Married on Mondays (16 page)

“Don’t you ever make the mistake of telling your mistress what to do,” she said, thinking about how unappreciative, disrespectful,
and disobedient Foxy and Victoria were this week.

“Sorry, Domina DéJà.”

DéJà opened the lid on the snakes’ aquarium. Two brown-and-red boa constrictors crept over the top, then zigzagged in her
direction. Their tongues slithered in and out of their mouths. She picked one up, draped it over her shoulders. The smooth
underbelly felt sensual against her bare arms.

“Mistress DéJà, may I go to the bathroom? I have to pee,” the dean said.

“You’d better hold it,” she said, feathering her cat-o’-nine-tails over his back.

The snakes fascinated her. She watched the one on the floor crawl toward the dean. “What’s that! You didn’t… ahhhh!” he yelled.

DéJà laughed as the snake crept up the dean’s thigh and onto his back. The girth of the boa constrictors were the size of
cantaloupes. The snake in her arms started coiling around her shoulders. She stretched it back out. The constrictor on the
dean’s back slowly coiled around his waist.

“Mistress DéJà, I don’t think this was a good idea,” the dean said. “This snake could crush me to death. Please untie me.”

“Shut up. Speak when you’re spoken to.”

“Yes, Mistress DéJà,” he said.

The lower body of the snake wrapped his inner thigh. The dean reached between his legs and fell on his head. “My nuts. She’s
crushing my nuts.” He tried to grab the boa but couldn’t.

“Stop whining,” DéJà said.

The dean was speechless. DéJà realized he was serious. She knelt, let go of her snake, got on her knees. While DéJà unwound
the snake’s tail from the dean’s inner thigh, the snake on her shoulders slowly coiled around her neck. The struggle to save
her life before the constrictor crushed her was more immediate and more difficult than she’d imagined.

The dean was still speechless. The snake was tight against his dick and balls.

Okay, DéJà, you will not be defeated by no damn snakes. What were you thinking?
“Ugh, ugh. Ha, ha.” She managed to get the snake from around her neck and back into the cage.

She struggled to unwrap the other snake from the dean’s thigh and groin. She grabbed the tip of the snake’s tail. Its mouth
opened wide, head reared back, fangs protruding. “Oh, shit.” DéJà backed away. Regrouped.
Okay, DéJà. Snakes will strike if they feel threatened. Take your time.

Sitting still until the snake closed its mouth, she unwrapped the upper half, placed it over her left shoulder. The snake
slowly transitioned from the dean’s body to hers. DéJà put the snake in the aquarium and secured the latch.

The dean’s hands were cupped over his dick and balls.

DéJà untied the rope. “Are you okay, slave?” she asked, slapping his face. “Say something.”

The dean whispered, “That was the best session ever. I feel great.”

DéJà never knew what would excite her clients, but the snake episode would not repeat. Not with her.

S
ometimes a woman had to confront her husband head-on when her talking, crying, begging, having an attitude, and withholding
sex hadn’t gotten his attention. His wife was miserable, lonely, on the verge of an emotional breakdown, and he hadn’t cared
for three years. Not once had he asked Foxy, “Baby, are you okay?”

Nothing Foxy had done had gotten his attention until he’d learned she’d made a fool of Winton Brown. Lied to him about Dallas
being her cousin. She was engaged to that motherfucker. Giving his pussy to a man she’d convinced him to represent… for free!
Men were sleazy. Women were scandalous.

Thursday night he’d made it home before ten o’clock, not to appease his wife, but to see if she’d have the decency to bring
her cheating behind home at a respectable hour. Women. Her lying ass actually said, “I’ll see you when you get here,” like
she was at home. No wife of his was going to fuck around on him.

It didn’t matter if he was irrational. If he had another woman. If he was being vengeful. His wife should’ve realized she
married a man and not just any man. Foxy Montgomery, a waitress at a pastry shop, snagged Winton Brown, the number one attorney
in the damn country. She should’ve realized her place. And she should’ve kept her legs closed. Even if he wasn’t fucking her,
that was still his pussy. The rock on her finger, the license filed at city hall, the house she lived in all meant she belonged
to him.

He clenched his teeth. Flinched his jaws. Winton needed a strategy. Could a love lost be renewed? Maybe if he tried dating
his wife like he’d done before he proposed, he could learn to be the husband he once was. What had made him stray? Oh, yeah.
No kids. Her refusal to have his child was the demise of their marriage and solely her fault.

For the first time in years, Winton entered his house on a Saturday night. The living room was dark. He flipped the light
switch. The first order of business was to remove the four white wedding photo albums from the living room mantel. He stacked
them in his arms. If the fireplace was lit, he’d have burned the albums to a crisp.

Winton glanced around a room he hadn’t stood in for months. He checked to make sure the DVDs of the wedding and the CDs with
all the pictures were in the back sleeves. The photo album opened up to pages with pictures of Dallas with Victoria, DéJà,
and Foxy. He’d feel better if Dallas was an ugly man, but the brother was handsome.

“Fuck Foxy and her family, keeping this shit from me.”

A dim hallway light led the way to the dark bedroom. Entering his wife’s bathroom, he considered moving her to one of the
guest bedrooms. Or he could put her ass out. Winton turned up the track lighting, sat the photo albums on the vanity, removed
his clothes, filled the spa tub with warm water. He went to the wet bar, got a bottle of cognac and a snifter. He brushed
his teeth without toothpaste. Didn’t want to ruin his palate for the alcohol. He sat in the tub. Wow, when was the last time
he had relaxed at home? Sitting in his wife’s bathtub alone, he actually enjoyed being there. A peaceful energy floated in
the air.

