The Ex Factor: A Novel (4 page)

“Not God, baby…Sharief…”

She wrapped her legs around his head. He took her clit into his
mouth, placed it between his teeth, and pulled it softly until she exploded, her cum covering his lips and leaving a trail down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, took his head from between her legs, and lay on top of her. Caressing her nipples and licking her earlobes, he whispered, “You know we're wrong, right?”

“Wrong? I'm not Celeste's keeper.”

“That's fucked up.” Sharief moved his head down, slid his dick in, and simultaneously sucked both of her C-cup breasts. While sucking them, he felt as if he were French-kissing her nipples, his tongue going wild with both of them in his mouth. “Don't fuck nobody else,” he snapped. Sharief stood on his knees and folded Monica's legs across his chest Indian-style. He pounded his dick in and out of her vaginal canal, determined to bury his dick in her wetness.

“Hmmm?” Monica moaned, her tone evident that she was caught off guard. “Where did that come from?”

“Don't play with me.” He slapped her on the ass. “Don't fuck ole boy… again.”

“Ole boy?” Monica said. Sharief's grinding was causing her head to lift off the bed.

“The square niggah.” He slapped her on the ass again. “The janitor or whatever he is.”

“He's a math teacher.” Monica wiped the tears falling from the corners of her eyes. Sharief 's grinding felt like it was ripping through her stomach and soaring its way toward her heart. His grinding was bittersweet, a callaloo of pain and pleasure, but a mixture she could live with.

“I don't give a fuck what he is.” Sharief stopped for a moment and wiped the drizzling sweat from his brow. Grinding again, he said, “Don't fuck him… anymore.”

“Don't worry about him, worry about us.”

“Us? Humph, I'ma be fuckin' you
forever.
”

That was all Monica needed to hear. The
forever
part. Forget
being caught up in the moment; this was the truth. Exactly what she'd been waiting for. Something to riddle this situation of the stinging guilt she'd had behind sleeping with her sister's husband for the past six months. Not to mention constantly having to hear Celeste's nags of Sharief never being home and most recently her cries about a recurring dream that he was cheating. “My dreams never lie. I know he's cheating on me,” Celeste had confided in Monica just yesterday while they were on the phone.

“Celeste, please with the dreams. He's been working a lot of long hours,” Monica had said, desperately trying to pacify Celeste, but as usual Celeste was working her last nerve. A few moments later Sharief came in from work and walked over to greet Monica. Monica's right shoulder was hunched, holding the phone to her ear while she stood at her bedroom window. Sharief kissed her lightly on the lips and she began to unbutton his shirt, his tie already hanging loose around his neck.

“Monica, are you there?” Celeste asked, getting agitated. “Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Monica said, Sharief now standing behind her, unsnapping her bra and kissing from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.

“Well then, I'm telling you, it's not just my dreams but even in my gut I feel that he's cheating.”

“Do you have any evidence of that?”

“No, but he doesn't make love to me anymore… and every time I turn around he's working. What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should chill,” Monica said, now ass naked, lying on the bed spread-eagled, “he's faithful…”

But now, at this moment, with the
forever
word dangling in the air, mixing in with the sweat, pussy slurps, ball slapping, and grunts of
I love hittin' this shit
, Monica no longer gave a fuck about how Celeste felt. After all, all is fair in love and dick.
So fuck Celeste
, Monica thought, nearing an orgasm.
And fuck their marriage.
Fuck the perfect house and fuck the perfect kids. The dish has been cheating on the spoon. Hell, if anything, Celeste should've never suggested that Sharief stay in Brooklyn with me. Big deal, if his shift didn't end until two sometimes three in the morning and his commute home would be riddled with darkness? Bitch, you knew how far Somerset, New Jersey, was when you insisted on taking your fat ass there! Nothing was wrong with Brooklyn. Nevertheless, ever since we were teenagers Church Ave. wasn't good enough for you. You had to be Miss Priss and move to the 'burbs.

Always fuckin' lecturing me about being a fifteen-year-old pregnant statistic who dropped out of high school. You never got enough of putting me down, did you? Which is why when my baby was stillborn you told me you had no remorse for me, that I didn't need to be a baby mama anyway. I never forgot that, Celeste, and so, I say touché! You better hope the baby mama shoe doesn't hurt your wide-ass foot too much. And as far as me dropping out of high school, I got my GED, graduated from college, and now I'ma fifty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year registered nurse, and what? Now it's your turn to grovel, bitch, and wonder about your man who was just sucking my clit. Remember you wanted to be a stay-at-home soccer mom, so get ta car-poolin'.

