Single Husbands (3 page)

Suddenly he heard his wife softly say, “Earth to Brian.”

Opening his eyes, he exhaled, “Ahhh,” again returning to the image in front of and not behind his corneas.

With the warm water flowing from his showerheads beating against his chest and her showerheads sputtering water against the
back of her head, his wife firmly gripped his hard dick. “Yes,” he grunted, placing his hand on the crown of her head. This
time he wasn’t imagining. He thrust his dick in and out of her mouth before tracing her succulent lips with his precum.

“Fuck me,” Michelle moaned, standing. She pressed her lips against his, surrendering her tongue to his suctioning jaws.

“Not yet, baby. Not yet.” Brian’s sexual appetite was brewing. His spiritual energy marinated in his wife’s love for him.
He wanted to get his mind right so he could please Michelle first. “I want to watch you play with your pussy, baby,” he said.

“Umm,” she moaned, spreading her lips once more. Her middle finger traveled in tiny circular motions over her pink pearl.

If he touched his lovely wife right now… “Damn. Fuck this.”

Brian slammed her creamy titties and blond pussy hairs against the teal tiles. “Assume the position,” he commanded, putting
her hands high above her head. He covered both of her hands with one of his, pressing her palms against the wall. His foot
swept her feet wider apart. His body meshed flat against hers, forcing her stomach against the wall.

“Ah, yes,” she moaned, submitting to him. Her left ear and cheek were flattened against the tiles. Warm water showered his
back. “Fuck me real good, Brian.”

They weren’t going to see one another for three days. He’d always leave her more than satisfied. The last thing he wanted
was for his wife to lust for another man to fuck or love her. After tucking the kids in last night, they made love off and
on until they made their way into the shower a few moments ago. One more explosive orgasm for the road would hold him until
he arrived in Houston tonight.

Bending his knees, he held his shaft, positioned his hard-ass dick at the opening of her pussy, and with one long, continuous
thrust he entered his wife. His dickhead throbbed up the walls of her vagina until he reached the roof of her culde-sac. He
tiptoed, penetrating her deeper. As he stood still, his dick marinated in his wife’s pussy as he lowered his lips to her mouth.
They kissed. He pushed a little deeper. Within five minutes, a thick stream of cum oozed inside her pulsating pussy while
the warm water caressed his back.

“I love you,” he said right before her pussy muscles ejected his dick.

Turning her to face him, he covered her mouth with his, dancing with her tongue. Michelle was the only woman who drove him
mad with sexual desires. That’s why he had to marry her. No other woman he’d met had measured up to Michelle’s brains and
beauty, and his parents’ approval.

Inhaling deeply, Brian held his breath for five seconds, then released, saying, “I’m good. You good? I had to release that—”

Interrupting him, Michelle smiled and then whispered, “Hush. I know, baby. I know. Yes, I’m real good.” Then she kissed his
lips.

Brian scooped a healthy portion of mixed plain yogurt and turmeric from the crystal dish perched on the shower ledge and began
layering Michelle from her neck to her toes. She stood away from the showerheads, allowing the homemade mixture to dry and
tighten her skin. Lathering her hair, he massaged his fingertips into her scalp. He loved the silky feel of her long, thick
hair between his fingers.

“Ou, wee,” he exhaled, reminiscing how she brushed her sandy-colored hair all over his body last night.

Two hours after his, Michelle’s business flight was departing from Fort Lauderdale International Airport. “Is there anything
you want me to do before I leave?” he asked, scratching her scalp.

“Umm,” Michelle exhaled. “That feels wonderful. No, baby. Everything is in order. My mother will check on the house while
we’re away.”

Rinsing his hands, Brian kissed his wife’s lips while she rinsed her hair and body with cold water. He kissed the nape of
her cool neck, then slid his hand between her butt cheeks.

“Baby, I swear you’ve got the prettiest ass God has ever given any woman. Damn!” he said, kneading his fingers into her shoulders.
“Let’s get outta this bathroom so I can taste my sweet pussy.”

“Kiss the kids first,” she insisted.

Michelle’s body dripped with wetness as she smoothed coconut oil onto her skin. Gently drying her off, Brian pressed his lips
to the nape of his wife’s neck once more, wrapping his arms around her waist. Sliding his pubic hairs side to side against
her ass, he glanced at his sexy-ass wife in the mirror.

