Seduction
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Part one
Chapter: One
Chapter: Two
Chapter: Three
Chapter: Four
Chapter: Five
Chapter: Six
Chapter: Seven
Chapter: Eight
Chapter: Nine
Chapter: Ten
Chapter: Eleven
Chapter: Twelve
Chapter: Thirteen
Chapter: Fourteen
Chapter: Fifteen
Chapter: Sixteen
Chapter: Seventeen
Chapter: Eighteen
Chapter: Nineteen
Chapter: Twenty
Chapter: Twenty-one
Chapter: Twenty-two
Chapter: Twenty-three
Chapter: Twenty-four
Chapter: Twenty-five
Chapter: Twenty-six
Chapter: Twenty-seven
Chapter: Twenty-eight
Chapter: Twenty-nine
Chapter: Thirty
Chapter: Thirty-one
One Month Later . . .
Chapter: Thirty-two
Chapter: Thirty-three
Chapter: Thirty-four
A Series of Fortunate Events . . .
Chapter: Thirty-five
Chapter: Thirty-six
Chapter: Thirty-seven
Chapter: Thirty-eight
Chapter: Thirty-nine
Part Two
Chapter: Forty
Chapter: Forty-one
Chapter: Forty-two
Chapter: Forty-three
Chapter: Forty-four
Chapter: Forty-five
Chapter: Forty-six
Chapter: Forty-seven
Two Months and Counting . . .
Chapter: Forty-eight
Chapter: Forty-nine
Chapter: Fifty
Chapter: Fifty-one
Chapter: Fifty-two
Chapter: Fifty-three
Chapter: Fifty-four
Chapter: Fifty-five
Chapter: Fifty-six
Chapter: Fifty-seven
Chapter: Fifty-eight
Chapter: Fifty-nine
Chapter: Sixty
Chapter: Sixty-one
Chapter: Sixty-two
Chapter: Sixty-three
Chapter: Sixty-four
Chapter: Sixty-five
Chapter: Sixty-six
Chapter: Sixty-seven
Chapter: Sixty-eight
Also by Geneva Holliday
Gratitude
Copyright
“This is for every Black woman who ever had a problem with a Black man!”
MADEA,
Diary of a Mad Black Woman
Part One
CHAPTER
One
Tony Landry slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open on its hinges. Like a gentleman, he stepped aside and allowed Valerie to step into the apartment first.
He took a moment to marvel at Valerie's long chocolate legs, which seemed to move in slow motion beneath the red crinkled crepe dress she wore. Although referring to it as a dress was a bit of a stretch, since the hem barely hit the curve of her thigh and the plunging neckline hardly covered her areolas.
“This shit is tight!” she squealed as she glided across the khaki-colored area rug toward the west wall and the Charley Palmer original that hung there.
Tony stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him.
She was a beauty; that point could not be denied. So beautiful that he, the great Tony Landry, with all of his confidence and the three hundred plus notches on his belt, had felt a sliver of insecurity crawl up his spine in the moments before he made up his mind to approach her at Perks.
That was three hours ago and in that time he'd dazzled her with his smile, charm, and bootleg Rolex. When he excused himself to go to the restroom, he made sure to hitch his pants a bit so Valerie could see that not only was he good-looking, intelligent, and funny—but he also had a big dick.
Her eyes had bulged, and the tiny bit of a smile she'd been favoring him with grew, and he knew he had her.
“Yeah, it's okay I guess,” he said, tossing the keys onto the mahogany sofa table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
It was more than okay. Valerie had said it best: it was tight. Market rent for the apartment would have been a staggering $3,500 a month, but his childhood friend Zebby Trotman had bought it years earlier for a song.
Zebby was a career criminal, and two years ago he got himself mixed up in an international banking scam. Now he was serving time in an Australian prison.
He'd given Tony a spare set of keys to the apartment before the government extradited him. Zebby told Tony he could use the place whenever he wanted. Well, his exact words were: “You can fuck there, but don't think about moving in.”
Valerie sat daintily down on the couch, crossing those legs that went on forever, and said, “Champagne?”
She was gliding her index finger up and down the space between her breasts, which he had decided were D cups and real. It was a game he enjoyed playing with himself: Guess Her Bra Size. Sometimes he was wrong and when the bra came off it was padded. But those, those looked real. He could already feel his dick turning to granite.
“Sure,” he said, and started toward the kitchen.
He was a player with a capital P. But he was also broke, so he had come up with the bright idea to buy the ten-dollar bottle of Cordon Negro champagne and pour its contents into the one Cristal bottle he'd lifted from some party he'd attended.
By the time he got the women up to the apartment they were usually more than a little tipsy and didn't even know the difference. The popping sound he made with his own mouth.
He opened the cherry wood cabinet and pulled one crystal champagne flute from the shelf. He wasn't a big champagne drinker, and anyway, even if it was just ten dollars a bottle, he couldn't afford to waste any on himself. Tomorrow was another day, and that usually meant another woman.
He walked back into the living room; in one hand he held the crystal flute, in the other, the bottle of Cristal.
