“You’re not a whore, you just know what you like,” he felt her slick wet lips trying to pull him deeper inside. “Damn, Monica.” His firm hands underneath her ass. “You wanna get fucked, don’t you?” harder, he thrust a little deeper.


“Yes, fuck me...hard,” she insisted, a tad irritated that there’d been any question.


His cock throbbed intensely, the sight of her lovely chocolate body bouncing beneath him; the lustful look in her eyes; the intimate wet sounds accompanying each thrust was edging him closer to cumming, and he needed to control himself. Her pussy engulfed him, slick and hot and wet around him as he began driving into her harder, more urgently then ever. “Damn, you feel good.”


“Harder... she cried, “You know you want to, just do it,” she urged, her walls sucked him.


Admittedly, Scott was holding back. He was trying to be a gentleman, but seeing as she wanted to be manhandled, all bets were off. No man could withstand this amount of intense provocation. He drove deeper until she groaned with pleasure. He wrapped her hair around his fist and pulled her up hard to his lips and she gasped, his cock rammed into her like a piston. “Is this what you want?” I hissed, “Rough like this? Tell me you’re a dirty slut. Tell me you want it and I’ll fuck the hell out of you.”


Monica was at a loss; a loss for words; a loss of sanity and a loss control. She came so continuously hard, she almost loss consciences. “Oooohhhh!!” she choked.


“That’s my girl,”


“God...” she heard herself cry, “My ass...in my ass, please,”


“Ask me again...” His cock throbbed, just the thought of him inside her ass threatened to push him over the top. “Beg me... beg me to fuck your ass.”


“Please, I want it…cum in my ass. Lube, top drawer.”


He was throbbing so hard, he almost missed the last bit of her sentence. He pulled out, retrieved the lube, gave himself a generous amount and rubbed his head round her hole slowly, teasingly.


“Do it,” she pushed towards him, not prepared to wait another second. The head of his cock slipped into her ass and they both groaned. He pushed further, inch but inch, she cried for more. He pumped and pump until her slit leaked. “I’m cumming!”


“No you’re not,” his thumbed her clit as his cock took her ass. “You’ll cum when I let you.” two fingers entered her wetness; his thumb stroked, his cock rammed deep and hard into her ass. He turned his hand, palms up and teased her g-spot.


“Oh Goood, don't stop!” she begged, her pussy sucked his fingers. “I'm gonna cum... I want it harder”


“It that what you call begging?” his fingers stroked her g-spot, his cock stroked her ass, she repeated cries and whimpers stroked his ego. “Look at you,” he groaned. “You wanna cum so badly, don’t you?”


“Pleeeease!” she screamed. He was doing something different then before; one palm pressed on her mound, the other fingered her g-spot. It was a sensation she’d never experienced before. She love it, she didn’t want it to end…damn she didn’t want it to end but she had to cum. “Scott, please make me cum. Please...” she was close to trembling with tears.


He couldn’t take it anymore. “Cum for me,” his stroked her spot…in just the right spot. “Cum all over my fingers.”


“Oh Goood, yes!!” That was it—a wet stream juice seeped from her pussy, soaking his fingers, and she began to convulse, cumming hard. “Oh shit, Scott!!” she shouted with pleasure as her orgasm pulsated through her body. Rhythmically, she bucked and writhed beneath him.


He cried out intensely, urgently. His cum poured from him in wave after wave, shooting deep into her ass, again and again, his fingers massaging her as she rode out her orgasm, panting and writhing and quivering as his cock released hard and deep, again and again.


Their orgasms abated, they cleaned up and returned to bed. Monica never felt so safe as when in his arms listening to him breathe.


“Monica,”


“Yes,”


“I don’t really think you’re a dirty slut, you know that right?”


“I know. Pillow talk is pillow talk. Goodnight John Boy,”



                                                ******



The next morning, they said their goodbyes. Scott made Monica promise to have dinner with him that night—he’d cook; she simply needed to show up. He scribbled his address on a piece of paper and pressed it into her hand before she could protest. “Fine, I’ll see you after work.” She kissed him and he was out the door.



An hour later, Monica rushed into her downtown office building praying the surly security guard wouldn’t ask her to present her ID card. After losing it three months ago, “I left it stairs in my office” no longer rang true and she could no longer utter the lie with a straight face. They exchanged “fuck you” expressions and she scampered across the marble floor towards the elevators as fast as her Gucci pumps could take her. As the doors swung open, her cell phone rang, she answered.


“MG,” Sharon whispered like a hostage. “I called you warn you, Kenya, I mean Catherine is waiting for you and she’s especially chatty.”


“Great, just what I need first thing in the morning. I guess locking her in a closet would be out of the question,” regrettably watching the elevator light blinking pass each floor. “Damn, thanks for the warning.” She disconnected the call and swaggered into the office. She gave the briefest of good mornings to her assistant, barked an order for coffee and retreated behind closed doors with Kenya/Catherine or “KC” as they’d dubbed her. This woman had balls of steel. She actually believed exchanging her African name for an Anglicized one would somehow blind people to fact that she was a six foot tall skeletal Black woman. Not just any Black—we’re talking Sudanese Black. That, coupled with a fake British accent she’d adopted, bemused those who knew her from the bullet-riddled Grady projects. If it weren’t for her keen eye and stealthy ability to commandeer exotic botanicals at a moments notice, Monica would’ve cut ties months ago.


