Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  “You tell me,” Lo said.

  “Not a thing,” she said. “You’re almost ready for your finals.”

  “Almost?” he balked, backing them over to the sofa bed that was pulled out and made.

  She straddled his lap after he sat down. “The Perfect Lover is a weighty title, you know?” she asked, with a smile she tried to hide as she playfully massaged his shoulders.

  “So is claiming to be a woman perfect enough in bed to teach him to be the Perfect Lover,” Loren countered, chuckling as he snaked his hands under her dress to cup her soft buttocks.

  “I haven’t even taught you all my tricks, lightweight,” she teased, removing his glasses to toss onto the bed as she studied his eyes with her own.

  They’re beautiful.

  “What more is there?” he asked.

  Oh, you beautiful innocent.

  “We’ll get to that,” she said, deciding not to overload his mind.

  “Okay,” Lo acquiesced.

  Desdemona smiled at him as she dug her fingers through his wild and curly Afro to stroke his scalp.

  He reached to pick up a small wooden box from a wooden slab serving as a shelf on the brick wall behind the sofa. He removed a prerolled blunt and a lighter.

  “You smoke?” she asked in surprise.

  “To relax. Maybe once a week, sometimes not at all,” he explained, lighting the end of the blunt. “Only weed. No lacing. No chemicals. Only quality herb.”

  “Every time I think I have you figured out you peel back another layer, Loren Palmer,” she said.

  He took a long toke and then released the silvery smoke through his nostrils before offering her the blunt. She shook her head. “I don’t partake,” she said.

  “Cool,” Lo said. “I got something for you to relax to anyway.”

  He reached across the bed for a remote and pressed a button. Moments later, the first sweet refrain of Chopin’s “Nocturne, Opus 55, Number 1” began to play.

  She gasped and then smiled sweetly in surprise. “You remembered me telling you I love this?” she asked.

  He nodded as he took another toke. “It’s pretty dope, actually,” he said.

  Desdemona closed her eyes and gave in to the music, not even caring that his smoke surrounded her head as if she were in a cloud as she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned back. “It’s so haunting. So delicate. Hopeful and sad all at once,” she whispered. “It’s like the pianist is barely touching the keys. Barely stroking them. So gentle. I just love it. And then the middle—this part right here—is like a beautiful storm that sudden erupts as he pounds the keys a little harder and picks up the pace. Do you hear it?”

  “I hear it,” he agreed.

  The music ended, and she released a satisfied breath as she eyed him through the smoke and shook her head. “Play it again,” she requested. “Please.”

  He did. Several times.

  She enjoyed the music and he his blunt as they embraced or kissed or just stared at each other.

  * * *

  Lo closed his eyes and moaned. “So, we’re just pretending it’s not Valentine’s?” he asked, opening one eye to peek at her.

  She tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling, avoiding his look. “Yes,” she said lightly. “I have never celebrated V-Day before and I don’t plan to.”

  “You’ve never had me in your life before.”

  The feel of cool metal on her chest and his warm fingers at the back of her neck caused her to look down at the necklace he had just fastened around her neck. Dangling from it was a small but beautiful 3-D butterfly charm. She stroked it with her thumb.

  “Don’t think of it as a Valentine’s—”

  She gave him a meaningful look.

  “V-Day,” Lo stressed, correcting himself. “Don’t think of it as a V-Day gift. I know you’re not my girl and never want to be. We’re friends and I’m grateful for your help. There are different kinds of love to be celebrated this day, even friendship. So happy V-Day, friend.”

  “Thank you for my very first V-Day gift ever,” Desdemona said with meaning, locking her eyes with his as she pressed her hands to his face and leaned in to kiss him. “Friend.”

  They laughed together. Softly. Warmly.

  He kissed her. “With benefits?” he asked, his words touching her lips.

  She reached for the hem of her dress and pulled it over her head. “Oh, yes,” she assured him.

  “Good.”

  “Good?” she asked.

  “Great,” he said, sucking her bottom lip.

  She shivered. “I agree.”

  They laughed together and kissed as Loren turned his body to press hers down onto the bed. He left her just long enough to slowly remove his clothing as he eyed her body stretched out on his bed. When he pressed a knee to the bed between her legs, she spread them long enough to welcome his weight down atop hers, her heels digging into the flesh of his buttocks and her hands twisting in his hair. The streetlight outside illuminated them as he entered her smoothly and swiftly. She gasped into his open mouth at the feel of him stroking against her walls with a slowness that was addictive.

  Their breaths were panted.

  Their eyes locked on each other.

  Their hearts pounded wildly.

  Stroke by stroke by stroke.

  She circled her hips and matched his rhythm. “Lo,” she sighed, lightly biting his shoulder.

  “Say my name again,” he demanded, raising up to look down at her, the rapture on her face like a wild animal’s with the intensity of a hunter on its prey.

  “Lo, Lo, Lo, Lo, Lo,” she moaned, biting her lip as she met his stare.

  Their chemistry was off the charts, and nothing at all what she had expected as they shared kisses and whispered praises as they made love. Slowly. Deeply.