You knew your husband had just made detective … but did you care? Noooo, not Queen Bee. Well guess what? You left your fine-ass, bald-headed man with too much idle time. Eating too many dinners with me. Too many nights we were up late talking. I was the one waiting for him to come home. Bringing him late-night snacks and sitting with him during his breaks at the station. It was me, Monica, not you. All you did was sit home, get fat, and complain about the kids whining all the time. You stopped doing your hair and taking care of yourself. You slipped and I was there when you fucked up. So…from what I can see…you got what your hand called for.

Didn't you ever listen when Mommy said men will be men, and all men cheat? Well, if you didn't, you should've 'cause I'm fuckin' the proof.

Uncrossing her legs, Monica let the left one rest on the bed and threw the right one over Sharief's shoulder. “That's all you got?” she said, looking him dead in the eyes, trying not to scream at the hard-ass strokes he was rammin' into her.

“That's all I got?” Sharief asked, surprised. “Oh, you want more?”

“I thought you wanted to pop the cherry? You twirling it.”

“Oh, so the dick ain't rough enough?” He grinned.

“If it ain't rough it ain't right.”

A snide smile ran across Sharief's face as he looked at Monica and started pounding her with the deepest and most intense strokes that he could muster up from the pit of his shaft. The swift motions of his hips caused his dick to run like a marathon in and out of her pussy, pounding against her G-spot and lightly kissing her clit with its movement.

“That's it?” Monica snapped, trying not to stutter. “That was a li'l-boy stroke. I know this big dick got more back than that.”

Motherfuck
, Sharief thought, his dick ready to bust.
Ai'ight, ai'ight, I gotta stay still for a second otherwise I'ma 'bout to lose control.

“Why you so quiet?” Monica said, throwing Sharief a hard hip. “What? You trying not to bust a nut?” She started flexing her inner walls.

“Oh, you playin' me?” Able to calm himself, Sharief started pounding Monica even harder than before. Flipping her over without ever causing his dick to fall out, he placed his hands at the small of her back and started bangin' her doggy-style. His dick wreaking havoc on her wetness, the friction causing her to squeeze her ass cheeks every time she felt his balls slapping against her skin. “I don't hear you talkin' shit now!” Sharief said. “What— what? Cat got your tongue?”

“No, I'm waitin' for you to fuck me,” Monica said calmly.

“Just for that…I'ma punish you.” Sharief laughed, trying not
to focus on the nut he felt creeping up. He took his dick out, slid his right hand in between her ass, and collected her juices all over his fingers. He stuck two of them into her asshole. “Sharief,” she moaned, “don't play.”

“Nah, don't punk out now. You were brazen when you were talkin' that bullshit.
Oh, I'm waitin' for you to fuck me.
Remember that shit?
If it ain't rough it ain't right.
” He bent his head down underneath her ass and ran his tongue from the tip of her clit to her tailbone. Monica's heartbeat thumped its way down her spine. Her mind felt as if it had taken flight into the Twilight Zone.

Sharief got off the bed and stood on the floor. He pulled Monica to the edge of the bed, her ass greeting his shaft. He grabbed her by the waist, hunched her behind in the air, and moved his dick in between the slit. Her arms were tucked under her breasts as her head lay flat and turned to the side.

“Sharief, it's gon' hurt?” Monica sighed. He could feel her tensing up as he spread her ass cheeks.

“No, it's not.” He ran his tongue in between her butt cheeks, tickling her asshole. “You trust me?”

“Yes.” “Well then, relax. I would never hurt you, Monica. I know what I'm doing.” Sharief took Monica's juices and lubricated her asshole as he slowly worked his way in. The muscles in her ass contracted around the head of his dick. Sharief was sure when he started to cum he would be nuttin' for days. Getting into the mix of pounding into her sweet ass, he started slapping both sides, with one hand and then the other, trying his best not to call her name.

“How did you lose your teeth, Red?” came out of nowhere. Monica, who'd just swallowed a spiked fist in her throat from nine inches of a thick black dick taking refuge in her virgin asshole, was scared shitless. She never expected to hear her mother's voice while fucking her sister's husband. “Take it out, Sharief.”

