Topless

by Relentless Aaron

  Brenda jumped into the shower, slipped on a pair of Ken’s boxers and a clean, official baseball jersey over her bare breasts. She investigated more of Ken’s living quarters. The kitchen, the bathrooms, medicine cabinets and eventually the study. Ken left a book. . . . a journal open. Maybe he fell asleep writing and carelessly left it exposed. Or perhaps it was there for her to discover? To find out certain things?

  Naw . . . Ken wouldn’t be that extreme.

  With the very little daylight that bounced down through the balcony doors onto the marble and up to the study, Brenda peeked through Ken’s written entries. His latest entry was both anemic (for its lack of depth or meaning), and robust (in its passion and sexuality), describing how excited he was about a relationship with a real live news anchorwoman. He was actually more into her than she even realized. There was talk of her perfect shape, her sparkling eyes and dark, bronzed mane. Brenda was a toss-up between satisfied (with his interest in her) and abandoned (by his open-mindedness.) And—

  How dare he document my blowjob! Fuck! She felt violated. But on second thought, this was his personal journal. Wasn’t he able to write what he wanted? Brenda gazed over towards the balcony and bedroom in the distance. Ken had turned over, but was still asleep. She began to flip back through the days, weeks and months, very interested in Ken’s other trysts, or even his feelings during the playoffs.

  There were two or three others. She was afraid of that, still curious as to who she was sharing him with. There were relationships in Atlanta, L.A. and New York. In New York, surely of specific interest to Brenda (because of location), a dancer named Moet was noted in the journal. Realizing that he was detailing accounts with a topless dancer, Brenda found herself flipping too fast, skipping pages and hoping to stumble on some juicy revelations. Her heart pounded as she flipped back to the latest entry and worked her way backwards.

  Ken was surprised about the dancer’s murder. Okay. Brenda’s mind continued to spin. Was he really surprised or was he just keeping notes to cover his ass? He knew so much about Moet. Did he kill her? Moet is Nadine Butler. Brenda recalled news coverage with one side of her brain and calculated Ken’s involvement with the other. Damn! Ken Stevens . . . the Ken Stevens was involved with a murder victim! Coincidence?

  Aloof with reckless excitement, Brenda flipped back through the journal. There was a skirmish with a white man after a long night with Moet—a date with Moet and a friend.

  Camay from Queens, Ken wrote.

  Wow. Brenda felt she’d stepped deep into a treasure chest of answers to life’s most pressing mysteries, and that the map to some hidden secret was opened there in front of her. She’d forgotten all about the playoffs. And now, she even felt uneasy about the sex from a few hours earlier. That was all pushed aside by her ambitions for a hot story, and the improprieties of how she was getting it.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” The journal fell to the floor, swept there with the rush of paranoia that drove through Brenda’s body. Ken was towering over her, just a few feet away, at the top of the spiral staircase. In most other circumstances, a half naked man—tall, available, and wearing a frilly pair of boxer shorts, would be enticing; inviting. But Brenda was dead wrong here . . . and she was the one in violation, not Ken.

  Fear (with a capital F) filled the space between the two. Distress pumped Brenda’s heart faster still, until Ken spoke again.

  “I’m shocked at you, prying into my personal life like that. I feel so . . . so violated.” Ken approached Brenda, her expressionless face, and he casually picked up the journal to replace it on the desk. Capitalizing on the engrossing shadow that he represented, hovering over Brenda like a vulture, Ken leaned down with his nose inches from hers. His approach was peaceful, harmless even, but it made Brenda even more uncomfortable. What her shower washed away returned with a quickness to her armpits and the folds between her thighs.

  “I . . . I just . . . it was opened and . . .”

  “You know what this means now, don’t you?” Brenda was as still as stone, shaking her head slowly and unknowing. “Lemme show you.” Ken lifted Brenda like a casualty and her arms circled around his neck submissively. He carried her carefully down the steps, maintaining a playful expression of utter disgust. Brenda was calmed by the warm embrace of Ken’s strong arms, still holding her wrongdoing in her eyes. Across the main floor and back up to the bedroom, Ken placed Brenda down (as though she were his prey), on top of their soiled sheets, and he assaulted her with the wicked smile of a nemesis. Intrigued, but not afraid, Brenda put her palm to Ken’s chest.