  And when the anticipation of their rising climaxes quickened their moves, they clutched at each other’s bodies, quivering and gasping as they gave in to the white-hot pleasure of release. Together. It seemed endless. They didn’t rush it. Slow stroking to one climax that left both shaken, spent, and speechless.

  Chapter Twelve

  Monday, March 4, 2019

  The only difference between “hoes” and “whores” is not the number of lovers, but whether you charge or not...

  Desdemona stood at the full-length mirror and stroked her butterfly charm as she looked at her reflection. It was delicate and beautiful. And troubling.

  The last thing she wanted was for Loren to expect more from their liaisons. She was teaching him, and he was fulfilling her sexual needs. That was it.

  Beautiful, thoughtful gifts were a complication to a simple plan.

  “Come back to bed.”

  She smiled at Loren in the reflection as he stood behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist to lightly jerk her nude body back against his. She felt his growing hardness nestled against the divide of her buttocks and reached up to stroke the side of his face as he kissed her shoulder and brought his hand up to warmly cup her breast and lightly stroke the taut, brown nipple.

  Desdemona shivered, seeing her desire heat her eyes in the mirror. “I wanted to take a shower,” she said softly. “You were sleeping.”

  “I could get lost in the scent of you,” he said. “Do you smell this good everywhere?”

  “I guess so,” she said, biting her bottom lip.

  He came around her body and kneeled, lifting one of her legs over his shoulder as he nuzzled his face against her clean-shaven mound. He kissed it before tilting his head back to look up at her. “Madam, may I?” he asked, his voice deep and sexy.

  Desdemona’s body went stiff as her eyes widened. “What? Huh? W-w-w-what did you say? Huh?” she asked, jumping back and then falling backward when she forgot her leg on his shoulder.

  She landed on the floor on her back with an umph. She closed her eyes in embarrassment as some pain radiated across her body.

  “What happened?” Loren asked. “Are you okay?”


  She opened her eyes, and his closeness, as he stood between her sprawled legs looking down at her, was startling. Breathe, Desi, breathe.

  He extended his hand and she took it, letting him help her to her feet.

  “Why did you call me that?” she asked, trying to sound aloof.

  “What? Madam?” Lo asked, his handsome face filled with his confusion.

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t want to call you Mother,” he explained. “You know the game ‘Mother, May I’? My bad. I was trying to be playful.”

  Her mouth widened in understanding, and she felt herself relax with relief. “Oh,” she said, drawing it out as she lightly touched his chest. “I get it.”

  Loren relaxed as well. “Besides, I wouldn’t disrespect you by calling something so lowlife as a madam,” he balked. “That’s a female pimp out there selling souls and not caring. All for the sake of money.”

  Her steps faltered, and she squinted at his judgment. If he felt so strongly, he might even call the police. “You don’t feel a woman has a right to do what she wants with her body?” she asked, knowing a heated debate might lead to her slipping and revealing her truth.

  His judgment stung, whether he knew he was insulting and degrading her or not.

  Well, damn.

  She turned and walked into her bedroom, leaving him with her question as she pulled on a black silk robe.

  “Of course I do, but there are a lot of women who believe their worth lies between their thighs and twice as many being forced into prostitution via sex trafficking,” Loren said, coming into the room behind her and walking to his side of the bed to retrieve his glasses. “Not to mention the kids in the middle who think they’re in control of their bodies and foolishly don’t realize they are being used and demeaned. No one should be paid for sex. It’s revolting.”

  Desdemona was brushing the tangles from her soft hair. She paused as she looked across the width of the bed at him as he searched under the covers for his discarded boxers. She bit the inside of her cheek but failed to hold back her thoughts. “Prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, and you don’t feel women played a powerful role in any of that.”

  He stood erect with boxers in hand and then jerked them on. “There were African tribes who helped sell their kinsmen into slavery and that damn sure didn’t make it right,” he said, seeming to be annoyed. “Complicity isn’t the ultimate co-sign that something is okay.”

  At the moment she felt intimidated by his intelligence and unable to piece together a solid argument against his opinions. “I just think men shouldn’t tell a woman she has to do whatever he chooses with her body,” she said, turning and leaving the room with a quick pace toward the kitchen.

  Her body felt warm with embarrassment, shame, and anger. She poured herself a large glass of wine and took a sip.

  “You do understand that the ones who agree to prostitute themselves and give off this ridiculous notion of empowerment help to create a culture where men think all women or gay men want to be sexualized?” Loren asked, his face incredulous. “Thus, leading to assholes willing to trick, kidnap, or brutalize someone else into selling themselves. One begets the other.”

  Desdemona thought of her own story, Portia’s, and so many more. She felt overwhelmed. Her thoughts were muddled. She refused to believe she was no better than Majig and so many other brutal pimps. It wasn’t the same.

  One begets the other.

  “Never mind, Lo. Just let it go,” she said, sounding—and feeling—weary.

  He crossed the kitchen to take the wineglass from her for a sip.

  Desdemona eyed him and how comfortable he was in her kitchen. In her life. He denied it constantly, but she knew he wanted more from her—even if it was more time—and she had to bring it to an end. Their conversation really brought it home that she could never be more with him. He doesn’t even know me. The real me. My name. My profession. My background. How I make my living? How I try so very hard not to be what Majig was to me?

