by Zane
Pure irony that I had never performed in Atlanta before. Then again, I had my reasons. Damn good reasons. Okay, the memories were coming back again. It was time to do something extreme . . . like playing in Thumper, aka my cooter, but what with?
I scanned the room as “Rack City” by Tyga came on. Aw, yeah, some freaky shit for me to get off on! I stood up, grabbed my back scrubber with the wooden handle, and then sat back down in the tub. I moved the end of the handle in and out of Thumper and closed my eyes. I started gyrating my hips to the music, like I was a stripper named Nutcracker working the pole, except the pole was literally between my legs and inside of me. I slid it in deeper and deeper until I was thrashing around in the tub by the time the song ended. I was an expert at getting myself off quickly.
“Damn!” I yelled out as I reached a toe-curling climax. Then I sighed.
It was what it was and I needed to finish bathing and get dressed. It was only a matter of time before Diederik, Antonio, and Kagiso—my three bodyguards—who occupied the suites surrounding mine, would come to get me for the sound check. One of them was always stationed outside my door. Too many damn nuts in the world obsessed with celebrities. One usually stayed in the lobby at all times, by the elevator as well. I felt like that only drew unnecessary attention, but they insisted. There is a very high cost for fame that no one could ever comprehend until they find themselves in that position.
Kagiso was straight from the African bush. At least, I would tease him about that. In all actuality, he was six feet five inches of intelligence, brawn, and fineness. Dark as midnight, with skin softer than butter, these clear brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin that women found to be an instant panty wetter. He had a master’s in early childhood education that he had obtained after moving to the United States on a visa to go to school. Don’t ask! Imagine a man that size sitting in a circle with five-year-olds. He had done it, though, for an entire decade, before he decided to pursue something else.
Antonio was from East L.A., born and raised, jumped into a gang at twelve, arrested for the first time at thirteen, and tired of living in chaos by sixteen. He ran away to San Diego, hung tight for a couple of years, joined the navy, served his country, and went into private security. At six two, he was the shortest of my bodyguards but was thicker than a Snickers, with muscles rippling everywhere. He had sepia eyes, dimples, cinnamon skin, and he was bowlegged—an added bonus.
Diederik was Nordic and get this, six foot ten. Looked like a tree walking toward you. Spiked blond hair, ice-green eyes, and a gorgeous bone structure. He looked like “Suck my dick” spelled out.
Yeah, I had some sexy-ass motherfuckers protecting my life, but I had never technically messed around with any of them, nor would I ever do such a thing. I happened to know for a fact that they all needed lap bands on their dicks, though. Men like them needed to come with both a warning label and a disclaimer:
FUCK OR SUCK AT YOUR OWN RISK! This dick could possibly tilt your cervix, cause your clit to swell up like a balloon, and you may have to toss cups of soapy water at your pussy for several days afterward because it will be too sensitive to the touch.
Antonio actually tilted a broad’s cervix once when we were touring in France. She had the nerve to try to slap me with a $12 million lawsuit. I did not have a damn thing to do with her making the decision to tackle that python in his pants. That shit was on her. People will sue over any damn thing when you have money, even if you’ve never met them, or even laid eyes on them before. When I saw photos of the chick, my first inclination was to ask Antonio what the hell he was thinking in the first place. But the women in France can be aggressive, and it’s not like I expected them all to be celibate year-round before they had to guard me. It was certainly not a prerequisite. They were grown-ass men who did grown-ass things. They were all single and free to mingle, but I was damned if I would pay some floozy for giving it up willingly and getting hurt. The most I would offer someone is a bottle of Advil and my condolences on having a big-ass pussy for the remainder of her natural life.
I had thrown on a sexy little number of a dress and some pumps about fifteen minutes later and put on some makeup. I was not the type to use a stylist, hairdresser, and makeup artist around the clock; only when I was about to go onstage, do a photo shoot, interview, or whatnot. A lot of my counterparts went through all of that shit to walk out on the veranda to do Pilates. It was not that serious. However, I was not going to get caught looking like I just emerged from a cave, either, so I kept it simple and classy. I looked good as shit without makeup but did not feel like dealing with the drama from tabloids and ratchet websites looking for an opportunity to do a caption of me slipping.
The knock came at my door. I grabbed my purse and went to answer it before someone panicked and knocked it down. I was not riding in the bulletproof SUV with my guards, though. I had other plans, and they were about to find that out.
Chapter Two
Piece of Shit, you better start eating pussy better or I’m going to beat the crap out of you with my shoe!”
We were in the back of a limousine on the way to Philips Arena for my sound check. KAD—what I called my three bodyguards when I was referencing all three of them—was in the SUV following us.
This was not working. “Um, Piece of Shit, did you hear me? Eat your late lunch like a good little boy, eat it all up, or I’m going to take the heel of my shoe and ram it up your chunky, over-fucked ass!”
He stopped for a moment and looked up at me. That fucking did it!
“Did you just look at me? Did you just have the nerve to fucking look at me?”
He quickly looked back down and started eating again, but not before I slipped my right pump off and started beating and scratching up his bare back with the heel.