  “You’re not going to hurt me, are you?”

  “You’ve been a bad, bad girl, Bree. Where I come from, bad girls get punished.” Ken pressed himself past her ounce of prevention and growled, then barked loudly.

  Brenda’s body jerked with fright just before Ken dug his teeth dramatically into her neck while restraining her hands with his—overpowering her to the point of surrender. Just enough to make an impression on her skin, Ken continued growling and snorting and gnawing as if he were Brenda’s personal bloodhound.

  “No! No, please . . .” Brenda wriggled underneath Ken, her eyes widening, her face smiling with pleasing anguish.

  “Ken! Pleeeease don’t leave any marks. Oh, Ken, pleeeease—ahh!” Half screaming, half shrieking, Brenda was helpless and pinned against the silk sheets. Ken adjusted himself on top of her. Lowering himself as if to enter her. He pulled Brenda’s wrists to her sides, and began nibbling, biting and teasing her nipples through the jersey. Now straddling her, with his knees forcing her arms against her waist, Ken sat lightly on her pelvis and began beating his chest Tarzan-style. He let out a roaring, echoing yelp, as if he had just transformed into the American werewolf. Brenda gasped, not knowing whether Ken would eat her whole or just ravage and rape her. Either way, she didn’t mind.

  “Now. You dare invade my privacy?”

  “Ken. Stop. I don’t know what you’re about to do, but you’ve got me pinned. I can’t do a thing. I shouldn’t have looked through your journal. I’m sorry,” Brenda pleaded, seriously wondering if Ken was a killer. “What do you want from me? You’re scaring the daylights out of me!”

  “What do I want? You’ve just violated the most personal, intimate details of my life. Who the fuck do you think you are?” Ken changed from jest to no-nonsense.

  “Ken . . . I’m sorry . . .” A convincing tear spilled from Brenda’s eye. “Just tell me what you want—I’ll do it.” Brenda didn’t see the excitement forming in Ken’s boxers.

  “Slave hours. You owe me three slave hours.”

  “Slave hours?” Brenda wiped her cheek against the sheets.

  “Yes. You do . . . as I say.” Ken’s fists went to his hips. Brenda’s tongue poked around under her left cheek while she deliberated just how extensive her penance would be. Then she silently agreed by giving in. She let herself go, not really wanting to hear Ken’s commands, but obediently complying to every beck and call. Brenda was Ken’s sex slave for more than an hour, and she loved it. Exhausting not only every possibility, position and taboo, but her energy as well. In so many ways, Ken was Brenda’s breakfast.

  Ken allowed Brenda to nap into the 1 o’clock hour, while he made waffles and turkey sausages. It was late, but it just seemed politically correct to have breakfast. The sweet aroma woke her, as Ken stood over her overworked body with a tray of edibles. She hid her guilt of the prying and the slave labor by busying herself, smoothing the sheets and tossing the baseball jersey back onto her naked body. Ken went to retrieve another tray for himself and they both sat comfortably on the bed facing each other, hungrily feeding their appetites.

  “Listen . . . I really am sorry I went through your personal stuff, but I just couldn’t help noticing . . . umm..Moet. The dancer.”

  Ken continued chewing, thinking about all he wrote in the journal and what possibilities could’ve come to Brenda’s mind. He spoke through the food. Casually

 
; “What about her?”

  “Ken, she was murdered. You obviously know that.”

  “I do.”

  “And you’ve been speaking with Detective Wade on the subject.”

  “Mmm . . .” He let off a sigh, neither agreeing or denying.

  “Alright . . . let me be perfectly honest with you . . .” Brenda wiped the sausage juice from her lips. “If there’s a story here, and I suspect there is, I’d like to get first dibs.” All sincerity surfaced in Brenda’s face as she maintained eye contact with Ken.

  “And that’s why you’re fucking me? For a story?”