A deep look of satisfaction settled on Valerie's super-model face as her eyes lit on the bottle. “Cristal—hmmmm, you've got real class.”
“Thank you,” he said as he handed the flute to her and took a seat beside her. She sipped, still marveling at the apartment, before turning to him and asking, “You're not having any?”
Tony shrugged his shoulders. “Work tomorrow,” he said, and reached for one of the four remotes on the table and pointed it at the Bose stereo system. The apartment was suddenly filled with smooth jazz.
Valerie gave him a naughty smile and leaned back into the cushions of the couch.
“Nice,” she moaned.
He reached for the other remote and pointed it toward the switch panel on the wall and the lights dimmed.
“Damn,” Valerie said, turning to him and licking her luscious lips. “You tryin' to get some?” She laughed.
The trying had started at the bar, when he offered her a lift home to Brooklyn and she accepted, and the trying part had come to an end. He knew he had her, hook, line, and sinker.
“Of course not,” he said as he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. He kissed her palm and then the tips of all five digits. “Why would you think that?” he asked as he gave her a mischievous look.
Valerie's eyes narrowed seductively. “You are some kind of man, aren't you?”
Yes, he was some kind of man, but not the kind she thought he was. Tony Landry was a fake, a liar, and a user. Some people would say that he had an insatiable appetite for sex, and that wasn't too far fro
m the truth, but the people closest to him—his mother, his sister, his oldest friend, and Zebby—would tell you that what really got Tony Landry's dick stiff was money.
His father had left him, his mother, and his baby sister when Tony was just eight years old. His mother cleaned hotel toilets to keep the rent paid and food on the table, and some months they ate beans and toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Clothes, a necessity for most people, became a luxury for the Landry family. They shopped at thrift stores, and Mama Landry was good for rummaging through the Salvation Army clothes bins for outfits for herself and her children.
Tony knew poor and still knew it. His mother had eventually remarried, and things got a little better, but not by much. The husband that had said I do with fourteen years of driving the Metro-North suddenly went blind from diabetes, and the $75,000-a-year salary he was making suddenly dwindled to $1,200 a month in disability payments.
Tony's sister, Janet, had gotten a scholarship to Harvard, while Tony ended up at Borough of Manhattan Community College. Two years later, he was pushing a mail cart at Binge and Beckett Investments. Two years after that he was cold calling for new accounts, and then he was gopher for the top traders at Merrick, and finally an analyst for Jackson Hewitt.
With each new position and salary increase, he'd received a new credit card and commenced to spend like there was no tomorrow, or at least no next month billing statement.
Now he was sixty thousand dollars in debt and had to return home every night to hear his mother complain about the bill collectors that had called the house all day long. Yes, he still lived at home with his mother. Still slept on a twin bed fitted with Superman sheets.
So to Valerie's question “You're some kind of man, aren't you?” Tony grinned wickedly and said, “Yes, I am,” as he slowly removed the flute from Valerie's hand.
“Oh,” Valerie muttered, a bit flustered.
Tony leaned in slowly, closing his eyes just as his lips pressed against hers. Valerie's lips parted immediately, readily receiving his tongue, a sure sign that when it came time, her legs would do the same.
He pushed her sideways until her head lay atop the armrest; he kissed her neck, the space between her breasts. He would not touch her breasts, wouldn't even let his chin graze them—no, he would wait to be invited. She would have to guide him to them and any other concealed body part. He'd smother her in passionate kisses, tease her ear-lobes with his teeth, run his tongue across her wrists, suck her fingertips, and massage her shoulders and her waist.
She was moaning and releasing small, breathless cries of pleasure. He took her hand and guided it down between his legs. He was as hard as steel—her palm brushed across his penis and he shuddered while she let out a loud gasp of surprise. Yes, he had a big dick, damn near twelve inches of cock. So big that its size was obvious through his off-the-rack suit slacks, and forget about his jeans, though his casual shirts were long enough to cover the faded imprint his dick left in his blue denims.
It was long, it was thick, and it curved to the left, often leaving the right ovary of the women he bedded a bit sore, and one woman had claimed that he'd knocked it completely out of place.
“Shiiiiiiiiiit,” Valerie hissed as she clutched his rock hard erection, and then added, “Oh my God.”
“Baby,” Tony breathed into her ear, “no need for formality here. You can just call me Tony.” He chuckled.
After that the dress came off and then the thong. She was as bald as a newborn baby down between her legs, and her clitoris was so engorged that it stuck out at him like a bright pink tongue.
He could have done her right there on the couch, but Zebby would kick his ass from here to Xanadu if he came home to fine his expensive couch stained with chick spit and cum. And besides, Tony needed to recork the champagne and get it back into the fridge before it lost its fizz.
He hadn't even undone the top button of his shirt when he pulled himself off her and said, “I'll meet you in the bedroom.”
“Okay, baby.” Valerie's response was guttural and she gave him a sultry look before she pulled herself up off the couch—naked except for her red stilettos—and sashayed toward the bedroom. At the last minute he found he couldn't resist the urge to slap her ass as she slid by him. Her behind, round, high, and plump, jiggled wildly beneath the assault. Tony's mouth began to water.