Instead of taking it out, he stroked.

“No, I'm serious,” she said, agitated. “Didn't you just hear my mother's voice?”

“No, I didn't. So … can we get back,” he massaged her ass cheek, “to handling this situation?”

“Awl Red.” Starr's voice came across the air again. “You got a rip in the seat of yo' catsuit. And that thing was bad too.”

“I heard that,” Sharief said, looking around. “And my dick just went soft.” He slid it out.

Monica turned her head from side to side and spotted her cell phone vibrating with the red light from the walkie-talkie beeping. “It's my phone,” she laughed. “My mother is always hitting the walkie-talkie by accident.”

“Well, you need to start cutting that off, baby.” Sharief nervously grinned. “That shit has caused Tarzan to stop swinging. Look at this.” He pointed to his dick. “My man done passed out.”

Monica laughed. “Sharief, go take a shower.” As he left, she grabbed her Nextel off the nightstand and hit the walkie-talkie button. “Excuse me, Ike and Tina.”

“Ike?” Starr snapped. “Ain't no Ike over here, fuck around and get this niggah burned up. They be callin' his high-yellow ass Krispy Kreme. Humph, if you don't know, you better ask about me.”

Monica rolled her eyes. “Ma, what's the problem? You're hitting the walkie by mistake again.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, boo. I was trying to see if we could call 1-800-DENTURE and see about gettin' Red some more teeth, 'cause the ones he had he coughed out.”

“What?” “Yeah, girl, and them dentures was designer too. They was the gold-plated Flavor Flav teeth, equipped with an overbite. Red and Jimmy were special guest stars at a Where Are They Now concert, at the Roseland Ballroom. We had a good ole time except Red kept getting blindsided by the disco ball. Chile, my man know he a throwback.”

“Ma, get to the point, how did Red lose his teeth?”

“Oh, he was doing a rendition of Michael Jackson's ‘Bad’ on stage, bust a split and coughed his teeth out. Wait a minute, baby, my phone is ringing.” Starr looked at the caller ID. “It's Celeste. Monica, let me hit you back in a second.” And she clicked the walkie off.

They are crazy as hell
, Monica thought. She grabbed her robe and as Sharief walked out of the bathroom she walked in.

After a quick shower, Monica slipped on a short black satin spaghetti-strap nightgown. She slowly walked down the stairs, bracing herself for when the midsummer heat attacked her.

Sharief was lying back on the couch, dressed in army fatigue shorts and a wife beater. He was watching an ESPN Classic boxing match. It was a little after midnight, and the heat was sweltering. The air-conditioning unit on the first floor had conked out last week, forcing Monica to use four fans, one in each corner of the room.

Monica lived in a small two-story corner row house. Although the place was small, it was laid. The living room had an Afrocentric flare to it. A red suede couch rested against an exposed brick wall; hanging directly above was a South African mud-cloth throw with fringed edges. Cattycorner to the couch was a matching love seat filled with an abundance of mud-cloth pillows. Five-foot-tall candles were at both ends of the couch. An elephant-shaped coffee table with a glass top and a bowl of marbles complemented the hard wooden floors. There were African statues placed sporadically around the room. Directly across from the couch and above the fireplace was a forty-six-inch plasma TV, and on both sides were six-foot-tall glass shelves where Monica kept her collection of elephants and Annie Lee figurines. Down the hall from the living room was an L-shaped kitchen and a small bathroom. Upstairs was Monica's bedroom, her office, and a full master bath.

Monica went in the kitchen and took out two frosted bottles of Heineken. She handed one to Sharief. “You know I don't drink,
ma,” he said, tapping her on the ass. “Just give me some water.” He handed her back the beer.

“Damn, baby. Loosen up,” she said.

“I'm good, ma, I just choose not to drink.”

“All right.” Monica walked into the kitchen and placed the beer back in the refrigerator. She grabbed Sharief a bottle of spring water and came back into the living room.

“Monica.” Sharief twisted the cap off the water bottle.

“Yes.” She lay between his legs with her back against his chest.

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.” She took a sip and then ran the cold bottle across her forehead.

“You still wanna fuck ole boy?”

“What?” She was caught off guard. “Why?”