Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  “I’ll keep them,” Portia said from the ajar door.

  Lord.

  “Okay. I’ll bring them back clean tomorrow.”

  Portia closed the door.

  She fought the urge to toss the bag in the small wastepaper basket by the polished wooden desk. Holding on to the clothes was a sign she didn’t yet trust her, so throwing them away would really destroy any chance of that.

  Trust is key.

  She had learned that a long time ago. Broken trust had scarred her. It was the reason she hated to lie. Nothing like being deceived to detest it.

  “Trust me. I got you.”

  She closed her eyes and released a breath, hating the voice that suddenly replayed in her head and the memory that came along with it . . .

  Desdemona paused in taking her clothes out of the backpack to look out the window at the rain pouring down on the city. The sound of it battered against the roof and windows of the laundromat.

  If she hadn’t found somewhere to sit out the rain she would have been sleeping in it. Again.

  Twenty-four-hour establishments were her havens since she’d run away from Zena’s house a month earlier. Emergency rooms. Train stations. Laundromats and restaurants. The secret she learned was to be clean and presentable and look like you belonged. Free lunch at school was sometimes her only meal when she couldn’t beg up enough to buy something. She washed up at sinks and did the best she could with her hair.

  She did the best she could with everything.

  Pain radiated across her chest. Never had she felt so alone. So hungry. So lost inside her own head.

  She was no fool. Her stepmother hadn’t even reported her missing because she went to school every day without incident. No police or social workers arriving to see if she was there.

  It’s just me, myself, and I.

  That was scary.

  Some nights, when the twenty-four-hour joints didn’t work, she languished between half sleep and fear in the park on a bench or on the back seat of a bus hoping the driver didn’t notice her back there, worrying that she would be mugged or raped or worse.

  And no one would care.

  A tear raced down her cheek and landed atop the back of her hand as she gripped her bag in desperation and aching sadness. So much so that she wondered if she should have just stayed at Zena’s.

  “And if she dies?”

  Desdemona winced at the recollection, reaching inside her front pocket to stroke her heart-shaped locket with her thumb. She was too afraid to wear it around her neck anymore. It was all she had.

  “Whaddup.”

  She jumped in alarm as she turned, looking up at a man in his mid-twenties in a NewYork Giants jersey, jeans, and Nike Air Force 1s with a fitted hat tilted to the side on his head. Her eyes darted past him to the dark blue Ford Expedition with shiny chrome rims parked at the curb. She could just make out the sound of Jay-Z’s “Money, Cash, Hoes” playing from his sound system.

  Her eyes went back to him. Her heart pounded. They were alone, and she was afraid.

  He smiled, revealing a gold grill on his bottom teeth. “You a’ight, shawty?” he asked, his voice deep and raspy.

  She nodded nervously. “Y-y-y-yes,” she stammered. “Just waiting on my dad. He went to get us food.”

  His smile broadened as he turned and hopped up onto the table. “Not true,” he said. “Anytime you come here you’re always by yourself. And you sleep here. By yourself.”

  Her eyes darted to the door.

  He shook his head and held up his hand. “I’m not on no bullshit. You can leave. This ain’t no stickup. Hell, you ain’t got shit. I’m just tired of seeing you out in these streets alone. Hungry. Struggling. You too fine for that shit.”

  “Me?” she asked, taking in his caramel brown complexion and lean features.

  “Hell, yeah,” he said, reaching over to stroke her cheek.

  She shivered.

  He reached in the pocket on the front of his oversize jeans and removed a wad of money wrapped with a red rubber band. “You deserve somebody to look out for you, and I want to be that dude to take care of you,” he said, smooth as ever.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because you’re beautiful, and I want you to be my girl.”

  “Your girl?”

  “Damn right,” he assured her. “What’s your name?”

  He was cute. That she couldn’t deny. But . . .

  She gave him a smile as she walked past him and over to the door of the laundry. He didn’t stop her as she stepped out onto the street. “Paper Chase” by Jay-Z and Foxy Brown blared loudly. The fact that he left his car running without a care about someone touching it earned her respect.

  It meant protection.

  She came back inside and walked back over to him and her bag of dirty clothes. “Desdemona,” she finally answered, looking up at him and then shyly looking away.

  “I’m Majig,” he said, sifting through the wad of hundred-dollar bills to find and eventually remove a ten to hand to her. “Put your clothes in the machine and let’s go eat.”

  Her hesitance showed.

  “Trust me. I got you,” he said, giving her a charming smile.

  Desdemona shook her head at her naïveté. That night she moved into his apartment in the Hallmark on Hill Street and they made love to “Nothing Even Matters” by Lauryn Hill and D’Angelo. One month later her bliss was shattered when he requested to be repaid for all the money he’d spent on new clothes, hairdo, nails, food, and rent. And that night, when she understandably didn’t have the money, he ordered her to sleep with men to work off the debt and locked her in a bedroom with a strange man she wished she could forget.

  The first of many. More than she cared to remember.

  And then she truly sold her soul to the devil when she decided to pull out every trick in her bag and seduce Majig into making her his in-house girl, figuring the devil she knew was better than any devils she didn’t—especially when her days of streetwalking were over.

