“That feels good,” she said once her braids were free. She bent over and shook her loosened hair like a member of a crazy rock band. “Wait till Aunt Tasha sees this,” she said, smiling. “She’ll be insisting on cornrowing my hair. That would take forever.” I didn’t say nothing back. She looked like a she-lion with a majestic mane. Cornrowed, she’d look like an exotic lynx. Either way, I could feel that with her uncle and cousins gone, and her hijab removed, she felt even more comfortable and free. Purposely I watched her to see how she orchestrated her next move. She was staring at me, her eyes dancing.
“Come on, I’ll show you around.” She walked close to me, gently taking her hijab from my hand and placing it on the table. She linked her fingers with mine. Such a simple thing, but I could feel the electricity racing through my blood.
“This is the room of games,” she said as we entered. “The family library is across the hall. But now that I’m here with you, you can play with me.” She smiled. “Finish unwrapping me,” she pleaded. I squatted down below the hem of her long skirt and raised it up to her hips. She gasped, but then covered up her sound. When my hands reached her pretty thighs, I rolled down her thigh-highs, slowly removing them both so her legs would be free. She sat down on the floor so I could pull them all the way off.
“The carpet in here feels nice,” she said, her pretty unpolished toes wiggling in the fibers. I left her sitting there on the floor on purpose. I walked around, checking out the official-size pool table. It hogged up most of the space in the room. Still, there was enough space around the whole perimeter to angle for any kind of shot. Chiasa leaped up, picked up a pool stick from the wall mount. I didn’t. I wasn’t about to get into a game that wasn’t my game with the sharpshooter, marksman’s daughter who has perfect vision and works all the angles with her knives and swords and bamboo sticks. I was ignoring her. Instead, I was checking out the small-framed photos of her African-American family. Mostly males on the wall at different ages in their lives, and the flicks alternated from military uniforms to graduation gowns and funny flat hats. Aunt Tasha’s sons appeared to have been in some kind of military-type uniform from when they were young boys. I took note of the fact that there was not one photo of Chiasa’s father, “the General.” Even in her house in Tokyo she had a wall of photos with no photos of her favorite person in the world. I wasn’t in the mood to think deeply about him, even though it was obvious that their whole family had to have some reason that he was not to be photographed or displayed. He could be mentioned, acknowledged briefly, but not discussed.
In the corner was an arcade machine, the same kind that would be in a real arcade. It had Space Invaders, Pac-Man, Asteroids, and Centipede—a four-in-one.
“You don’t have to put quarters in it to make it work,” Chiasa said, squeezing herself in between me and the machine. I was just feeling the feeling. She pushed play for two players and the Pac-Man theme music blasted on, and she began to wiggle the joystick around. I pressed up close on her from behind.
“That’s cheating,” she said, and turned around to face me.
“You’re about to get eaten,” I warned her. But she wouldn’t turn back to her screen. I kissed her gently. As we both heard the withering sound of her man getting gobbled in the game, we laughed.
“Kiss me with your tongue,” she asked softly. My blood boiling now, I smiled. This is what Chiasa likes most of all, deep tonguing and sucking, something that Aunt Tasha would never know. Neck and nipples, she was getting dragged in deep simply from my touch.
“You want me to stretch you out on your uncle’s pool table?” I asked her. She didn’t answer, but her eyes revealed that she thought that was a sensual idea. I was imagining her already lying there bare-assed with her pretty butt pressed on the plush green felt canvas. She began removing my suit jacket and laid it on the pool table, stuffing her thigh-highs in the inside jacket pocket. Then she began unbuttoning my white dress shirt. I smiled.
“Luckily you are not wearing a tie. I’d use it to tie you up and make you my hostage.” She smiled, looking like she believed she could.
“I don’t wear ties,” I told her. “But if I knew you were gonna tie me up, I would’ve put one on.”
“Come, let me show something.” She linked two fingers into mine and led me out the room of games into the corridor and then into the family library. Standing in front of a wall of books she said, “Lift me up. I want to sit on your shoulders.” I squatted down so she could climb on me. “Okay, stand up slowly,” she said in her soft, excited voice. I leapt up fast and she shook and gripped me. “You never follow instructions!” She laughed, steadying her balance on my shoulders.