The more liquor he consumed, the more his stomach tightened. Sharing time with his mistress was rewarding. His marriage was
not. Isis made him happy because she was happy. Foxy was miserable when she was with him. But she wasn’t always miserable.
She used to be happy.

Winton reflected on the day he first saw Foxy. She was strutting her stuff through the mall, laughing with two women she’d
introduced as her sisters. They were beautiful too, but Foxy stood out. Her big booty, large breasts, sexy pouting lips, and
confident yet cool attitude let him know she was the one for him. He knew the moment he saw her, she’d become his wife. He
leaned back in the tub and smiled.

When she looked into his eyes, he saw the brightest light, and then she smiled at him and said, “Hi, Winton Brown. I’m Foxy.”

The way she’d said “Foxy” excited every nerve in his body. Those were the days when he couldn’t get enough of Foxy. Had to
see her every moment he wasn’t working. He’d had the highest-quality diamond flown in from Africa and set in platinum. Her
engagement ring had to outshine every woman’s engagement ring. He took a week off from work. Took Foxy island-hopping in the
Caribbean. Unlike other women, she never asked him for anything. Appreciated all he’d done. She fully supported him. Was a
great listener and gave intelligent advice on some of his cases.

“Hmm.” Winton sat up.

There was a technicality in Dallas’s case. From a speeding ticket to being sentenced to death, every action in law required
processing paperwork. Incorrect documentation, failure to submit proper documentation, and Dallas could have a warrant issued
for his arrest.

Winton had approved the paperwork for filing, but if he could get it back from his assistant first thing in the morning, then
he’d file Dallas’s paperwork in his bottom drawer. Winton smiled. He reserved the right to change his mind. See if Foxy goes
running down to central lockup to bail her cousin out.

He stepped out of the tub, rubbed body oil on his wet skin, toweled off the excess, then admired his physique. His dark skin
glistened like that of a bodybuilder ready for competition. His big dick and sagging nuts should be an exclusive playground
for his wife like they were during their first year of marriage. As he stared in the mirror, a visual of Nova’s lips flashed,
causing his dick to rise.
Damn that Nova was good
. Could he make love to his wife and not think about Nova? Isis? He’d try.

It was impossible to make love to his wife when his bed was empty. He went to his study. No Foxy. Opened the door to the garage;
Foxy’s car still wasn’t there. He called her phone. No answer. Called again. Got his wife’s voicemail again. He ended the
call. He was not sitting outside another man’s house to reconfirm what he already knew. Winton was not losing his wife to
Dallas.
Fuck!
Foxy was winning this round, but he refused to give up the fight.

That’s what he got for coming home early. Three years of sleeping in his mistresses’ beds, and the one fucking night he decides
to come home, what the fuck happened? Now again tonight. It wouldn’t happen a third time. Winton put on his pajamas and went
to sleep alone at eleven. Awakened by his phone, Winton checked his caller ID. It wasn’t his wife. It was Nova.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked

She whispered, “Yeah, baby. I’m okay.” Then she moaned, “I need you to come over and let me suck your dick.”

Instantly, his dick got hard as a damn brick. He stood to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “Um. I don’t know how to answer that?”

“
Pleeease
, baby. I want to empty those huge succulent nuts, swallow your cum, then feel your balls slam against my forehead while you
lick my pussy.”

Whew!
Had he died and gone to heaven? Winton turned on the lamp, sat on the edge of his bed. Going to visit Nova at—he glanced
at the clock—midnight wasn’t smart. “This is Winton,” he said.

“You don’t think I know who I called?”

“Look, why don’t I see you in my office first thing Monday morning. You’ll be okay. Good night,” he said, ending their call
before he changed his mind.

His phone rang again. This time it was Isis.

“What happened? I thought you were coming over,” she said sleepily.

Isis’s timing was impeccable once more. His life would be miserable without her. If all he had was Foxy, they’d be divorced
by now.

“I’ll be there shortly.”

Winton stepped into a pair of sweatpants, slipped on a
T-shirt and his sandals, grabbed his wallet and keys, and left.

T
o thine own self be true.

Foxy jiggled her ass, swung her hair, sang out loud. If she had more space, she would’ve bounced her booty to the floor like
Beyoncé. Dallas danced with her.

“These front-row seats are amazing!” she yelled, gyrating harder.

Dallas received lots of perks from the CEOs he represented. Foxy was anxious to utilize their VIP backstage passes, but she
was more concerned about Winton and Isis. Plus her feet were throbbing from standing and dancing the entire time Beyoncé performed.

Before the last song ended, Dallas said, “Here’s the moment I’ve been waiting for.” He rubbed his hands together like a child
in a video-game store. Reminded her of Winton’s excitement for Nova.

“My feet are killing me! I don’t want to go backstage!”

Dallas stopped dancing. “Are you serious?”

“Go without me. I’ll take a taxi to your house.”

She knew he wouldn’t put her in a cab. The ride to his house was quiet. They showered. Dallas massaged her feet until she
fell asleep. Foxy awakened in Dallas’s arms. She glanced over his shoulder at the clock, midnight. It was time to go home.
She had to figure out where this Isis woman lived. What she looked like. Foxy hated admitting the woman had gotten to her.

Tapping Dallas on his chest, she said, “Baby, give me a kiss. I’ll see you in a few hours.”