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“It’s six-thirty in the morning,” Tiffany said. “I’m so sorry about this. We couldn’t get the technicians over here fast enough. Because of the storm and malfunctions all over the city, they made it as fast as they could,” she stammered.
“It’s fine. Really, it’s not a problem,” Flex tried to assure her.
“Please speak to me. I’m Flex’s agent. We’re gonna need to talk about this; he missed several appearances while stuck in there,” the man said.
Finally, Tiffany looked at me, then she looked back at Flex. I remember the confused expression from the night before. But I was completely stress-free.
People flocked to Flex, and aside from the man in the suit, Tiffany and I were standing alone. “I’m headed to my room,” I said.
“If there’s anything you need? Anything at all?” she asked.
“I’m fine, seriously.” I headed up the hall to my room, figuring I’d have to rent a flick if I wanted to see Flex again.
But deep down inside, I was okay with that. He had helped me immensely. I figured I’d get a few hours of sleep in before I had to rush to the airport for my flight. But thanks to Flex I knew I’d sleep like a well-fed, newborn baby.
Klepto-Collecto
Thomas Slater
Canderick Mann was an ebony Adonis. He was refined chocolate that had been poured into a frame of ripped muscle and stretched to average height with a mustache being the only hair on his boyish face. He was a shrewd, thirty-year-old businessman that could back up his game with the hefty one-hundred-thou-a-year salary he pulled down as a bank senior exec.
It would appear that, on paper, Canderick Mann was in possession of the perfect life. But nothing could be further from the truth. He harbored two deep, dark secrets: Canderick was a diagnosed kleptomaniac, and had an incurable obsession with eating pussy belonging to the beautiful and desperate. He also celebrated the scent of their juices settling into his mustache and would go for days without washing.
His many visits to a half-dozen shrinks couldn’t yield a definitive reason as to why he’d been stricken with what the medical world referred to as “multiple disorders.” Lexapro, Zoloft, and Prozac formed the short list of antidepressants he’d been prescribed by high-end shrinks to control his impulses. The quacks could kiss his ass. He wasn’t taking crazy pills, as he called them. He was simply a nigga in possession of a powerful position, making plenty of money, with a hearty appetite for eating punany and a rock-hard dick for committing larceny.
Canderick’s kleptomania went way past the regular clinical definition of stealing little objects that held no significant value. He left shrinks baffled because Canderick’s condition compelled him to take much bigger items with no monetary value to him and eat as much pussy as he possibly could along the way.
Canderick functioned in a white-collar capacity at Servicing Our Community Bank & Loan. It was a huge, black-owned institution that was independently owned and operated by Harry Reynolds. The bank had been servicing an upscale, black suburban Detroit community for three decades. Canderick was senior exec of operations with a special interest in the loans and collections department. His job provided him access to a countless number of women that kept both of his so-called “disorders” fed.
The country’s stormy economical climate offered him a powerful tool to fish in a lake of poor, unfortunate women who were behind in their mortgage payments and desperate for some type of a solution. Canderick provided that solution. He was able to grant special privileges to those women looking to take advantage of the mortgage modification program. Being senior executive of operations afforded him the power to bypass the hair-pulling red tape faced by normal people to get his clients’ paperwork pushed through for a small price. The fee called for Canderick’s clients to allow him to eat their pussy until he was good and satisfied.
He thought of himself as the ultimate human stimulus package. The women that he chose had to be gorgeous. Canderick didn’t do women that looked like sea-donkeys. His aggressive screening process kept out the undesirables. A single picture-text of the talent was required to get the ball rolling. Canderick was very particular in his selection. Single-woman pussy was far too easy to come by and the women were too eager to please, but married-woma
n pussy always raised his eyebrow. It was always a challenge to see if he could get her to betray her husband. And he always went after those couples that were struggling financially.
Canderick’s larcenous heart went way beyond the normal boundaries of kleptomania. He couldn’t feel complete until he could steal the cookies belonging to another man. He often professed that the love tasted better when it came from a married woman because her pussy had been marinated in the juices of marital stress. He figured married women to be ticking time bombs, ready to have a betraying orgasmic explosion over the face of Mr. Opportunity. And Canderick was just the man to wield the magical tongue that had inspired many pleasurable fantasies.
Monday mornings were the busiest time for Canderick. He always spent the first part of his day discussing alliances, mergers, and acquisitions with the board of directors. Meetings were a way of life for a big-time executive like him. There was always something to do—whether it was training juniors by guiding them through the various banking processes, or meeting and setting objectives with key executives and forming strategies to meet those objectives. He was also responsible for the acquisition of new business.
He was inside his office, dressed in navy-blue slacks, polished loafers, and a crisp, white dress shirt, leaning on a Honma brand golf putter made in Japan. Honma was a very expensive brand with a distinctive 24-carat gold plate on the clubhead. The price: a whopping $52,000 a set. He was staring out of his corner office window at one of the finest views in the building. His exquisitely furnished office overlooked a beautiful five-acre lake surrounded by pine trees and lush green grass.
“So, Mrs. Twissle,” Canderick said into his Bluetooth headset. “I can push through the paperwork for your loan modification. I’ll cap the monthly payments to a percentage of your household income. And just to sweeten the pot, I’m willing to waive the late fees.” Canderick had made it a hard and fast rule to never use the office phone when he was setting up MWP—married-woman pussy.
The lady named Sasha Twissle considered the offer. “I don’t know. I love my husband and I can’t imagine going behind his back to do something like this.”
“I promise,” Canderick said in a smooth baritone as he flashed his picture-perfect smile in the window’s reflection. “This is a win-win for you. It’s a damn good deal. You can’t do better than that.”
“So let me get this straight” was her incredulous reply. “You’re gonna grant these privileges to me … and eat my pussy?”
Canderick simulated the putting of a golf ball as he smiled.
“Yes, ma’am! Let me know the time and place and I’ll lick you there.” The hunger inside Canderick’s soul was insatiable. He was an addict whose one wish was to live eternally inside a moment in time where existence depended on exposure to the tantalizing aroma of female pheromones.
“Okay. Here are the directions. My husband will be out of town visiting family,” Sasha finally relented. “Be at my place this Friday at twelve midnight.”
Canderick was writing down directions with his back to the door when he heard the sound of a woman clearing her throat. He recognized her perfume way before he saw her reflection in the window. She was Claudette Reynolds, the wife of his boss, Harry Reynolds.
“May I help you?” he asked in a voice brewing with agitation.
