"Tyrone, get that for me will ya? Thank you honey." Ophelia grabbed the lavender chiffon scarf that Tyrone curve balled at her, and draped it round her shoulders, gazing at herself in the mirror, tugging it in various directions, each fussy pinch, pull and pluck to enhance a cleavage that already appeared to be buoying gratuitously out of her blouse like sepia mangoes.
"Got a special meeting?" Ophelia didn't detect the dry, bitter subtext stringing Tyrone's seemingly innocuous question together. He rubbed his shiny ebony temples as he watched her pick up her briefcase and rifle through it. His black brows knitted together.
"She's a bitch she's a bitch she's a bitch."
"Oh yeah, real special, uh- Mr Waterman and I are close to getting the Fisherhouse company to giving us the account for their new e-business ads. It's kind of exciting dontcha think? This could be the big one. I get a bonus if we nail it. Our shareholders will go berserk with joy. Probably not berserk, I guess it ain't all that exciting."
Ophelia turned and looked at him, her dusky face, sweet and heart shaped as a mouse gazing at him with wide exotic eyes broke into a devious smile.
"When I get my bonus, we'll cruise the Pacific, and you can paint something naked of me somewhere, maybe it'll even be your big break. Kissy kiss kiss." As quickly as she had adhered herself to his lips, she unglued herself, snipping over to the car with scissor-like precision. She got in, and drove off.
Ophelia was half-Korean, half-Jamaican, with soft-focused corkscrew curls, cock screwing puckered lips, and generous breasts. A petite curvaceous woman who had always had a surprisingly ruthless attitude for a dungaree-abusing, art school graduate, she had chosen to follow advertising whilst Tyrone, after art school where he had met Ophelia, had opted to 'suffer' for his art (whilst secretly dreaming of big bucks and eager naked models.) The results had been more dismal. Tyrone was Ophelia's big cocked parasite, attached to her only by his eight-inch appendage and calloused fleshy fingers. Seven years after graduation, and Ophelia was no longer starry eyed in love with Tyrone, the 'Black Byron', the 'Boy Medusa' (he'd had dreads, back in the day), the player with a paintbrush. When she looked at him, it was no longer with bedroom eyes, she simply looked tired, specifically,
tired of him
. He languished, he burned, he sculpted, he was as broke as fuck, and he had housekeeping skills of a Tyrannosaurus rex with extra tiny arms (he didn't do any.)
She did everything. Still, he had to keep himself useful.
Tyrone was no good, he was bad, and to prove this, he was also fucking the neighbour.
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"Oh Tyrone! Oh Tyrone! Oh! Oh! Oh! Marry me!"
"You're already married slut." Tyrone smacked Rebecca's small pale bottom that reddened with the force of his slap. He then gruffly squeezed her ruby nipple between his forefinger and thumb, before stretching it out and letting it twang back onto her breast like a lovelorn cherry.
Rebecca's puffy white pussy mashed hard against Tyrone's swollen black cock, and Tyrone grabbed her hips and ground against her, like her pussy was a mortar and his cock was a fleshy hard pestle.
Rebecca was bouncing on top of him, strands of glistening long red hair stuck magnetically to the sheen of perspiration that had enveloped her small slender body.
Tyrone watched his cock slide into her body, he liked it a lot when she went on top because he could see everything, he liked watching his pink cock-head slide into her pale shaved pussy, until the pink had disappeared and you could only see the black gold of his shaft peeking out, and boy did she work him like a gym session.
"Do you think of burning calories when you fuck me?"
"Kinda."
Gruffly, he moved her lithe hips and picking her up whilst she was still spiked on his large black cock,
He whispered 'wrap your legs around mine, you're in for a wild ride girl.' She wrapped her arms round his neck and wrapped her legs round his strong rippling spine; a cream bow wrapped around a rippling dark body.
Then with her back plastered to the door, he ploughed his cock into her, forcefully fucking her, gripping her hips so hard that it would leave light indigo bruises, and tenderly nibbling her jaw line as she whimpered his name. His pubes tickling her aching clit.
"Tyrone, please, Tyrone, please..."
With one last thrust as her heels dug into the small of his back, he gently bit her earlobe and spilt his seed into her squeezing pussy.
They gasped, and then slowly he slipped her off, and turned his back to her.
He got dressed with jerky discomfort as he could feel her eyes following him longingly. Expecting.
When he had fucked her, every time, he could only see someone who looked needy, pathetic. But it fed him; fed an appetite he didn't care to ponder. He smiled politely, avoiding her gaze with some embarrassment and left.
