Exit Strategy (40 page)

“You get off on being exposed to me like this, don’t you, Ms. Beale?” His tone is matter-of-fact, but his appreciation of my responsiveness touches me.

“Yes, Sir.” I smile then adopt the straight face of his submissive again.

“Ready?” he says, more for my benefit than his own. I prepare to feel the sting of the crop on my body, and Tristan doesn’t hold back. In short order my ass stings as though it’s been stung by an errant swarm of bees.

“Just the color of dusky rose I like,” he murmurs, and his big hands cup my ass cheeks in reverence, and then he massages them with a gentle touch. “Perfect.” He slips a hand between my legs and slides it through the now abundant juices flowing from me. He smears it around on my warm cheeks, cooling the recent cropping to the point that I don’t feel the stinging anymore.

He steps away for a moment and returns with something metal clanging in his hand. He kneels behind me, and I can feel his breath waft against my ass as he speaks. “Beautiful.”

I clench my buttocks in an effort to staunch the flow dripping down my legs. However, Tristan nudges my legs further apart. I’m still wearing the purple bridesmaid shoes. The four-inch heels must have met with Tristan’s approval because he asked me to keep them on.

Tristan fastens the spreader bar to one ankle and then the other, and the wetness begins to crawl down my inner thigh. Before it can get far, Tristan captures the escaping trickle with his hot, wet tongue as it glides up my thigh to that sensitive spot that demands his attention. Moans of pleasure vibrate from his lips as he laps at me with such eagerness I fall into a state of semi-consciousness, my mind completely blank as if it’s been blown all to hell.

He presses his face further into my ass, flattens his tongue against my clit, and makes a broad swipe with the flat of his tongue. My hips buck involuntarily against the delicious sensation, and my brain practically overloads with pleasure as he points his tongue and it enters me. He uses his tongue to fuck me, and it penetrates deeper with every thrust. I push back with my hips and ride his face as I cling to the footboard, my own moans getting exponentially louder with his expert ministrations.

There is absolutely nothing in the sex department Tristan doesn’t do well, and I’m certain about this when he removes his tongue. The abruptness leaves me so bereft I want I groan in frustration. I want to demand that he fuck me, now, but I know I don’t dare. Tristan laughs at the desperation in my sounds. He must feel the frustration coming off me in waves because I’m trembling with need and anticipation.

“All in due time, Ms. Beale,” he says. I can hear the tear of the condom wrapper and the smooth practiced roll of it onto him, and my face breaks into a smile I can’t control. I’m so glad my back is to him and he doesn’t see the goofy grin on my face.

The moment Tristan’s hot hands snake around my waist and his muscular thighs touch the backs of mine, I’m lost. His erection slides effortlessly between my legs, but he doesn’t enter me just yet. His hands roam my body, touching the muscle, the softness, and sinew as if renewing his memory of it.

When he’s satisfied he’s caressed every inch of me, he dips his knees and impales me with his spectacular cock—at the exact moment the plane dips with a bit of turbulence. Tristan doesn’t allow this inevitability of air travel to deter him. He continues—his long, slow strokes prolonging our enjoyment of the mile-high club, yet again.

Tristan leans forward his chest covers my back, and he buries his face in my hair as he ramps up speed. I moan with abandon as his hands cup my breasts and his fingers tweak my nipples.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he rasps against my ear. His warm breath makes me shiver in the cool, air-conditioned plane. He adjusts his position and begins to plunge into me with greater fervor. We groan in unison when he touches depths I can’t recall him having touched in me.

Eyes closed, I grip the footboard so hard I’m sure my knucles are white. I break protocol and scream
,
“Fuck!”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing, baby, but don’t come until I say so,” he grinds out, his hot breath bathing my neck where my hair is already sweat-moistened. In fact, despite the air-conditioner blowing full-throttle, we are both slippery with perspiration, but Tristan shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

In fact, he redoubles his thrusts, pushing up so hard from the bend in his knees that he digs his fingers into my hips and pumps into me with even deeper strokes. The sound of his skin slapping against mine is so loud the crew has to hear it, even over the music. However, I’m sure that’s just my perception, and to be honest, I don’t care. I make the same ridiculous noises I made once upon a time when he took me into his Grotto for the first time and branded me as his. It is only fitting that I celebrate in the same manner a year later.

~*~

Eight hours into our trip to Hong Kong, Tristan is asleep, and I need the restroom like nobody’s business. After I’ve washed my hands, Fairy Hoochie Mama and Triple G appear to me, all dressed and ready to travel, carrying their miniature Louis Vuitton luggage.

“Where the hell are you little bitches going?”