“Catherine, don’t start,” Monica insisted, rounding her desk. “I have a busy morning ahead of me so please keep it short.” She sat and interlaced her fingers. “What?”


“Well, good morning to you,” Catherine pouted her lips which called attention to her protruding cheek bones. “I’ll get straight to the point: I want the Sixth District’s Debutante Ball. You know the project is too large for Vanessa to manage. You promised me…”


“I never promised you anything,” Monica checked her. “I said I’d send work your way…not this particular event. Vanessa’s firm was requested by the client and I happen to agree with them.”


“It’s insulting…”


“What’s insulting is you telling me how to run my business!” Monica snapped but calmed quickly when she realized that shipment of strelitzias for the Mayor’s ball weren’t going to deliver themselves. “Don’t forget, I’m the one keeping your books filled, not the other way around. Concentrate on the jobs I’ve sent you and we’ll talk but this conversation is over.”


“Fine, I see you’re been quite unreasonable,” Catherine stood hotly. “Ring my mobile, we’ll do lunch.” She headed for the door.


“Kenya,” Monica rubbed her forehead. “Drop the act. Living six months in Kent and owning a pirated copy of “Upstairs, Downstairs” doesn’t make you British anymore than it makes me Chinese. So, please stop.”


Aghast, as usual, Catherine slithered through the door.
 

"Record time," Monica looked at her watch.



                                                      ******



Twelve hours later Monica’s heels were clacking back across the lobby’s marble floor—right passed the evening security guard who appeared to have given up on life too early. There was something disconcerting about a man who looked reassigned to a life of sorrow guarding a multi-million dollar high rise in the heart of Midtown, but Monica was grateful he didn’t harass her about her missing ID card. She scuttled passed him and prayed for his swift deliverance.


Outside, the doorman hailed her Town Car.


“Goodnight,” she said briskly.


He sighed woefully. “Goodnight, ma’am.”


The employer of these people should be investigated for war crimes. She crawled into the car and handed the driver Scott’s address and immediately began practicing her “Oh my goodness! I can’t wait to ingest this!” facial expression. She’d been meaning to practice all day but it slipped her mind—and said with apparent enthusiasm, the clipped version would have to suffice.


Forty-five minutes and two phone calls later, the car pulled in front of a sleek retro building with “The Metropolitan at Buckhead” emblazoned on its awning. Monica questioned the driver—this couldn’t be his apartment building…there was no way he could afford the rent on his firemen’s salary. The doorman open the car door and Scott, dressed in jeans and a black button down pushed up at the sleeves, met her in the lobby. With a quickly hello to the security guard, Max, he took her laptop bag and threw it over his shoulder, offered his hand and they went upstairs.


Upstairs being his fabulous retro chic three bedroom apartment done in rich hues blue, whites and browns, clean lines and micro-suedes, even a fish tank. Seeing Monica’s disbelief, Scott launched into an explanation for his domestic awesomeness. He and a firefighter buddy, Louis, leased the place years ago. When the buddy came out of the closet, he begged Scott to keep up appearances until he told his parents…shortly thereafter he moved to Spain with his lover and continues to pay his half of the rent. Luckily, Louis’s folks call as often as he did, which was never. Whether it be his mother’s remorse for utterly shattering her sons’ spirit or the thought of her poor baby living on his own salary, Scott routinely received large guilt checks from Louis’s mother. As such, Louis established a collect and keep system—Scott collects, Scott keeps. The distain between mother and son was palpable.


To Monica’s surprise, Scott cooked very well. When he’d placed her dinner plate in front of her, she recognized the veal shank and steamed vegetables but the creamy mash potato-ish offering left her puzzled.


“Try it, you’ll like it.”


“What the hell is it?” Monica frowned.


“It’s Colcannon, any Irish dish,” he sat his fork down and explained. “Its potatoes, ham, cream, butter, onion and, cabbage.”


“You had me sold until cabbage. I don’t eat cabbage.”


“You do now. Eat.” He insisted. She took a forkful and tried bringing it to her mouth but her gag reflex kicked in. “Open.” He guided a small amount between her lips and waited for her reaction.


“It needs more salt.” She smiled a twinge ashamed she’d given him attitude.



After dinner, Scott loaded the dishwasher and Monica retreated into the living room to relax. She promised herself they weren’t going to sleep together—she was going home and getting a good night’s sleep. No matter how badly she wanted him, it wasn’t going to happen. But…..it happened. Before long, he had her bent over his headboard calling him Daddy with her Gucci pumps still on.


They collapsed on the bed... her body wrapped around his. “Two nights in a row, we have to stop this”


“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he kissed her forehead. “Goodnight.”