Suddenly the room felt cold, Rebecca, naked and with cum stuck to her thighs, closed the window overlooking the garden. And then just watched the garden, initially not thinking at all, but then the amorphous mass of thoughts began to gain clarity. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Tyrone only wanted sex from her and that was the turn on for Rebecca- she was waiting for the day when it would mean so much more, knowing that day wouldn't arrive gave her a reason to keep fucking him.
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Their 'affair' had the cliché feel of a Porky style flick- she was married to a bore of a systems analyst, Rebecca was beautiful and twenty six, he (Norman) was okay looking and thirty five. Their sex lives had been adequate, but it hardly had the sailors singing at sea. Then Tyrone and Ophelia had moved in next door, and both Tyrone and Ophelia had gone round to see their new neighbours.
Rebecca had always been bisexual by imagination, though not by deed and had initially been attracted most to Ophelia. Ophelia was gorgeous, Rebecca wanted to run her slim fingers through Ophelia's curly hair, and her personality was aromatic and sparky; Ophelia was compelling company. Rebecca felt a bit shy around her, and was keen to impress with tall tales of the Muir's who lived across the road and who were amusingly anti-social neighbours.
But Tyrone had been the one to watch her, barely flickering predatory eyes, and a still smile that was a camouflage against a backdrop of friendliness. Rebecca had decided she would be careful with him. She was surprised Ophelia didn't seem to realise how creepy her partner was.
Even Norman had noticed.
"There's something not kinda right with that guy. He kept watching you."
"At least someone's looking."
Rebecca brushed the thought out of her head, and her red hair, slowly speaking to Norman through the reflection in the vanity mirror, "Don't be silly Norman. That's probably how he looks at people. Some people really need to focus in on something when they're, talking, listening."
Then, with Tyrone as a househusband, and Rebecca as a housewife, things began to develop along a predictable path of two individuals who had nothing better to do than dig their own graves.
It had started as a bit of fun.
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"Ophelia, you are a legend woman!" Mr Waterman, sixty years of age and counting, watched in building anticipation as they saw the cork nudge, kinetic breath by kinetic breath out of the glossy bottle. The cork popped, Mr Waterman looked excited like he'd seen New Years at Times square all over again. He then carefully poured himself a glass, and clumsily poured a glass for Ophelia, splashing it on her shoes. The rest of the team cheered heartily and gathered for their glass.
"You chose the Salon Blanc sir? I thought you were going to give it ten years?" Mr Waterman, his nose burst of blood vessel and chronically flustered with Dionysian indulgence patted Ophelia's bottom in a reassuringly intoxicated way. No one blinked, Mr Waterman did this to everyone, it was more unfortunate when he got the wrong end of his male staff.
"Ophelia, this occasion is worthy of this bottle." He said loudly and then heroically rose his glass to the tungsten lighting- some people half cheered; others made their way for the crackers and salmon 'thingies.'
Ophelia leant in and whispered in Mr Waterman's leathery hairy ear, "Daniel, I know that you brought out this bottle because you drunk everything else in the cellar."
Mr Waterman giggled and whispered back, "Ophelia, you're more than the best director, you are, well the best. You coming out to the function?"
Mrs Waterman liked to host charity events, it was a hobby that she and her Manhattan Matrons liked to do on a quarterly basis. The tickets cost $150 for this particular event; Ophelia had never attended and bought two tickets, one for herself, one for Tyrone.
"Tyrone."
"I can't go Daniel, Tyrone ain't coming." she lowered her eyelids. Tyrone was a corporate embarrassment. Actually, he wasn't that bad, but he had humiliated himself, and Ophelia badly at the last party when he was caught trying to force himself on the mailroom girl.
Ophelia had walked in on him when she went to her office to touch up her make up. He had taken the spare keys and had used the discrete space of her office to try and convince the petrified mailroom girl that she was the new love of his life as he squeezed her breast and stuffed his hands down her panties. Ophelia hadn't known what to think, the mailroom girl had burst into tears, fled the room, then fled the corporation. After the weekend, news of Tyrone spread like a hot potato.
Tyrone didn't want to come to the charity event because she had bought the tickets without asking him.
Mr Waterman rolled his eyes, and appeared to mutter something to himself before grabbing Ophelia's arm, "Tyrone is a bum. You don't need to be married to him. Mm, I tell you what, you know. There is this guy. He's a writer. He writes horror. You would like him."
Ophelia cynically cocked an eyebrow and a smile, "Why would I like him? I'm not running off with some guy with the grizzlies all over his imagination. I'm married to Tyrone, he's my life partner and my life for better or worse."
Mr Waterman shook his head sympathetically and patted her bottom some more, "Darlin', you sound Catholic. This guy, he's nice, my wife thinks he's a catch, and hey, she caught me. He's half Korean..."
Ophelia looked interested, "Half Korean? Half what else?"
"Half Californian. White."