When Tony walked into the bedroom, Valerie was lying out on the king bed, propped up against the pillows; her legs were open, knees up in the air, and head thrown back in pleasure as she rolled her clitoris between her fingers.
She spotted him and breathlessly said, “I couldn't wait for you.”
Tony watched from the doorway, his penis straining so hard against his pants that when he looked down he could see the silver teeth of the zipper.
He walked toward her, slowly stripping out of his clothes. When he arrived at the foot of the bed, he was buck naked. Creeping onto the bed like a stalking beast, he eased his face down between Valerie's legs, using his nose to nudge her fingers away, replacing them with his eager tongue.
Valerie's back arched and she grabbed hold of his head and cried out in pleasure. Tony felt her warm juices wash over his lips. His dick pulsated with excitement. He loved eating pussy, loved women to squirm and whimper as he sucked and licked them to climax.
Tony lifted his head and took a deep breath before diving in again. He opened his mouth and closed it over her vagina.
Valerie squealed with pleasure as Tony did what Tony did best.
Two minutes later, Valerie reached the most mind-blowing climax she'd ever had, one that forced her eyes up into her head and left her legs flapping together helplessly, like broken wings.
CHAPTER
Two
Mildred always thought her friend Seneca was a little off in the head, about two eggs shy of a dozen. But now what she'd just shared with her confirmed it for sure.
“He did what?” Mildred asked in amazement. Nothing was wrong with her hearing—she had bad eyes, yes, but her hearing was perfect.
“It's called a golden shower,” Seneca breathed. “It's very erotic.”
Mildred didn't know about that. Erotic? How could somebody pissing on another person be erotic?
“That's just plain nasty.”
Seneca rolled her eyes, twisting the sheet of paper towel she held until it was cigarette thin, then began snaking it between her toes. She reached for the bottle of nail polish, Heathen Red.
“It's not nasty, it's sexy,” Seneca spouted matter-of-factly as she dipped the brush into the blood red nail polish and then carefully smeared it across the nail of her big toe.
“I'm sure there's a law on the books that states pissing on another person is illegal.” Mildred laughed and rocked back and forth on the faded brown catastrophe of a couch that had belonged to her parents before the fatal car accident that claimed them both seven years earlier.
“Shut up, Mildred,” Seneca breathed, and started on the left foot.
It was just May and it was already humid. The tiny one-bedroom apartment located on the third floor of 300 Sullivan Place in the Crown Heights section of Brooklyn was steamy, and the windows—all five of them—were thrown open and allowing the late spring heat in.
Mildred had lived in the apartment for four years. Seneca had been an on-again, off-again roommate. For now she had her own place a few blocks away on Lincoln Road, but who knew how long that would last, as she was in the habit of not paying her rent in favor of treating some new lover to a weekend in Vermont. She loved the maple syrup there; she'd confided in Mildred and shared the million and one sexual uses she'd found for it. Mildred, in turn, immediately lost her love for pancakes.
The space was small, barely 350 square feet. You couldn't turn around in the kitchen or the bathroom without bruising your hip bone, and the bedroom would have been considered cozy but the double bed and set of dresser drawers made it cramped instead.
The living room was the largest s
pace in the apartment, and Mildred had given it an airy feel by having the walls painted a creamy yellow and hanging sheer curtains on the two windows that looked down onto the backyard.
“So do you want to catch a movie after?” Mildred asked, stretching herself out on the couch and staring up at the cracks in the ceiling.
“Nah, got a date.” Seneca's response was a bit too cheery for Mildred's liking. She bit down hard on her lip until she tasted blood, punishing herself for the jealousy that was biting at her belly.
“Oh.”
Seneca called them dates, but Mildred knew that they were something less than that. They were just “fuck meets,” which was how Seneca sometimes referred to them. She'd meet up with someone somewhere, have a few drinks, and then take him back to her place or she would go to his place or a hotel and fuck.
Seneca, round, short, and stout, had somewhat of a pretty face if you looked at her sideways and in dim light, but most men thought she was doggish-looking. Mildred knew that for a fact—she'd heard the man in apartment B2 say it, as well as a woman at the A&P.
Seneca had E-cup breasts. She wobbled when she walked, and if she didn't have that mane of curly black hair to balance her, her twenty-pound tits would have pulled her over and onto her face a long time ago.
She was as sweet as pie and funny as all get-out, but she could be crass at times, and after two drinks she was down-right rude and raunchy.
“So what you gonna do?” Seneca asked as she scrutinized the job she'd just done on her toes.
“Nothing, I guess,” Mildred said, and closed her eyes, blocking out the ceiling cracks.
“Nothing” was her life. She worked Monday through Friday as an assistant to James Henderson, one of the head honchos over at Greene Investments.
Fifty-two thousand dollars a year and three weeks' vacation.
She never took vacation. Well, she took it, because she had to, but she never went anywhere. Not that there weren't places she wanted to go—it's just that she didn't have anyone to go with her. Seneca always promised to go, but then when it was time to book and pay, she always ended up crying broke.
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