  “Ken! I did not know about your relationship with Moet until a few hours ago. You’re not being fair; I’m with you because I wanna be . . . I loved every minute I’ve spent with you. Every minute.” Brenda let some ghetto slip through her all-American TV facade. “I’m not with you for a story, or for any other reason but to be with you. Can’t you respect me that much? Do you think I’d honestly go through with your slave hours if I didn’t feel something for you?”

  “Sounds good anyway.” Ken was still for her convictions, but then went back to his waffles; unaffected. Brenda pushed her tray aside and reached to take the fork from Ken’s hand. She set it down and moved the tray in one swift motion, before she adjusted herself so that she’d be sitting in his lap with her legs around his waist. She also draped her arms around Ken’s neck, close and intimate enough to feel him exhale a maple syrup scent into her nostrils.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Stevens. Mister star pitcher and marathon fuck of my life. Can’t a career woman have the same insatiable desires that the groupies do? Can’t I want you, have and do you because you fine . . . not for some ulterior motive? Can’t you see me for me, and not a woman with a title and a mission? Maybe I was wrong to talk shop with you so early, but my instincts want the story. My insides want you. So if you want, we can forget about the story. That’s my day job. But you? I want you for my night job.” Brenda followed up with an all-out tongue-in-his-mouth assault on Ken. It wasn’t meant to be convincing, but it did convince him. Brenda was a flying free spirit now, just letting herself go. Breakfast got cold as they became preoccupied with other things; like part two of the slave hours.

  Back at Channel 5, Brenda sat with the director for the evening news. She was staring into space while they reviewed the forthcoming broadcast.

  “Brenda, snap out of it—”

  Brenda shook her head.

  “—You okay? Want me to get a fill-in tonight?”

  “No, no . . . I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m double sure,” she responded. Only, her head was indeed elsewhere. Right about now she was wondering what her producer would think if he knew about her activities during the past eight or so hours. And she had to smile to herself about the idea of it . . . the churchgirl. Hahaha!

  Segments had been airing for a few days now, relating to the delay of court proceedings of Douglass Gilmore. The case was going nowhere. And the follow-up stories and the investigative strategies for the broadcasts were at a loss for significance. It was called “running” in TV terms; just filling airtime. But Brenda Feather was curling with information, all of it forming knots in her tummy. Ken shared a few things with her, but he also demanded that she keep him anonymous, as if he never existed. Brenda also knew that Darryl, her news director, would insist on sources; legitimate verifiable sources. Brenda had the biggest, most verifiable source in all the land; problem was that she swore to confidentiality. Question was, how was she gonna get her information to broadcast? Because . . . she was gonna get the story out. Brenda knew that her details would be important for a few reasons. Number one: Douglass Gilmore, who was the FBI’s only target, was sitting in a New Jersey jail. And two: there was a crime to be solved. Pity, that the overall investigation seemed to be a battle between local and federal law enforcement agencies, playing tug-of-war with Gilmore’s son. A mix of egos and miscommunication. Most importantly, the public trust and interest was being violated and misdirected because someone concocted a twisted story.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Southern Discomfort

  Mechelle was desperate for associations when she returned to Atlanta. It had been easy to come back to Denworth since, after all, he was so head over heels for her. So, nothing really changed when Mechelle went down to see Denworth just a month after Douglass was carted off to jail—

  They didn’t lie when they said “the flesh is weak.

  —And naturally, Denworth served her as if she’d never left. The day she arrived, he tore that pussy up as if it were his last. No condom; no apprehension.

  “I miss you . . . so . . . much,” Denworth tried to say while he was thrusting himself inside of her. “And I want . . . you to . . . have . . . ooh, God! I want you to . . . have my . . . baby!”

  But, even though Denworth sprayed every drop of himself on the downstroke, Mechelle wasn’t concerned about getting pregnant; that already happened. If anything, she wondered if her college love would realize that she was starting to show. There’d sure be a lot to explain then. However, to have him there, virtually waiting for her while he still pursued his degree, was extremely convenient for this fix she was in.

  And two weeks after they rock and rolled, Mechelle dropped the bomb.

  “Den, I don’t know how to tell you this . . . but, I’m pregnant.” And now that she told him that it was his baby, there was no end to his kindness and testaments of love. He was ecstatic about the news, and he showed it with plenty of tears and promises.