The loud mouth, Fairy Hoochie Mama, speaks for them first.
You don’t need us anymore, Keisha. You’ve got Tristan now, and as much as we’d like to continue to share him with you, we need our own men.

What she means is, you’ve outgrown us, Keisha. You are a mature woman who’s finally found love. Tristan will love and protect you from now on.

I can’t lie; I will miss their shenanigans. “But what if I just want you to stay around?”

Triple-G is adamant.
It doesn’t work like that. You had us longer than most. Besides you’ll still have your movie trivia.

Now, go give that man some more loving,
Fairy Hoochie Mama says and starts doing her dance to Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It.”

There’s a knock, and Tristan pokes his head into the room. “I could’ve sworn I heard you talking to someone in here.” He opens the door wider and joins me in the elegantly appointed airplane bathroom.

He has an iPad in his hands.

“Have you been working?” I ask.

He slides to unlock the screen and enters his password, and then changes the channel on the television in the bedroom. “No, just using the iPad as my remote.”

I smile as I think of Carmelo razzing me about men and remotes in the hospital. Tristan takes my hand and leads me back into the bedroom. He pulls me close to his side as he selects a recording of WGN News.

“That can’t be live,” I say.

“No, it’s a recording Velasquez sent me.”

“Boys and their toys,” I say. Tristan kisses me, unoffended by me making fun of his love of gadgets.

When we part, I see footage of Byron in handcuffs and being led off by officials to a government vehicle. Some of the officers are CPD, and others have FBI emblazoned on their jackets.

“Turn it up,” I say. I don’t feel any pity for Byron. “What did he do this time?”

“Oh, he just tried to do what he did to you to an off-duty police officer,” Tristan says. “And this time, the feds were able to encourage some other women to come out of the woodwork. I think it’s safe to say there won’t be any reasonable doubt to be exploited in his next trial.”

“Serves him right.”

We listen together to the news report.

The Rapper Blake, aka Byron McCaskill was arrested today on charges almost identical to the ones he faced in court a month and half ago levied by his  former girlfriend, Keisha Beale, whom most of Chicago knows as the most recent  former girlfriend of billionaire Tristan White. In a dramatic turn of events, the rapper was detained early this morning for allegedly drugging off-duty police officer Heather Davies
.
This leads many to wonder, including Assistant District Attorney Todd, whether McCaskill’s acquittal of the previous charges was a miscarriage of justice. As double jeopardy prevents Mr. McCaskill from being tried again in Ms. Beale’s case, perhaps this time there will be evidence to find him guilty without a reasonable doubt.

In a related story, Tristan White has given us this exclusive.  Mr. White’s security team and federal agents uncovered the identities of a stalker and her accomplice who had been sending the venture capitalist threatening letters, targeting his family and loved ones. Shortly after the McCaskill trial, the FBI, a unit of private security and the PR firm of Leilani Doyle, devised an elaborate sting to catch the perpetrators. Mr. White has taken ads in all the Chicago papers which will run tomorrow, but he wishes to advise all of Chicago and the world that Keisha Beale is once again his girl.

The anchors then begin to joke about how long it’s going to take him to put a ring on it, and Tristan’s cheeks color and he fumbles with the iPad. He finally pauses the video, and then shuts it off.

“Was I such a sure thing?” I say with mock indignation.

He puts his iPad away and wraps his arms around me. “No. I was prepared to say, ‘I’m still working on convincing her to be my girl’ had you rejected me.”

I slide my arms around his neck. “Good answer, Mr. White.”

“Ready for another scene, Ms. Beale?”

“Yes, but I have a request.”

“What’s that?”

“Can we do the one where you tell me you love me every time you hit me with the crop?”

“Oh, that one. I think I might be able to oblige,” he says. Then he kisses me in that way he has of making me feel like he’s about to do a tonsillectomy sans surgical tools, and I’m pleased, because he punctuates it with “I love you, Ms. Beale.”

~THE END~

COMING in

2014

Double switch

THE AUTHOR

L. V. Lewis is a married, mother of four who lives in South Georgia and works in the Florida Panhandle. A new author who decided stories like Fifty Shades of Grey needed a little more diversity and comedy, penned Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever as a parodied response to those wildly popular books from a woman of color. A voracious reader since kindergarten, Lewis loves nothing more than to curl up with a good book and a glass of wine. She and her husband are political junkies, a hobby that is time consuming but free. Now that Lewis has young adults who think they don’t need their parents anymore, she has taken up another time-draining career of writing. However, she is happy to report, for once, her extracurricular activity costs far less than her husband’s golf and fishing. Her love for writing is only eclipsed by her love for her family.

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