“Don’t you ever fucking look at me!” Whap! “I will fuck your ass up, literally!” Whap! “I’ll find some three-hundred-pound, elephantine-dick motherfucker and present your ass to him like it’s a chocolate-covered doughnut, you little bitch!”
Piece of Shit started going hard on the pussy then, slopping and slurping at it like it was his last meal on earth. If he kept fucking with me, it was about to be his most degrading day ever.
“That’s a good little pet. Much better,” I said, calming down some and feeling Thumper growing more excited. “Um, I’m about to come,” I announced. “Just keep eating. Lap it like an ice-cream cone on a hot summer day in the park.”
I could feel myself about to explode and let my eyes roll up in the back of my head when Piece of Shit started moaning. That snapped me back to reality.
“Did you just fucking moan?” I started hitting him again with my shoe. “You’re not allowed to get any pleasure from this, Piece of Shit!” Whap! “I better not find any semen in those tight little pink panties I have on you, either. I’ll cut your damn dick off!” Whap! “Stupid-ass prick!”
Even though the partition was up in the limo, and I had a throwback Eminem album blasting through the sound system, I was sure the driver could hear something. He had better keep his trap shut or I would crack his damn nuts open, too.
“You know what,” I hissed. “You make my ass sick. Stop eating pussy and suck on some titty for a while. You’re acting like a baby anyway, so get to suckling.” Whap!
Piece of Shit starting sucking like an infant within seconds—hungry ass.
I could see that we were turning into the back entrance at the arena and I was mad as shit. I hadn’t busted one yet. Fuck it! I used my other shoe—the one still connected to my foot—and kicked Piece of Shit in the ass, causing him to topple onto the floor of the limo and away from Glaze.
She looked at me in shock, like she had done something wrong. She was my decent pet. The one that I actually kind of liked, but I wasn’t taking any shit off her ass, either.
“It’s okay, Glaze,” I told her. “You did all right. Piece of Shit doesn’t know how to eat pussy right. I should’ve come by now.”
“Permission to p
ut my clothes on, Mistress?” Glaze asked.
Her pussy juice had soaked down into the seat across from me after having being eaten the entire time, and her nipples appeared red from Piece of Shit sucking on them so hard, even though it was quick.
“Permission granted,” I replied.
I glanced down at Piece of Shit, who knew better than to ask me a damn thing. “Don’t you get dressed in my presence, you little fuck. I’ll deal with you later.”
I could feel Thumper getting angrier by the second. I was going to have to deal with people fawning all over me in a couple of minutes and the thought made me wince. I was habituated to it, but I needed a release. I would have to sneak a few moments in my dressing room to finish the job. I planned to use the heel of my shoe. Sleek, slightly thick, slightly painful. I would have to use some hand sanitizer on it first. Imagine trying to explain a cooter infection to a doctor that came from a nasty-ass heel.
The car came to a halt and Piece of Shit knew to crawl up in the corner so I could get out without anyone seeing him. KAD never asked me questions that they were not about to get answers to. They only knew that, from time to time, I had Stacy (Glaze) and Billy (Piece of Shit) join me somewhere on tour and that they stayed in a room together. In this case, they were staying seven floors below us at the Ritz. Most people assumed they were a couple, good friends of mine, instead of my pets that I humiliated whenever I felt like it.
“Will we see you later, Mistress?” Glaze asked.
I had named her that because she came like a geyser and her pussy was always glimmering with remnants. I had met her on a trip to Oahu. She was a stunning, petite Samoan in her early thirties and a stone-cold, submissive freak.
“No, you won’t see me . . .” I glared at her. “And don’t get too fucking comfortable and start acting like we’re homegirls or some shit like that, either.” She lowered her eyes before I opened up a can of kick-ass on her. “You and Piece of Shit go back to the hotel and lay low, order room service—but only one meal for the two of you—and take your asses to sleep.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Consider yourself lucky that I’m going to allow you to eat at all. Both of you let me down.”
“We’re sorry, Mistress,” they said in unison, although Piece of Shit’s came out as a whisper.
I met Billy when I was in Alabama doing a show. He was working backstage at the concert and our eyes met. The poor bastard actually believed that I would let him fuck me. Stupid ass! He learned fast, quick, and in a hurry when I took him back to my hotel suite that night. At first, he seemed scared to oblige my demands, but we worked the shit out. He was allowed to eat, fuck, and suck pussy—but not mine. Never that!
Billy was average height, average build, and there was nothing special about him. He looked like the average black male that you would find in Anywhere, USA, but he was obedient. I rarely had to actually wear his ass out with a whip, but I would if the occasion called for it.
Diederik opened the door and saw Glaze sitting there in a cute dress and heels, much like myself. He grinned at her as Piece of Shit cowered in the corner in his pink panties. He would look normal again when they returned to the hotel. They would look like a happy couple strolling into the Ritz-Carlton, about to have a romantic evening in their room. They knew better than to fuck each other, or even touch each other, outside of my presence. One of them would be a tattletale and I would fuck both of them up and they recognized that.
I climbed out the back of the limo and looked at Diederik, wondering if he smelled the odor of sex emitting from the back. My other two guards were poised and ready to escort me into the artist entrance.