  He came over and hugged her close, setting his chin lightly atop her head as he rubbed her back.

  Desdemona closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the feel and smell of him. She tilted her head back, and he kissed her mouth. All of the sensitive spots on her body pulsed as if charged with a bolt of electricity.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, low in his throat, as his eyes—those damn sexy, slanted eyes—studied her face.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  As she looked at him she felt sad, because she knew it was best for them both to end it. Things had gone far beyond what she had planned. And in truth, it wasn’t just Lo. She had begun to see him as familiar. Wanted. Needed. That was scary.

  There was no room for him in her world, and in his, there was no space for her past. Not with acceptance and understanding.

  “My GED test is coming up next month,” she began.

  “You still ready?” Loren asked, combing his fingers through her hair to press his fingertips to her scalp

  Even that tingled from his touch.

  Bananas.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I think I’ve done all I can for you,” she said, hating that she was unable to meet his eyes. “So now I can focus on me for a little bit and get ready . . . on my own.”

  Desdemona felt him stiffen against her before he stepped back, breaking their hold.

  Loren nodded a few times as he looked around the kitchen at anything. Everything. “I get it, Ms. Smith,” he said, reverting back to formality. “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she replied, deserving an Oscar for her performance of indifference.

  “I better get dressed and get out your way,” he said, failing at keeping the stiffness from his tone.

  She remained stoic. It wasn’t easy, but she did not fail.

  Not long after, he strolled into the kitchen in his jean jacket over a dark blue T-shirt, matching denims, and throwback Jordans. He stopped in the entry and looked across the distance at her. “Good luck on your test,” he said, looking at her.

  “Thank you, Lo,” she said. “And good luck with your final in a couple of months.”

  He raised his eyebrows and nodded his head like “Oh, it’s like that. Cool.” His handsome face was cold, his jaw square and his eyes fiery. He gave her nothing else but a head nod before he turned and left.

  The door closed. It seemed to echo.

  She covered her face with her hands. Waves of emotions flooded her, weakening her knees and unsteadying her hands. The very thought of never seeing him again sent her to the floor with her back pressed to the cabinets. It was hours before she finally rose and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Desdemona knocked on the front door of the four-story Upper East Side townhouse as she held a pile of dresses in bags across her arm. As she awaited an answer, she took in the home’s street-level garage, ensuring easy access by vehicle without having to give up privacy. She shook her head at the cleverness of a scoundrel.

  The door opened.

  Desdemona turned and eyed the beautiful redhead standing there completely surprised. “Well, hello there, Red,” she said.

  “Hi, Mademoiselle,” she said, casting a nervous look over her shoulder.

  “Tell Mr. Garrett I’d like to speak with him, please,” she said as she pressed the dresses to the woman’s chest and stepped past her inside the house.

  Red struggled to keep them from sliding down her body to the polished hardwood floor. “Mademoiselle—”

  “I don’t have all day, Red,” she said gently, walking over to take a seat on one of the sofas that helped to make up the French country design. She set her tote on the floor beside her feet.

  “Please don’t do this,” Red pleaded, draping the dresses over the back of the opposite sofa.

  “Do what?” Desdemona asked. “You don’t even know why I’m here.
In your new home. And new life.”

  “Who was at the door?”

  Both women turned to the entryway as Hunter Garrett, ultra-conservative Republican pundit and new host of his own show on cable, entered the room. He was shorter than Red by nearly a foot and desperately in need of a toupee or a full-on haircut to finish what nature started. He was almost as red as her hair as he eyed her sitting there.

  “Mademoiselle, what are you doing here?” Hunter asked, buttoning the monogrammed sleeve of his shirt as he continued into the living room.

  “Your phone seems to have stopped working, Hunter,” she said. “And we need to settle up some business. Alone.”

  Desdemona and Hunter shared a hard stare. Red looked from one to the other.

  “Red, I would love some bagels for breakfast,” he said, not breaking their stare.

  Another look between the adversaries was cast before Red picked up her purse and keys from the sofa table and left the townhouse.

  Desdemona waved a hand to the sofa across from where she sat.

  He chuckled and shook his head at her taking the lead in his home as he came to claim the seat.

  “Respect is given where respect is earned,” Desdemona began, crossing her legs in the black-and-white-striped Valentino dress she wore, with its flared short skirt’s stripes in a different direction from the top.

  His eyes dipped to her exposed legs as if invited by the move.

  He was mistaken.

  “And you find it respectful to come uninvited to the home of—”

  “Your concubine,” Desdemona inserted smoothly, tilting her head to the side as she crossed her hands and set them atop her knee. “My former courtesan.”

  Hunter crossed his legs as well. “Her choice.”

  “By your invitation... and that’s fine, but that leaves a debt to be paid,” she said. “Because neither of you handled this appropriately. There was no respect for me, my business, my time, or my financial stability because you two want to play house in your silly little townhouse that your even sillier wife knows nothing about . . . yet.”

  He stiffened in his seat. “Are you threatening to blackmail me?” he asked, his voice hard.