  Desdemona jumped when a hand suddenly squeezed her shoulder. She whirled around and closed her eyes with a shake of her head at Portia standing there naked.

  “I’m ready to thank you now,” she said.

  “Then just say thank you, Portia,” she said, her voice hard as she shook off her touch. “Go put on your robe.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” Desdemona demanded.

  The irony of the night she’d fallen into the clutches of a sex trafficker and her stepping in to help this girl of innocence lost was not missed.

  When Portia stepped back into the room, Desdemona rose from the chair and turned to face her. “I’m sorry that life has taught you that no one will ever do something for you without demanding a piece of you in return, but tonight let me be the first person to teach you otherwise.”

  Portia dug her hands down deep in the pockets of her robe and hung her head.

  “Hold your head up, kid, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” Desdemona said, softening her tone.

  She looked up.

  “Did you drop out of school?”

  Portia nodded yes. “But—”

  “So, here’s the deal. If you agree to go back to school and give up tricking, I will find you a small apartment, pay your rent, and give you a little money for your pocket,” Desdemona offered. “You owe me absolutely nothing but keeping your word.”

  Portia’s eyes filled with tears and confusion. “Why?”

  “Because you deserve it.” Desdemona came around the chair to stand before her and extend her hand. “Deal?”

  Portia looked down at her hand before finally sliding her own into it. “Deal,” she agreed.

  “Okay, in the bed,” she said, looking on as her charge crossed the room and slid beneath the comfy covers.

  “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow, Portia,” she said, picking up the laundry bag and her tote.

  “Ms. Smith.”

  Desdemona paused in the open doorway
.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  She gave her a reassuring smile and left.

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday, January 9, 2019

  Lonesome.

  Desdemona and Loren stood on either side of the threshold and stared at each other.

  “Hey,” he said before releasing a breath.

  “Hello.”

  More awkward silence.

  She hadn’t seen him since “the kiss” or since “the email.” His appearance at her front door today was surprising. She couldn’t imagine what he could want. She enjoyed his discomfort and did nothing to ease it as she eyed him.

  “Can we talk?” he asked.

  “About?” she asked, leaning against the edge of the door.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Can you?”

  He shook his head and shifted on his boot-clad feet, looking down the length of the hall and then back at her. “Look, are you mad at me?” he asked.

  She took in his wild mane of hair and strong features before shifting her eyes down to the three-quarter-length hooded coat he wore over his denims and bright colored V-neck sweater. “Depends,” she admitted.

  “On?”

  “Are you afraid of me?” she asked without hesitation.

  His eyes shifted away.

  “Awwww,” she sighed, slightly mocking. “Poor baby.”

  He clenched his jaw.

  “Come in, Lo,” she said with a smile, stepping back and pulling the door open wider with her.

  “Thanks,” he said, glancing at her as he passed to step into the foyer.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your Louis book bag,” she noticed.

  “Well, I’m not your tutor, so . . .”

  “Right.”

  “Right,” he agreed.

  She invited him to the open living space with a wave of her hand in its direction.

  “How’d your test go?” he asked.

  “I rescheduled it,” she admitted. “Life got in the way. It’s all good.”

  Bzzzzzz.

  Pausing her steps, she pulled her iPhone from the pocket of the floor-length casual dress she wore. It was a text from Portia.

  PORTIA: Out of court. We won. I’m an adult.

  MS. S: Congrats! I’ll call you later tonight. U good?

  Desdemona smiled at the praying hands emojis Portia text back. She slid the phone back into the pocket of her dress, pleased that her idea for Portia to file a petition for emancipation had worked. She was now legally able to make decisions for herself. Her allegations of abuse and the fact that she was technically homeless and in need of a place to stay helped her to push for an emergency hearing. Her parents not appearing in court and Desdemona locating and offering to pay the cost for a high-powered attorney also helped.

  Best twenty grand I ever spent.

  Now Portia could apply for a job and enroll in high school in September as a junior—all without Desdemona revealing her own identity or legally taking the girl on as her ward.

  “Ms. Smith.”

  No. It’s Ms. Dean. Desdemona Dean.

  She looked at him. “Huh?”

  “My girl and I broke up,” he said.

  Desdemona came over to sit on the sofa. “I’m sorry to hear that—”

  “Because of you.”

  She screwed up her face. “How’s that?”

  He cleared his throat and licked his bottom lip. “I told her about the kiss,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I felt so guilty.”

  “But I kissed you,” she stressed.

  “And it fucked me up. It fucked my relationship up,” Loren stressed, rubbing his hands through his wild hair before clenching the strands in his fist.

  “I thought I did,” she said.

  He eyed her. “It wasn’t fair to be with her and wish it was you,” he said.

  Their eyes locked.

  Desdemona was taken aback, and her pulse raced. She bit her bottom lip. “Why are you here, Lo?” she asked, remembering the feel of his lips.

  He sat back on the sofa with his head leaning against it, exposing his neck and Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  Desdemona eyed him. She’d assumed she’d never see her young tutor again. At the moment his email arrived, she had been too busy with saving Portia to really evaluate just why he had canceled the last of their tutoring sessions. Between getting Portia settled and the Christmas holidays that triggered all of her woes about her past, Desdemona hadn’t allowed herself to miss their friendship.

