Fly on the Wall

 

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

This book, and others, may not be filled with Scriptures, but God uses the least of us—ordinary people—to send extraordinary messages to those in need. Therefore, until my tongue lies silent in the grave, I will believe that I have a purpose in you, Lord, and that my writing is not in vain. I thank you God for Your undeserved grace and mercies in my life.

 

I would like to acknowledge my immediate family. My husband, best friend, and soul mate, Steve Burris, thank you for being you and supporting me, sometimes even beyond logic. I love you! My parents, Reverend Everett & Mrs. Zerlean Russell; my sister, Roslyn Underwood, and my brother-in-law, Mike; my brother, Minister Phillip Russell, and sister-in-law, Stefanie; my nieces, Raeshawnda, Philisha, and Jayla; and nephews, Phillip Jr., Ray Jr., Malik, and Javon.

 

Now that I am so far away from you, I know what an awesome family we truly are. I love you more and more each day—the Russells, Francises, Robinses, Mosses, Rolles, etc.... C'mon, y'all know we are a huge family. To Pastor Ferguson and the New Mount Zion Baptist Church family (Florida City, Florida) thank you for the love and for reading my work and not judging me, in spite of the subject matter.

 

To the entire island of Bimini, my family and friends there, thank you for your love and support. To my Freeport & Nassau family and readers: “Y'all carryin' on bad!” To all other Bahamians, or anyone who knows what “muthasick,” “spry,” and “potcake” are, thank you! To the elite
Fly on the Wall
advance readers and discussion committee, South Miami chapter—just kidding—to two true friends: Erica Calderon and Roshunda Slaton, thank you for keepin' it real with me, believing in me, putting up with me. Your feedback on this book was much needed and appreciated. However, if there were a fly on the wall the night the “mother ship landed” or the times we [Erica] “went to the mall,” we'd be the hottest gossip ever. Hmm, maybe I should write about that. Names would be changed of course. Ha, Ha, Ha.

 

Other advanced readers: Chinikue, April, Nikki, and Raquel, thank you. Special thanks to all of my high-school fans who consider me a role model—keep the e-mails coming (
www.tristarussell.com
). I must say, “What's up,” and “Thanks,” to the Cutler Ridge, Florida Applebee's (bar) crew (Renee, Sarah, TJ, and Isaac) for always telling people who I was and then getting them so drunk that it made being an author very profitable. To the various authors (too many to name) that I've met during this journey: I've learned from each of you and I thank you for freely sharing your knowledge.

 

Sha-Shana Crichton, my agent, I am so blessed to have you and don't know where my career would be without you. Lisa D'Angelo, my editor—If it wasn't for you, people would know just what I think of “i” before “e” except after “c.” Thank you for always making time for me and working so hard to keep me happy. Belinda Williams of Literary Lifestyle, you are the bomb! Peggy Hicks, I cannot say thanks enough; you did it for me.

 

Carl Weber and Urban Books, thank you for another opportunity to share my talent with the world. You've given me my stage!

 

To those who thought that this storyline was crass and tasteless, know that a truly gifted writer can turn the Declaration of Independence into a torrid and passionate affair. It doesn't take a village to believe in me, all it takes is me. Your lack of faith has ushered me to stop at nothing to succeed. Oh, and no eighteen-year-old men were molested or harmed during the production of this book.

 

To you, my new or dedicated reader,
Fly on the Wall
and
Going Broke
sat on the shelves with so many others, yet you saw fit to make it/them yours—thank you! I love hearing from you. Keep the e-mails coming. Visit
www.tristarussell.com
to write to me.

 

Sylvia [Francis] Davis
First page - June 1951 / Final chapter - April 2005

 

Grace Leona [Russell] Moss
Sunrise - June 1928 / Sunset - November 2002

 

Marietta [Russell] Eden
Hello - January 1950 / Goodbye - February 1997

 

“When peace like a river attendeth my way;
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”
“It Is Well”
by Horatio Spafford & Philip Bliss
[1873]

By Trista Russell

 

 

 

 

 

Y
ou would have to be a
Fly on the Wall
to learn of the secret love affair between Paige, an English teacher, and Theo, a high school student and basketball star. You will be a fly on the sizzling hot walls when this flirtatious and lustful duo takes risks during detentions, school dances, and games. However, once in her bedroom, it is he who teaches the lessons and she who becomes the willing and ready-to-learn student.

 

What happens when her ex-husband, who happens to be Theo's coach, walks in on them, and also when Theo's mother learns that Paige's lesson plans include much more than just the parts of speech?

 

Oh, to be a
Fly on the Wall
throughout this sensual and passionate tale.

H
is tongue attacked her swollen, pinkish-brown cherry like it was a boxing bag. “Oh, oh, ooh . . .” she moaned. The sensation and suction was so powerful, her back arched away from the bed, and her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

He inserted a thick caramel finger. “Oh, oh my goodness,” she whispered and rotated her hips as his tongue dove deeper into her infinite pit. “Shit.” She grabbed the sheets with so much force that she ripped them from the mattress.

“Stop,” she begged him. “Stop.” Pushing his head away, nearly out of breath, she asked, “Where did you learn how to do that?”

He offered a shy grin while crawling up her naked body. “In your class.” In his answer, she smelled her bittersweet aroma.

She struggled to regulate her breathing. “That was never in my lesson plans.” Still in shock, she said, “But that was . . .” She reached for and took a sip of the catalyst of this lunacy, her fifth glass of H-Squared, a mixture of double shots of Hennessy and Hypnotiq, which was sitting on the nightstand. “That was unbefuckinlievable,” she said with a laugh.

His legs dangled over the edge of the bed. “So,” he rubbed his nose against hers, “you're the loser . . .”