“Move closer,” she requested.
“Closer to the bookshelf?” I asked, then stepped in. She reached up and grabbed a big hardcover book off the shelf. “I could’ve gotten that for you,” I said. “Instead you’re causing all this acrobatic . . .” She leaned in and the wall of books opened up, revealing a slim entrance. She jumped down.
“Push the wall in.” She pointed. I pushed. She hugged me from behind. We stepped into a dark corridor. “Sshh . . .” she said, but I wasn’t speaking. She used her hand to feel around the wall. I thought she was searching for a light switch. But then I heard the sound of the bookshelf closing behind us. Now we were trapped in a narrow darkened space. I could feel her but couldn’t see her. Then, I felt her energy walking away. I stepped forward to follow her energy, but stepped on something. I felt it out with my foot. It was fabric. I left it there and sped up my walk until I felt her presence, then reached out and grabbed her.
“Crazy girl.” I kissed her. “You’re naked,” I said.
“Well then,” she said softly. “Stop teasing me and fuck me right.” Her dirty talk, the curses she didn’t use to know and wouldn’t ever say, she now used comfortably. We were tonguing. Her hands were moving all over my chest and arms, shirt long gone. I took her hands and raised them over her head and her body was pressed against the wall. The sound of our breathing was echoing in the empty narrow space and even the sound of the moisture of our kiss was amplified. I let one hand down and placed my hand over the silk of her panty. As I massaged that moist cloth over that warm, intimate space, I felt her fingers on my joint, her hand skillfully removing my belt and opening my pants. She wanted to feel skin, not the Armani fabric or the impression.
Her body was lifted in the air, pressed against the wall, and I was moving in and out of her. Her pussy muscles were gripping my joint, so warm and moist and tight that my joint was pulsating. It burst and shot up in her. Felt so good I lost my grip, and her body was sliding down the wall and hit the floor with a thump. I dropped down. We were both breathing like crazy, inhaling, exhaling, lying on the floor. She began laughing.
“Did that hurt?” I asked her.
“That felt so good,” she said, then rolled around and climbed on top of me. My head so blown over this woman, she was kissing me with those thick lips all over my face and her whole body was oven warm. We were both completely naked in a dark space. I was loving the feeling but asking myself, What are you doing in this woman’s uncle’s house? Yet I could not stop, or shift back into discipline mode.
“You want some more?” I asked her, but I already knew. She was sucking my chest and her hands were roaming again. She didn’t answer anything, just breathing. I flipped her sideways, palmed her titty and caught her nipple between two fingers. I brought my mouth over and sucked it. She wrapped her leg around me and began humping my leg. I knew she was using my thigh to rub her clitoris and liked the feeling of that friction. I lay her on her back and mounted her, pushing in hard, and she made a sensuous sound.
“Chiasa,” her aunt called out. Her voice was faint, though. It could hardly be heard. “Don’t stop,” Chiasa whispered in my ear and squeezed my butt with both her hands. That ignited me. I pushed up in her again. She kept squeezing. I kept thrusting. Our breathing was so loud it seemed it had to be heard on the other side of t
he wall. I was moving over her. She was moving beneath me, until she cried out and her pussy muscles fluttered wildly. I didn’t bust yet, I could hold it longer the second time around. So I sped up my grind, got overwhelmed by the sensation, until I exploded inside of her and collapsed over her body.
“I love you,” she said softly. I pulled her hair, kissed her mouth, and said, “I love you too.”
It wasn’t until minutes later, when we eased out of the fog of our funk, that we both began to think clearly. We were seated side by side with our backs against the wall. Still couldn’t see each other in the dark.
“Your aunt is looking for us.”
“I know.”
“This is a good hideout. But, she’s gonna find the trail of your clothes from the striptease that you did to lure me in here,” I said.
“Oh stop, I didn’t.” She slapped my knee.
“What is this place?” I asked her.
“It’s the sealed servants’ corridor,” she said. “I found it when I was ten.”
“A nosy little ninja . . .” I said.
