Addicted with a Twist

“Oh, I’m going to take it, all right.” Orpheus pulled on my right hand and placed it behind my back, followed by my left, and held them tightly like they were in handcuffs. “You’re going to take this pussy beat-down like a real woman.”

“I’m a G.”

I heard him laughing. “You talk a lot of shit.”

He kept pounding me and pounding me. I still couldn’t see, and I only hoped that I didn’t lose my balance and slam my head against the side of the shower stall or something. How would I explain that? I cannot tell a lie; the rough sex was turning my ass out.

Orpheus kept fucking me until we both almost slipped. He managed to save us both and hurriedly pulled out, carried me to the bed, slammed me down on my stomach, rammed his dick back in, and went back to work. I could still hear the shower running in the bathroom.

I came all over his dick and then pulled away from him. I flipped over and reached for his dick and started milking it with my mouth. The mixture of my pussy juice and his natural taste did it for me. I came again within a couple of minutes. A lot of women sucked dick to please their men, but I sucked dick to please me. It gave me a feeling of euphoria and a sense of power. I couldn’t see a damn thing, but I felt it . . . and tasted it.

Orpheus tensed up, dick and all, and announced that he was coming. I guzzled all that I could get down my throat as I held onto his dick with a vise grip with one hand and played in my pussy with the other, two fingers deep. He pulled the towel off my eyes in time for our eyes to meet as I licked the head to get every last drop of his essence.

Both of us collapsed on the bed and tried to regain our normal breathing patterns. Orpheus got up and went into the bathroom to turn off the shower. He returned with a soapy towel to wipe my pussy down. We cuddled for a few minutes and then passed out, in a spooning position.

• • •

A loud motorcycle or hot rod speeding down Peachtree Road woke me about three thirty a.m. When I came to my full awareness and glanced at the clock on the nightstand, I jumped out the bed and started throwing on my cl

othes.

I nudged Orpheus. “We’ve got to go,” I said. “It’s almost four o’clock in the damn morning.”

He gradually wakened and then chuckled. “It’s not that serious. Come back to bed.”

I pushed him on the thigh to try to get him to come to his senses. “Get dressed so we can get out of here.”

“Checkout is at noon.” He sighed and turned over, burying his head in the pillow. “Wake me up at eleven.”

“Get up now!”

He finally started moving as I slipped into my heels and wrapped my hair up into a bun.

I grabbed for my keys and he took me by the wrist. “Aren’t you going to give me a good-night kiss?”

I yanked my arm away. “We don’t have time for jokes. We need to get out of here.”

I left as Orpheus was getting his clothes on. By the time they got my car out of valet—no one was around that time of night since most people do not check in or out at that hour, so it took a few minutes—I spotted Orpheus peeling out of the self-parking garage in his black Ferrari. Both of us would have some explaining to do.

STIGMA—mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance.

Peter and the twins were sitting on stools at the breakfast bar when I came downstairs around nine. Momma was making buttermilk pancakes with spiced apples mixed in and peppered bacon for breakfast. My entire body was sore as I entered the kitchen wearing a housecoat and slippers.

“Good morning, gang.” I kissed each one on top of the head before heading toward Momma.

The children all looked up from their various phones and tablets, and said in unison, “Good morning, Black Nubian Goddess Queen.”

Everyone laughed but my mother. “I keep telling you, that’s not cute. They call you that in public and someone might call Child Protective Services.”

“Good morning, Momma,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. “And don’t be ridiculous. If anything, they might ask me to give parenting classes so other women can be treated like royalty by their kids.”

Momma sighed and started plating the food. “Whatever, Zoe.”

Jason walked in the kitchen in a pair of striped pajamas and made his rounds, kissing me, rubbing the kids on their heads, and hugging Momma.

He grabbed a plate of food and sat down at the table. I was sitting there sorting through the mail.

“Have you decided what time you want to leave on Thursday?” I asked. “Did you rearrange your schedule? I don’t want to travel on Friday. The traffic will be a mess.”