

  Slowly, he caressed her pussy, starting from the outside, massaging her outer lips between his thumb and index finger. He gently twirled her outer vaginal lips all the way up then all the way down. He took his time before he began massaging her inner lips. The time had not yet come to penetrate his wife.

  Noticing Michelle’s shallow breaths, Brian softly said, “Breathe a little deeper, baby.”

  Their yoni massage ritual was a treat Brian never grew tired of doing for his wife. He wanted to make sure Michelle was always sexually pleased beyond satisfaction, as he was on the third Sunday of each month, when Michelle gave him a lingam massage. Brian’s dick went from limp to hard as he imagined his wife’s hands all over his body.

  Brian kept his thoughts inside his head; he knew it was best not to talk too much. Excessive talking by either of them would detract from maximizing his wife’s pleasure. Michelle’s eyes rolled to the top of her head, exposing the whiteness of her eyeballs through the tiny slits in her lids. She’d told him that was the moment when she could feel his energy moving from her feet to the crown of her head.

  That was the perfect time for Brian to massage her precious pearl. Brian had once admitted he was slightly jealous that a woman’s clitoris was four times more sensitive than a male’s glands, and that a woman could easily have five times more orgasms per session than a man. He remembered what Michelle had told him. “Look at me, Brian. I want to make myself clear,” she said. “A woman’s precious pearl has only one purpose, and don’t you ever forget it…and that’s to give her pleasure, pleasure, and more pleasure. So don’t ever overlook touching, stroking, and kissing my clit.”

  Adding a little more lubrication, he stroked his wife’s clitoris in tiny clockwise and counterclockwise circles, then gently squeezed her clit between his thumb and index finger, using various rhythms.

  “Breathe, baby,” he reminded her again.

  Inserting his right middle finger into his wife’s yoni, Brian lightly explored and massaged the inside of her vagina. Slowly stroking up, down, around, and sideways, varying the depth, speed, and pressure, he honed in on her G-spot, then moved his middle finger, silently telling his pussy, Come here, my pretty pussy. Sliding in his ring finger, he stroked Michelle’s G-spot to her satisfaction. Putting his thumb to work, he massaged her clit in an up-and-down motion. Brian didn’t stop there. Using the same hand, he slipped his pinkie inside her anus.

  Lifting her head, Michelle gazed into his eyes.

  Brian softly said, “Thanks for letting me hold God’s greatest gift to mankind in the palm of my hand. I cherish your mind, body, and spirit.” Then he caressed his wife’s breasts with his left hand, pausing for a moment to feel her heartbeat.

  Michelle’s hips jerked. Silently, tears streamed down her cheek
s, as though it were their first time bonding. Brian closed his eyes and said, “Thank you, God, for trusting me with the most beautiful woman in the world. Baby, I love you.”

  Concluding the massage, slowly, gently, respectfully, and passionately, he eased his fingers out one at a time from inside his wife, holding his left hand against her heart until all of his fingers were removed. Then he lifted his left hand away from her body. Joining Michelle in the afterglow of her yoni massage, Brian cuddled her in a spoon position, telling her, “Baby, I appreciate and respect you.”

  Michelle had greatly enriched Brian’s life, and there was no way he could repay her. Therefore, no matter what happened in their lives, Brian would never divorce his wife.

  Chapter 2

  Herschel

  —I, Herschel Henderson, take you, Nikki, to be my lawfully wedded wife….

  “Stop choking me!” Nikki yelled, struggling to pry Herschel’s thumbs away from her aching throat.

  “Shut the hell up, woman,” Herschel countered, repositioning his huge masculine hands for a firmer grip. “Why do you make me hate you?”

  Hate was such a strong word, but the sight of his wife disgusted him more than it pleased him. Once Nikki got a ten-page spread in a major magazine, which was showcasing her culinary skills, the bitch thought her shit didn’t stink. She flew all over the country, out of the country, joyfully leaving him at home alone. She should’ve called first and told him she was coming home a week early.

  The argument Nikki had started six days ago was old but far from over this morning or tomorrow morning or the next day after that day. Herschel was the man of his house, and the shit wasn’t resolved until he said so. Why in the fuck had he had to sleep on the sofa six nights in a row to appease Nikki? Why did he have to call her ass from the home phone every damn night just to prove he was at home? Wasn’t like he stayed home or slept at home after hanging up the phone.

  “You know I love you, so why do you keep threatening to leave me?” he said.

  “I can’t breathe,” Nikki whimpered. Forcefully, her knee rammed into his balls.

  “Ahhh! Bitch! Are you crazy?” Folding into a number seven, Herschel grabbed his nuts, then fell to the floor. Orange, tiger-stripe imprints of his hands remained on his wife’s flesh, from under her earlobes to above her collarbone. Herschel witnessed the bruises turn to a deep red. Fuck! Nikki’s debut television show was taping tomorrow, it was the middle of summer, and she’d have to wear another scarf around her neck to cover up what she’d made him do.

  “Baby, baby,” Herschel repeated. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Nikki, I need you.” Stumbling toward her, he pressed his lips softly against hers. His mouth circled hers, trying to pry her thick, luscious lips apart with his tongue.

  “Umph, umph,” Nikki groaned, placing her hand in the center of the chiseled chest she used to drizzle hot chocolate on, then lick until all of it was off. “No, not this time, Herschel.” Smack! Nikki’s palm landed against his face. “You need to go be with that bitch you had up in my bed when I got home!” Reaching behind her, Nikki kept her eyes on him.

  Fuck. It was a good thing he had good reflexes. Herschel ducked just in time to dodge the porcelain lamp that came zooming toward his head. Crash! The freestanding bedroom mirror behind him shattered before falling to the hardwood floor. Glass flew up to the ceiling and then down to the floor. “You are so fucking crazy, Nikki! Stop this shit, baby,” he said, snatching her biceps.