  To throw a wet rag on her flames of guilt, Mechelle found refuge in a local church, only two blocks from Denworth’s place. Church provided her with more to do than sit around a kiss-ass all day and night in a two-family house. Volunteering with the locals made her feel legitimate and worthwhile, because there were so many things about her that weren’t.

  And now that Mechelle was in the thick of things, there was no stopping her. Two days after she told Denworth the news, they found the nearest Justice of the Peace and tied the knot. Just like that; as if Douglass Gilmore and her new beginnings up in New York never mattered. Denworth had no way of knowing Mechelle’s reasons for the hasty elopement, and she didn’t reveal how desperate a move this was for her to have a man in her life—a father for her child, with all of the resources that came with it. Here she was, entering her second trimester, with no promise for the future. She had to leave New York if she was gonna keep this baby. And damned if she was gonna give up this one.

  It was her pleasure to see Denworth suddenly so proud to be an expecting dad, regardless of the lies she harbored. He got more and more into Mechelle as her physical changes became more obvious. Her cheeks were glowing. Her color was a rich brown, and her breasts were growing into grapefruits, one step up from the healthy Sunkist orange shapes that she was used to. Denworth was so head over heels that he became the infant, sucking (and even drinking!) from her nipples. He was naïve to the ways of a woman; gullible even. These thoughts were dangerous thoughts for Mechelle, unhealthy for the most part. She began to feel stress and anxiety about not being truthful, as if her lying might reflect on the newborn. She had nightmares of the infant being retarded, with one arm. All of it was too much for her, and soon she felt compelled to tell Den-worth the truth. This was particularly heavy on her mind during one stroll back home from her volunteer schedule. Her soul was having a discussion with her conscience, wondering if she’d be kicked out the house, or worse, forced to move back to New York. Now, there was a throbbing headache, and she changed her mind again.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” she said aloud. And it was practical to think this way since today, at least, she knew what she’d be coming home to. First Denworth would have her sit back on the sofa with an herbal tea to soothe her. Meanwhile, he’d have her shoes and socks stripped and her feet soaking in some lukewarm water with menthol crystals giving off penetrating, soothing vap
ors. As her feet soaked, Den always melted her heavy thoughts with soft kisses about her calves and thighs, always paying special attention to her lower body. One or two times he got zealous, but only after she approved. Of course dinner was already warming, and by the time Mechelle was totally relaxed, Den would play waiter, bringing the food by the tray, so that she didn’t have to budge. After dinner, there was a stress-busting bath and a follow-up massage. Naturally the sequence relaxed Mechelle into a deep sleep. When she woke in the morning, there he was, with breakfast and fruit juice. Serving her hand and foot, hour in, hour out. He didn’t even ask for sex, probably not wanting to interfere with or induce labor. Labor? She was in her second trimester! Mechelle thought Den was so dense sometimes, but he was grounded with that good city job; good benefits and insurance. Insurance! That was a big word for Mechelle. It rang bells of security. And what black man from the hood had those kinds of benefits? She was tired and exhausted of dead ends. Den was her only ray of light in a tunnel of uncertainty. So much was going through Mechelle’s mind as she stepped along the sidewalk and up the walkway to see her Denny-pooh after a long day.

  As she ascended to the second floor of the house, she could hear the phone ringing continuously. She thought that to be strange, because it was after 6pm. Denworth should have been home waiting to pamper her, dinner cooked, soothing waters and herbal tea ready to absorb her. So far, Denworth’s pampering hadn’t faded or slacked in the weeks after the vows were exchanged. This was strange.

  Mechelle hurried with the keys and then to the wall phone in the kitchen. She caught her breath, observing the surroundings at the same time. She tried to be patient with the cordial greetings to and from Den’s parents; her in-laws. Man! She hated adopting that title; in-laws. Denworth’s luggage and family fixtures. Like she didn’t have enough problems of her own. His mom was obsessive, as if Den was born yesterday; and his father acted as though he had a speech problem and couldn’t say hi to her. Mechelle couldn’t ever recall if his father had said more than two words to her in the three years she’d known Denworth. Maybe he was an in-the-closet homo like his son was. That is, before Mechelle turned him out.