They were an amazing power couple that spent more time on the road working than at home with one another. The quality time
they invested in one another made the sacrifice for their careers worth it. Being away from Michelle three to four days out
of the week made him appreciate her more.

Their fabulous home on The Island in Biscayne Bay mirrored Brian’s life. He was a public figure residing in a private neighborhood
in South Beach, Miami Beach. The guardhouse at the entrance of The Island resembled Brian’s conservative personality. He had
the illusion of being private and exclusive with his wife, although he wasn’t. Like the guard on duty twenty-four hours a
day, Brian would do all within his control to protect Michelle’s heart from shattering if she found out about his numerous
affairs.

“Baby, you are so beautiful. I love you. You are good to and for me.” She truly was his foundation. Brian would rather die
than live without Michelle.

That was factual—not debatable or negotiable.

S
top choking me so tight, baby.” Nikki wheezed, struggling to pry Herschel’s fingers away from her throat.

“Shut the hell up, woman. You know you like this big dick knocking the bottom out of your tight-ass pussy,” Herschel countered,
repositioning his huge masculine hands for a firmer grip and deeper grind.

As Herschel’s thumbs pressed hard above his wife’s pituitary gland, he hoped to suppress the gland’s ability to secrete the
endorphins that would make Nikki scream with pleasure, skip to the shower, then coldheartedly leave him once more. He wanted
his wife to stay at home with him. His thumbs dug deeper into the base of his wife’s brilliant brain; he was determined to
evoke excruciating pain. The veins in her neck swelled with blood.

“Why do you tell me to manhandle you, then beg me to stop? Make up your mind. You want me to stop or not?” he asked, fucking
Nikki harder. Too bad her head couldn’t pop off her body. He was fed up with honoring and obeying her. That was his wife’s
role.

As he pumped his pelvis against her buttery smooth, slick ass, her titties banged his knuckles. Nikki had the softest skin,
which layered over the firmest muscles. Her preferred doggie style was cool, but Herschel was more of an old-fashioned missionary-style
kind of guy who enjoyed kissing and looking into a woman’s eyes while sexing her. He needed a woman who wanted him as much
as he craved her. Once upon a time, early in their marriage, that woman was his wife. Not anymore.

Herschel was dog tired of role-playing in and out of bed with Nikki, pretending that he was happy. Secretly he hated his wife.
If no one—like her mother, sisters, or clients—would notice Nikki missing, he’d kill her. Right here. Right now. Then throw
her body in the bay. “Hate” was such a strong word, but the sight of Nikki disgusted him more than it pleased him. Not because
she was unattractive. Nothing was further from the truth.

Nikki was five feet ten inches, a curvaceous size-twelve, with wide child-bearing hips and a round ass, plump titties—firm
and perky like fresh giant nectarines—flawless mocha skin, short jet-black wavy hair on her head and her pussy, and sparkling
white teeth. Nikki used to be the perfect woman for him. But once Nikki got that ten-page spread in a national magazine showcasing
her culinary skills, the bitch thought her shit didn’t stink. Flying all over the damn country, sometimes abroad, she joyfully
left him home alone every possible moment she could disappear for business or pleasure. If it weren’t her house, he’d put
her ass out.

Nikki stretched her neck enough to clear her airway, then said, “Herschel, I want a divorce.”

Forget that. He was the one who’d stood by her side at the altar. He was the man who encouraged her to continue her multimillion-dollar
business and career after they’d married. He was the one on her arm at all those humdrum invitation-only galas sponsored by
Nikki’s clients for their well-to-do friends. He couldn’t care less about folks who spent their money and their lives pretentiously
hugging, kissing, and boasting to impress one another. One of Nikki’s friends told him, “Did I show you the picture of the
diamond collar and convertible Porsche my husband bought our darling Yorkshire terrier, King MaxB? Oh, come see. Let me get
my camera.”

No, they did not spend the equivalency of my annual salary on a damn dog!
Herschel had politely walked away from her. He was preoccupied living his own life, trying to get promoted at his nine-to-five,
eight-hours-a-day, five-days-a-week job. He did not want to see pictures of a spoiled dog that lived better than most people.