  Swiftly turning her body sideways, Nikki couldn’t break free. Herschel didn’t believe in hitting women, but Nikki was pushing him to do the unthinkable…kill her.

  “Herschel, please,” she cried. “I just want you to take your things and get out of my house. Let me be. Why can’t you just let me be?”

  Oh, now that she’d made it, she didn’t need him anymore. If she really wanted him out, Nikki would have to buy him out. “Baby,” Herschel said, wrapping his burly arms around Nikki’s tall, slender body, “Listen to me.” He ran his hand over her short black hair, which was neatly tapered around her mocha face. “That bitch that was here don’t mean shit to me. I was lonely. I miss you. I miss my wife. Damn, Nikki. You’re gone all the time.”

  The woman who had been in their bed six nights ago honestly didn’t mean anything to Herschel, but April Henderson meant everything to him. Truth was, April wasn’t legally his wife, but he’d given her the title of wife and, unofficially, his last name. And if April had had half the money and assets his wife Nikki had, he never would’ve married Nikki, because he had never loved Nikki. Nikki had gotten what she’d paid for: companionship, a fine-ass man to escort her to public events, and a damn good lover.

  The day Herschel proposed to Nikki, he promised April he’d never leave her, no matter what. The day Herschel stood at the altar with Nikki, he’d recited his vows for April. Sex with April was better than with his wife. Herschel laughed with April, cried with April. They dreamt aloud together. Unlike Nikki, April believed in him. Every man needed a woman who believed in him. But there was one thing he’d regret the rest of his life, and that was missing the delivery of his child with April while he stood at that fucking altar with Nikki’s ass!

  Why couldn’t he respond when the pastor said, “If anyone has cause for why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  Herschel should’ve looked Nikki in the eye and said, “Baby, I don’t love you.” But that would’ve meant no all-expense paid vacations for April. No single-family, three-bedroom home for April and their son, Ryan. And April would’ve had to stop homeschooling Ryan and get a job. The best part was April was his best friend. April was one helluva woman. Sunday mornings, when Nikki accompanied him to church, April stood next to Nikki in the women’s choir, honoring their secret vows of for better or for worse. April would ask Nikki for recipes to cook for him, and Nikki would happily give step-by-step instructions to April.

  “You are a fucking liar!” Nikki screamed. “You fucked some bitch in my house, in my bed! What’s her name, Herschel? Who is she?”

  Correction. Now that they’d been married almost ten years, it was their house and their bed. And the woman had been some bitch. She’d been a one-night stand, and Herschel couldn’t remember her name. But April was his mistress. April was a real woman and the true love of his life.

  “I don’t have time for this bullshit,” Herschel said, letting go of Nikki. “You need to call somebody to clean up this shit, because I’m not doing it this time, and I’m not leaving.”

  Calmly, Nikki said, “You know what, Herschel? If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.”

  Let Nikki call the fuckin’ cops, Herschel thought. Thanks to Nikki, April had more than enough of Nikki’s money to post his bail and a house that was free and clear of a mortgage to use as collateral. Herschel had the best life. Nikki was seldom home, and April was always available.

  Just in case Nikki was serious, Herschel softened his voice. “Baby, I said I’m sorry, and I mean it,” he lied again. “Please forgive me.” He raised his right hand. “I swear on my mother’s grave, you are the finest, the sexiest, the most beautiful black woman in the world, and I am so fucking proud of you.”

  Herschel was proud of Nikki, but he also hated the fact that she didn’t need him. He knew that shit. Nikki could have any man she wanted. Why she’d married him, Herschel knew. He’d spoken all the words Nikki and every other successful, single, sexy black woman wanted to hear. There were a lot of lonely black women in the world. They were so lonely that they’d marry down just to have a man in their bed, in their life, on their arms, and to have bragging rights over their single girlfriends. When a black woman married, her husband lost his identity, as she’d repeatedly refer to him as her husband, saying, “My husband this and my husband that.” A black woman like his wife would stay in an abusive relationship to avoid being alone.

  “Herschel, hush. Your mother is not
dead,” Nikki said, trying to conceal her desire to laugh.

  “See, you wrong for that shit,” he said, nodding. “You wish my mama was dead.”

  “Sure as hell do. She’s responsible for you being so dependent on me.”

  “Baby, I’m not dependent. I’m supportive. There’s a difference,” he said, kissing his wife’s lips once more. This time Nikki didn’t pull away.

  Taking his wife into the kitchen, Herschel hoisted Nikki up on the island, then spread her legs. Opening the refrigerator, he removed a fresh mango, peeled away the skin with his teeth, tossed his long locks behind his back, then ran the mango between his wife’s breasts and around her areolas. Then he sucked her sweet juicy nipples until they were erect.

  “Mmm,” Nikki moaned, leaning her head back and running her fingers through her hair.

  Moving the mango between her pussy lips, Herschel pulled his wife back so that she was lying supine on the cool island tiles, then buried his face between her thighs. “Damn. You taste so fucking incredibly delicious. Who’s pussy is this?” he asked, firmly pressing his tongue against her clit the way she liked. “Don’t move.” He made his way back to the refrigerator. He retrieved an ice cube, melted it down a little in his mouth, pressed his cool lips against his wife’s clit, slipped the ice cube inside her ass, right along with his middle finger, then began to finger fuck her in the ass. Herschel enjoyed eating pussy, and he buried his face deeper into Nikki’s pussy until she came so hard, he had to catch her before she fell to the floor. Maybe he should’ve let her fall. It would’ve been a justifiable accident.