“You ready?” he asked.
“You ask me that every time and what do I always say?” I snickered. “The answer won’t ever change.”
He grinned. “You were born ready.”
I strolled toward the door. “Damn sure was.”
Chapter Three
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution article was a lengthy one about how I had decided to relocate to Atlanta as my new home, purchasing a $19 million mansion on Paces Ferry Road. It had nine bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, was built in 2008, and was a little shy of twenty-five thousand square feet. It was an easy selection for me. I simply told my executive assistant to go out and purchase the most expensive house on the entire market in the area. It was all for show. I could afford it and I would still be traveling a lot . . . after I finished what I had come to the city to do. I wanted the publicity to reflect that I had outdone everyone else so that the people I was there to retaliate against would see it and start circling like a kettle of vultures to obtain a meeting or some type of connection to me.
People in Atlanta really put that entire “six degrees of separation” theory to the ultimate test. They always wanted to mix and mingle with those they felt could contribute to their “brands.” Atlanta had become known as “the Black Hollywood,” with at least seventeen network shows filming there on the regular. More than half were those ratchet reality shows that showed sisters being willingly exploited as they bullied, badgered, and belittled each other . . . and themselves. They even had to agree in their contracts that they would not sue a fellow cast member for some ridiculous behavior, or they would be fired themselves. Most were portrayed as thirsty, desperate whores fighting over the same pieces of dick, on national TV. But I was not one to knock the hustle. If millions of people wanted to watch human train wrecks on television weekly, and the networks had willing participants, an even swap ain’t no swindle. Many had tried to connect with me off the bat, but I was not having it. I planned to entertain attention from only a few people, and none of them were on reality shows, but I was about to give them all serious reality checks. I had been invited to several events and parties those broads were hosting. As if? I was not stepping up their game by allowing them to ride the coattails of my legitimate brand based purely on bona fide talent instead of spreading my legs and bragging about it.
The home had ten-foot ceilings throughout, with a two-story foyer and cathedral ceiling, a pool house, outdoor fireplace, computer room, media room, library, exercise room, and the list went on and on. Excessive for one person, even one with a small entourage of employees, but again, it was all for show and it was a drop in the bucket to me. If money truly bought happiness, I should have been the happiest sister on the planet, but I was depressed, pissed, and ready to seek the vengeance that I had gone there to get. I donated tens of millions of dollars a year, so that was a good thing. I purged my closets every season and donated the clothes to women who needed them, mostly domestic abuse shelters or women reentering society after serving prison terms. Outside of drugs, domestic abuse was the main reason women ended up in such a predicament. If they did not flee and go to a shelter, they ended up snapping on men who had been beating their asses for years and they had to serve time behind it. At the very least, I was able to provide others with some happiness or basic human needs.
The only two things that actually mattered to me in the entire house were my bed—I loved comfort—and my piano that I had had shipped down from my penthouse in NYC. The place needed to be decorated and that was the beginning of the end of my misery. I called it Operation Renovate, Then Destroy.
“Nikki, what time is Mrs. Hudson supposed to be here?” I asked my assistant as I sat at the breakfast counter eating a bowl of fresh strawberries and blueberries with vanilla-flavored granola. “She’s still coming, right?”
Nikki was typing away on her MacBook Air, responding to e-mails and requests for interviews and appearances. I had several publicists, but Nikki had a direct line, nearly around-the-clock access to me, so all of them had to go through her to see if I was even interested. Plus, Nikki kept my calendar, so she was the only one who truly knew my availability, even more so than myself.
“Earth to Nikki!”
She finally paused and said, “Huh? I’m sorry.”
“Is the interior designer still coming today?”<
br />
“Oh, yeah. She’ll be here about eleven. That’s a good time, right?”
I giggled. “You tell me. All I know is that alerts pop up on my cell phone two hours before and then ten minutes before I’m supposed to be someplace or do something. You do a good job at making me look timely.”
“Well, it’s a quarter to nine, so you’ll be seeing one in about fifteen minutes telling you that she’s coming at eleven.”
We both chuckled.
Nikki was a fantastic assistant. She’d been with me for four years and I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. She always switched her hairstyles out to express herself. She was shorter than me, which I liked, light-skinned, thick, and always smiled. She had graduated from Spelman in 2004 with a degree in music, so she was excited that I had moved to Atlanta. In the entire time of her employment, we had never traveled there once because I had never been back since 1987.
That was a year that I wanted to forget forever. Well, most of it, up until that night in October where I almost died and was actually resurrected in the downtown Greyhound station. Hannah had saved me from other people, and from myself. I was determined to die, one way or another, but she breathed oxygen back into my lungs.
I clamped my eyes shut when I thought about what had happened at my high school homecoming. Those bitches and bastards had actually tried to kill me. It may not have been their exact intention, but it was the most probable outcome. If Hannah hadn’t cared enough to save me from bleeding to death, it would have been over. What I had craved and yearned for all the years prior, death, was right there in front of my face. I could almost reach out and touch it, smell it, embrace it.
“Wicket?” Nikki snapped me out of my thoughts. “Did you need anything else from me right now?”