Angrily Nikki shook her head, trying to crawl away from him. Her knees dug imprints in the mattress.

Good. That’s right. Get mad. Slide. Slide your legs flat along the mattress so you can fall on your face and choke yourself,
Herschel thought, clutching his fingers around her neck. She had the audacity to have gotten upset with him for fucking another
woman. What was he supposed to do with his depressed dick when his wife was always gone? She was lucky he hadn’t moved in
a concubine or two to satisfy his sexual appetite.

Damn! What the fuck did his wife expect of him? Didn’t she realize he was a man? A man with a dick that got hard every damn
day, sometimes six times a day. Whenever his dick got hard—he wasn’t different from any other man—Herschel wanted to stick
his dick in his wife, and since most of the time his wife wasn’t available, then he’d stick his dick in whatever pussy was
ready, willing, and immediately available.

Nikki should’ve called ahead and told him she was coming home a week early. The argument Nikki started six days ago was old
but far from over this morning, or tomorrow morning, or the next day after that day. Herschel knew he was the man in, not
of,
his house, because shit between them was never resolved until Nikki said so. Why in the fuck did he have to sleep on the
sofa six nights in a row to appease her ass when she adamantly objected to having his baby? Wasn’t his wife supposed to bear
his children?

The nursery room had been decorated for ten years. They didn’t have guests occupying the other four bedrooms. Why did he have
to call her ass from the home phone every damn night she was out of town just to prove he was at home? Wasn’t like he stayed
or slept at home after hanging up the phone with her. Last night was his last night sleeping on the couch.

“You know I love you, so why do you keep disrespecting me and threatening to leave me?” Herschel asked, squeezing a little
tighter.

“I can’t breathe.” Nikki whimpered as she struggled to wedge her fingers beneath his. “You’re”—she gasped— “choking me”—she
gasped again—“too tight, for real.”

Herschel had zoned out. He wanted to let go of Nikki, but he couldn’t. He did love his wife. His mind said, “Let go, man,”
but his fingers tightened more as he penetrated Nikki deeper. Maybe if she lost consciousness, became brain-dead, then died
an accidental death of unknown causes, he’d be free to marry Ivory and move his mistress into Nikki’s home. No, actually,
Nikki’s place on The Island was a mansion.

Their two-thousand-square-foot master bedroom overlooked the Biscayne Bay. The porch outside their bedroom had a tropical
theme that complemented living in South Beach. The tangerine stucco walls with high-arched cutaways allowed the perfect amount
of sunlight to shine onto the outdoor covered patio and into their bedroom. Tropical punch sofas and burnt orange wicker chairs
sparsely scattered about the patio made Herschel want to fuck his wife outside in their flaming red hammock every morning.
He imagined bending Nikki’s naked body over the waist-high stucco wall and sticking his hard dick inside her wet pussy.

When the sun wasn’t shining, the track lighting lined along the patio ceiling created a purple-blue nighttime atmosphere more
seductive than the day. The mural of tall palm trees clustering the ceiling reminded him how his wife’s confidence could outlast
his greatest storm. Why should Herschel stay home alone in such a romantic space while Nikki whisked her ass in and out of
Miami International Airport like the terminal had a revolving door exclusively for her?

Herschel braced his forearms against Nikki’s shoulders, pulling his wife toward him as he slid his dick deep inside her. He
couldn’t deny that stroking Nikki’s pussy felt like dipping his dick in warm milk and honey. Loosening his grip, he slipped
his finger into her mouth, imagining it was his dick, then grunted, “Suck it for me, baby.”

Nikki clamped her teeth around his finger, refusing to let go.

“Ow!” he screamed, praying his knuckle was still attached. “Goddamn! What the hell’s wrong with you, woman? You almost bit
my finger off!” Herschel yelled, pushing Nikki flat against the bed. He wanted to call her a “bitch,” but the last time he’d
done that, shit got really bad for him when Nikki threatened to put him out and call his boss. That was too much testosterone
power for a woman. In a few minutes, she could’ve made him both homeless and unemployed. His $250,000 white-collar annual
salary was less than the yearly interest on their joint bank account.

Facing him, she rammed her knee into his balls.

“Ahhh! Woman, are you crazy! What the fuck… uhhh… is wrong with you?”