“Yes, I guess so. Anyway, I found a book in the family library about these Harlem brownstone houses. And, it turns out that the people who owned these homes in this area all had servants. And they wanted their servants to be ‘invisible.’ So these houses were designed more than a century ago to have these interior corridors so servants could go up and down, in and out, serving the owners but not disturbing them.”
“So you can get to any part of this house through these corridors?” I asked.
“Well, not the bathrooms or other places where it would be weird if someone could be there without you knowing it. Or if someone could suddenly come walking out of the wall.”
“Any room in a house where the people living there can be observed without them knowing it is crazy,” I said.
“Aunt Tasha would agree. That’s why she had the servants’ entrance sealed off,” Chiasa said.
“But you still found it,” I said.
“That’s because she had it sealed off after I found it. So I knew all of the hiding spaces already.”
“Get up,” I told her. “We gotta find our clothes and get out of here before she panics and starts calling around, alarming everyone.”
“Let’s make a plan,” she said, standing. “I’ll go out first and find Aunt Tasha. I’ll talk with her, just like she wanted to do. I’ll tell her that you are in my bedroom waiting patiently for me.”
“You have a bedroom in this house?” I asked her.
“Yes, Aunt Tasha made it for me a very long time ago. She doesn’t allow anyone else to use it. I wanted to show you. Besides, Aunt Tasha did say it was okay for me to give you the tour. So, I’ll tell her that was what I was doing,” she plotted.
“That was a good tour.” I laughed. She must have gone to swipe me the way she does whenever I joke her. Our bodies bumped into one another. I grabbed her waist. We both started swelling again. I could feel her nipples brush against my chest. “One of us has to be the first to stop,” I said, stroking the moist skin of her pretty face.
“So who’s it going to be?” she asked, playing in my pubic hairs. Now we were back to caressing, breathing hard, tonguing, and bumping.
“The other way,” she said after we came down off the high of the third time.
“We came from the opposite direction,” I reminded her.
“I know,” she said. “But if we go out through the family library, Aunt Tasha, who is probably right there on the main floor, will hear the bookshelf drag open. We have to go through the upstairs.” She grabbed my dick and said, “I’ll take you there.” I was thinking, This girl is crazy, but I love it. Of course, even though I couldn’t see her, I was following her. She was holding my joint like a leash.
“Turn on the light,” I told her. We were in her bedroom, where it was not nearly as dark as the servants’ hidden path.
“Not yet,” she said, pulling open a wooden chest. She rifled through some clothes, tossing everything up in the air. Each piece landed on the floor. There was a skylight window in the roof. The moon made her appear to be blue and her hair looked electric. “I found ’em,” she said, waving around a pair of denim shorts. She put them on. She searched through the chest and found a particular tee she seemed to have been searching for. “Okay, you stay here—I’ll be right back,” she said, but everything about her look was a dead giveaway of what we had just done. She looked too sexy in her tiny tight shorts and tee. She wasn’t wearing her bra. She had left it in the secret passageway somewhere in the dark on the floor. And even though there were no other males in this house at the moment, aside from me, I couldn’t let her walk away like that. I wanted to grab her, go in her again.
“Hold on,” I said. She turned around and looked at me. Her skin was glowing from a layer of sweat. Her eyes were wide. Her look was wild like a wildcat right after a satisfying session of sexing, screeching, and scratching in a secret alleyway.
“You smell like we’ve been fucking,” I said to her calmly. Her look turned suddenly shy. She blushed, and then sniffed herself.
“I don’t stink,” she said softly, almost like a whisper. I smiled at her.
“Not stink, you smell like sex.”
I picked up some sweats she had tossed onto the floor, and another tee. “Go to the shower first. Even if it’s only suds and a three-minute hot splash, that’s cool.” I added, handing her the clothes.
“Okay,” she surrendered softly. “But we are married. It’s fine that we’ve been fucking, right?” she asked, then broke into a smile.
“It’s definitely alright with me. And if you don’t get moving, we’ll be fucking again.”
She paused. Her eyes were locked onto mine in a serious but seductive stare. Her love was a visible energy that surrounded her body and even framed her face. I could feel it. She fought herself, I could sense. Then, she turned and left.