  But when she did, it was with fondness and with regret that the kiss hadn’t led to more.

  She eyed him again. I was curious. Hell, I still am. Is he a virgin? Can I teach him? Make him a better lover?

  Does he want me to?

  “Live life with no regrets,” she said to him, reminding him of his advice to her.

  He turned his head to eye her. “Is it too late?” he asked.

  “For?” she asked, giving him a beguiling smile.

  “To teach me.”

  How sweet. And hot.

  She had an itch of her own to be scratched.

  “Are you back with your girl?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “If you could, would you?”

  “I don’t know, because as much as I cared for her, if I was in love with her, you shouldn’t have mattered,” he said, and then looked startled. “Sorry. You know what I mean, right?”

  Desdemona nodded. “I do,” she said, beckoning him closer with a bend of her finger.

  He actually pointed to himself as if to say, “Me?”

  “Yes, you. No one else is here, Loren,” she said patiently.

  He was so nervous. So awkward. Unsure.

  But handsome and filled with goodness.

  This should be fun.

  When he reached her, the warm scent of his cologne appealed to her, and her body responded to his closeness. Pulse racing. Heartbeat quickening. The sweet bud of her intimacy throbbing to life.

  She removed his spectacles. “I want to thank you for teaching me to live, to enjoy, to explore more,” she said as she set them on the coffee table. “You are—were—like a breath of fresh air to my stale life. My routine. My rut.”

  “You deserve it,” he said.

  She straddled his lap. “And you deserve this,” she said, leaning in to capture his mouth with her own.

  And so do I. The wait is over.

  At first, the kiss was slow as their tongues lightly touched. She deepened it, welcoming the hunger she felt.

  I need this.

  “Sex is all about awareness,” she whispered into his open mouth as their eyes locked and she reached for his hands to press to her hips. “You have to be bold enough to know you’re a good lover, but sensitive enough to care if your lover is pleased, to be a great lover.”

  He shifted his hand to grip her buttocks.

  Desdemona gasped in pleasure and surprise. “Very good,” she said before leaning down to taste his mouth again before rising to her feet to ease her dress up over her head and stand before him naked.

  “Damn,” he swore, his eyes taking in every bit of her soft curves.

  She twisted her hair up in a loose topknot. “Now what?” she asked.

  He rushed to stretch his legs and dig into his front pocket. “I brought condoms,” he said eagerly.

  “Good, but there’s plenty in between getting naked and having sex, Lo,” she said, taking the condoms to toss beside him on the sofa. “And you’re not naked.”

  Loren jumped to his feet and began to remove his clothes in rushed jerks. She fought the urge to tell him to slow down and appear less eager, but like the first time he tutored her, she was assessing his skill level.

  His body was lean but strong, and his erection was long and curved. And hard. So very hard.

  “Damn, Lo,” she said, looking up
at him with appreciation.

  He slowly grinned and massaged the length of his inches.

  She stepped closer to him, tilting his dick upward to press between their bodies as she wrapped her arms around his neck and wove her fingers through his soft hair. “Damn,” she whispered again against his lips before he dipped his head to kiss her as he massaged her lower back and buttocks.

  Remembering to teach him and not get lost in her desire, she guided his head until his lips were on her neck. She did the same, suckling the soft dip above his clavicle and loving the race of his pulse against her tongue as he shivered. She pressed kisses across his hard chest and bent her knees a bit to circle one brown nipple with her tongue.

  He cried out.

  She smiled against his chest and did it again. And again. And again.

  And when she leaned back from him, pushing her breasts upward, he held her securely around the waist and bent his head to do the same. Soft flickers. Deep sucks. Tender bites. Over and over.

  “Nice,” she sighed in pleasure.

  “Huh?” he asked, raising his head.

  “Don’t stop,” she said.

  More suckling.

  Yesssssss.

  The urge to turn things up filled her, but she refrained. He was not ready for her to pull out all her tricks. Not at all.

  One day, though.

  She turned their bodies and sat down on the sofa. His erection was aligned with her mouth and she cut her eyes up at him. His eyes were wide with shock and hope, but again she refrained. He would climax in minutes without ever stroking inside her. She was that good.

  Instead, she spread her legs wide and leaned back against the sofa as she stroked her own intimacy with her fingers and patted it lightly.

  “Ms. Smith,” he said in awe.

  She smiled at that.

  Loren dropped to his knees and leaned forward to press kisses against her cleavage as he fumbled his fingers below to stroke at her wetness. She arched her back and rotated her hips as he shifted to suck at one of her taut nipples. The feel of his middle finger sliding inside her pulled a cry of pleasure within her as she closed her eyes and stretched her arms out along the top of the sofa.

  She gave in to her passion, reveling in mutual desire. Being wanted just for the sake of being wanted. Desire. Passion. Pleasure. And in those heated moments, her notice of his awkwardness faded as she let her body rule over her brain. What he lacked in skill they made up for in chemistry that shocked her.