“Wait a minute,” she interrupted him. “How did I get to be the loser?” She thought for a second. “I won a few times.”

He tried to make her remember. “We were playing strip
and
drink dominoes. So, let's see.” He paused. “You're drunk
and
you were the first one naked.” He laughed. “So that constitutes me as the winner.”

“Constitute?” She giggled longer than necessary. “Wasn't that a vocabulary word last week?”

“Yes.” He kissed her neck. “I used it in a sentence. Do I get extra credit?”

“Nope.” She blushed.

“Damn, what can a brotha do to get an A?”

“In the world today, you have to kiss ass.” She added sarcastically, “Brotha.”

“Ass?” He got serious. “I'm not into all of that. This brotha won't toss salad unless it's on a plate with some croutons.”

“I have bread in the kitchen if it's that serious.” She laughed.

When his hand touched her inner thigh, he felt her tremble. She had told him that it had been a long time, though she never specified how long. He wanted to bring her wait to an end. “What's it gonna be?” He kissed her shoulder.

“Speak proper English,” she teased him. “What
shall
it be?”

“Fuck proper English.” He lay beside her then scooped his hand under her to turn her on her side. “Can I?” he asked.

She looked into his eyes, unprotected, and saw what she always thought she was too strong to see in him: a full-grown man. For weeks she thought that he was sexy, suave, seductive, and although at times he didn't act like it, smart. However, she always had her shield up, causing his rays to bounce off of her, but tonight his brown eyes, thick coffee-colored lips, broad shoulders, and muscular arms caught her when her defense mechanisms were breached by intoxication. “Can you what?”

“Um.” He tried to control his nervousness and struggled with his words. “I meant, can we?” He took a deep breath. “Now that I've shown you that I can, well, now that you see that I know how to . . .” His hand slid down the side of her body, from her shoulder to the tip of her fingers, then down to her thighs. “Can I show you what else I can do?” He had never asked a woman that question, but he felt he had so much to prove to her.

“No.” Her flirty eyes sucked him into a realm of passion he didn't know. “I can't let you outdo me.” She gently pushed his long, lean body to his back. “Why don't you let me show
you
a few things? Do you mind?” she asked, kneeling between his knees.

“Not at all.” He looked at the perfect package before him and was even more aroused. She had turned the tables and he was pleased. It felt like a dream, a dream that shouldn't be coming true. He couldn't believe that he was actually in
her
bed, his tongue was still saturated with
her
flavor, and
she
was naked before him, asking his permission to bring it.

She leaned forward and quickly kissed him on the lips. Her tongue trailed him from the bottom of his neck to his smooth chest, then along the firmness of his abs. She lashed back and forth over his muscles but stopped at the tip of his shorts and untied the drawstring with her teeth. Sliding his boxers down unveiled his audacious spectacle.

“Whoa,” she whispered to herself. The damn thing was big enough to have a social security number. She let her fingers walk up the side of it and counted nine steps. “Damn.” She was talking to herself again. Never in a million years did she predict that she would be a part of something that so many people would consider crass, asinine, and even criminal. She had no control . . . He was the right one; who he happened to be was the mistake. She was willing to take the chance, ready for any consequence, but more than anything, prepared to make room for him in her heart.

“It may be big, but it won't bite.” He joked about the way she stared at his piece. “Show me what you got.” When the damp warmness of her mouth covered his skin, he muttered, “Damn,” and pushed into her moisture. Within seconds, she caught his rhythm and grew to adore his feel, smell, and taste. Her mouth was a well-oiled machine, and all he wanted was to add a little more grease to her engine. “Oh, oh yeah, girl.” He struggled not to bite his bottom lip too hard, but ten minutes into it, he was squealing, squirming, and groaning like there was a bomb inside of him and he was ready to explode.

“Mm,” she hummed as she traveled upward on his dick and kissed its tip. “You like?” She licked her lips.

He could barely speak. “Yeah.” He was breathing heavily and looked down at her. “Don't stop.” She stroked him tightly, but when their eyes met, he saw concern flicker in them. “What's wrong?”

She licked her lips and looked away. “I'm thinking.”

“About what?”

She hesitated. “About what we're doing.”

He quieted her. “Shh. You're thinking too much. I'm not thinking about it.” Still on his back, he rose up onto his elbows and took her hands in his. “There's nothing wrong with what we want to do, as long as we both want to do it.” He pulled her on top of him, in a straddle position, and her legs rested outward at his sides. “Don't worry so much.”

“But what if people find out?”

“Fuck people.”

“You can't just have a fuck-the-world attitude about this.” She rested her head on his chest. “It's possible that people could find out about us.”

“All right.” He steadied and positioned his flaming arrow, aiming at the target. “I won't have a
fuck
attitude about this.” He rubbed his arrowhead against her wet crease. “I'll have a let's-make-love attitude about this.” He locked his hands on her waist and pushed upward, giving her no time to protest.

“Oh, ooh yes. Oh yes.” She took him in and realized that there was no turning back.

“Oh shit.” He closed his eyes and savored the feel of her tight, wet, hot fold. “Yeah.”

She was still trippin'. “Are things going to be different?”

“What?”

“Are you going to change?”

“Why would I?” he asked.

“Just answer the question.” She pushed herself down on him.

“Never.” He kissed her softly and braced her back to give her more.

“Ooh shit,” she moaned. “Fuck. Oh yeah.”

“I'll never change,” he promised her again.

She rushed down his pole like a firefighter on her way to a four-alarm fire. She rode him like he had wheels, taking him places that in his imagination had always been unreal. His toes began to curl and his sweat beaded up as large as dimes. She assumed she had taken him to school, but he put on his game face and brought it on like no other man ever had.