As soon as my second wife was out of my atmosphere, I returned to my right mind. Naked in another man’s house, I pushed right back through her hidden bedroom wall and into the dark corridor, moving quietly but swiftly down the interior steps and back to the place where I had left my clothes. With my shirt, boxers, and pants in one hand, I felt around the floor for my belt until I located it. Swiftly, I decided to get dressed in the corridor first.
Dressed, I purposely took another route through the servants’ path. Instead of returning to her bedroom, where there was no sink or water to clean myself up with, I would search for a path through the kitchen, or a bedroom that had a bathroom in it. Either way, unfamiliar with the layout, I had to move slowly now through the darkness, keeping both hands on the walls as I walked, to locate an opening or a button or a switch, while listening carefully for voices, just in case. But I believed that Aunt Tasha and my wife would be in her bedroom. That was on the second floor. Therefore that was exactly where I wasn’t headed.
I found a parallel crease in the wall. It wouldn’t open or push in. I felt around for a button. There was none. I kept walking, still dragging my hands along the walls, trying to detect an opening. I found another one forty seconds later. It also did not open. Strike two. I would give one more try before I returned through the route to her bedroom. Walking through the dark, the path dropped down. It was a set of stairs. I took that route, hoping to get lucky. On the wall at the bottom of the steps, I felt around. My fingers felt a metal grate. It was a vent, but not a door. I crouched down and looked through and saw the cranberry-colored wall. I knew then it was Aunt Tasha’s office. When I pressed my face close to peer through the vent, I saw my wife seated in the pretty ten-thousand-dollar chair, still wearing her tight denim shorts. She had her hands over her face and fingers woven into her thick hair. She didn’t get a chance to shower, I realized. And she looked frustrated. Then Aunt Tasha walked in. I could see flashes of the white dress she had on earlier. My second wife removed her hands from her face.
“I don’t think of a baby as someone wh
o prevents his mother from living and learning, or even flying. You had four sons, Aunt Tasha, and look at all of those degrees you have on your wall.”
I found myself in the middle of an emotional conversation between them.
“I had my first son, your cousin Junior, when I was twenty-nine. I had already completed all of my degrees and my residency,” her aunt explained.
“But, what if you had met Uncle Clem when you were sixteen, and you were super sure that he was the man for you. Would you have told him no? Would you have asked him to wait thirteen years until you have enough degrees to feel comfortable enough to love and marry him?” Chiasa pleaded.
However, Aunt Tasha, the “forensics fox,” seemed to be certain that she was the one who would ask all of the questions. She didn’t answer my wife’s sincere inquiries. Instead, she said, “And perhaps you have gone too far with this Muslim thing. I don’t think you really understand the depth of it. You have some romantic view that only a young and naïve girl could have. And, the way you told that Solomon story was a little different than I remember it. I’ll tell you what I do remember. Solomon had forty or more wives. What will you do when your young husband brings back another woman and says ‘She is wife number two and three and four and so on?’ ” And then there was silence. I didn’t move. I knew I shouldn’t have come down here in the first place. Still, I wanted to hear for myself what my wife would say.
“I’m not greedy, Aunt Tasha. I’m so grateful to him. And he won’t come home with wife number three. And I am already . . . wife number two.”
Aunt Tasha screamed. She had an outburst. Must run in the family, I thought to myself. And in the pitch of her scream, I stayed stuck there.
Aunt Tasha began pushing the push buttons on her desk phone. I thought it was strange that she would make a call in the middle of her passionate conversation with her niece.
“Brother, I understand. You know I do,” she said to the person on the other end of her call. Again, it seemed like the middle of a conversation she had already been having with the caller, not the beginning. There were no greetings or intro, which would be normal manners. The person on the other end must have been over talking. Dr. Tasha sat listening, her face a little tight. Then she spoke. “He has the chronological age of a young teen. He has the mental age of a twenty-five-year-old. I interpreted the Wechsler’s. He zipped through it like it wasn’t even a challenge to him. He has a tremendous intellectual capacity. But the drawback is, he is difficult to pin to one cluster. He’s got a precarious mixture of personality types and I’m a profiler, so please believe me.
A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) Page 24
