The Mansion

I'm entirely too nice. Or maybe entirely too bored.

The main reason I deal with Randall outside of work is because he's been good to me ever since my divorce. He saw me show up to the office without that ring and pounced into my business in a manner only reserved for people who lack a foundational understanding of social and professional mores.

Truth is, he was there at my nadir when I needed someone the most. Or maybe we just needed each other.

Randall's parents are rich South Side socialites -- mom's an orthopedic surgeon and pops owns an accounting firm. They live in one of those "little" McMansions in Hyde Park, on a nice tree-lined street not far from Obama's crib that seems like it's a world away from the "Chiraq" of the 11 o'clock news, but in actuality is just a few numbered streets away.

On one particularly tough Saturday evening -- my erstwhile marital date night -- Randall invited me to the mansion to drown my sorrows in suds. Problem is, now I feel inclined to visit every time he asks. And here I thought my sense of obligation to someone else was signed away with the divorce papers...

See, he pretty much knows that if I'm not at the work or the gym, I'm likely at home watching marathon reruns of "Shark Tank." And he's one of those annoyingly genial-yet-clearly-privileged white guys who has likely always had to talk his way into friendships, which means he just needs some more business of his own. And we both need more friends.

His parents are always very kind to me when I visit, and I enjoy the privileges of top-shelf liquor and well-curated meals from their personal chef. But there's really one thing -- or person, rather -- whom I look forward to whenever I visit: Mimi, the family's maid.

Mimi's an Ethiopian immigrant whose family came to the states when she was a young girl. She's in her late-20s; maybe early 30s, and might be one of the most beautiful women I've ever had the privilege of sharing a room with. Perfect dark-brown complexion, wavy jet-black hair that stops in a tuft of curls at her shoulders, and deep brown eyes that are compromised only by a perfect smile.

Usually, when I see her, she's wearing a bandana, tight jeans of varying colors and a loose-fitting button-up blouse that hangs down to her hips. But one time, just once, she wore a crop-top that allowed me to witness what can only be described as God's magnum opus: round thighs, a washboard stomach and the plumpest, roundest ass that I've ever seen in jeans.

Whenever I see her, I am reminded of how hard it has been (literally and figuratively) for me to get back in the game following my divorce. She also reminds me that I've been batting a perfect 0.0000 average with Ethiopian and Eritrean women since college. I've certainly come a long way since then, but considering Mimi is essentially a composite of all the best parts of those women, I'm still gun-shy when it comes to her regional ilk.

Mimi is, indeed, my masturbatory muse. My hesitance to get back in the dating pool -- even after years of unsatisfactory, obligatory, bone-dry married sex -- has left her as the sole object of my fantasies; all the pent-up frustration plays out on Mimi in the filthiest of what my brain can conjure. If meeting Randall gave me anything of lasting value, it's that.

Alas, I've never gotten more than an obligatory smile and a cordial, professional "hello" from Mimi. It's as if it's college all over again; I suppose the more things change...

*****

I just arrived to some bullshit dinner party that Randall invited me to at the mansion. All the who's who of his parents' set are hanging out, decked in their early-summer best. Doctors, lawyers and definitely a handful of politicians are on deck. I'm probably the poorest person in the room, which makes it a tad humiliating considering that I will have to engage in niceties and spend time explaining my career to a bunch of people whose names I will never, ever commit to memory.

Sure enough, Mimi is there, making sure guests are well lubed up with champagne flutes, radiating a beauty through a minimal amount of makeup that I bet not one white person in the room appreciates like I do.

She comes up to me with a tray full of champagne glasses.

"Hey there. Have a glass?" It's the most she's spoken to me ever.

"Sure, thanks! They got you working hard, eh?"

"Nah, it's not so bad. I don't mind the work. Especially with you staring at my ass from a distance."

I almost choke on the first sip I take.

"W-what? What are you talkin' about?" I smile nervously.

"Don't be coy, sir. I've seen the way you look at me. Every time you come here. You were married, right?"

"Yeah -- how did you know?"

"Yo, that boy Randall loves you. Even before you started coming around, he was going on and on to his parents about his buddy from work. Why do you think they're so nice to you?"

"Well, I like him too. But, I guess years of marriage hasn't done much for my sneak-look skills, eh?"

She stares at me for a few seconds with half a smile before leaning close to my ear, subtly enough to not attract the attention of the room but close enough to allow me to smell the nape of her neck. It makes me erect in my jeans.

"Let me see your phone."

Odd as her request is, I pull the phone out of my pocket from around my bulging hard-on and hand it to her without asking questions. I quietly watch this strange woman click around on my touchscreen for about a minute before she hands it back.

"Follow me for a second."

She places down the tray on a nearby countertop and ushers me to a closed office. I look over both shoulders, surprised at her abandonment of job propriety. She closes the door of the office, walks close to me, locks her eyes with mine and pushes her perfectly manicured light-pink fingernail into my chest.

"Look at your phone. Open the app I just downloaded."

It's an app called "We-Vibe" that I'd never heard of. She snatches the phone back from me and instructs me to watch so I understand what's going on. As she taps across the screen with one hand, she uses her other to grab my hand from my side and place it between her legs, pushing my index finger into her -- if she were unclothed, I would be touching her clit. The move startles me and makes my heart jump out of my chest.

"Yo! What..."

"Just wait for it..."

I feel a hard piece of metal, or plastic, from outside of her pants. As she swipes on the app she just downloaded on my phone, whatever my finger is on starts to vibrate. Wait...has she had a vibrator connected to her clit all this time?!? And now, my phone is programmed to control it -- she keeps swiping at my screen and I feel the device cycling through different vibrations. Pulse. Steady stream. A combination of both. I watch her eyes close and her chest rise as she takes me through the tutorial. She shoves the phone in my pocket.

"If you want to have me tonight, at any time...just open the app."

"But...why are you..."

"Don't ask questions. Just don't leave me with a dry pussy, you hear?"

She strikes out of the office and returns to her duties. I stand in place -- bewildered, shocked and delighted. I need to wait a couple minutes to rejoin the general population so I don't embarrass myself with my own current physical state.

*****

Randall's parents broke out a large, oval-shaped table for dinner; it manages to fit their several dozen guests in the dining room and is probably the largest table I've ever eaten at. There are a handful of well-heeled Latinos at the table, but I'm the only brother in the room -- I feel like I'm about to be sent to The Sunken Place.

The myriad conversation topics -- ranging from the mayor's success and failures to Chicago gun violence -- are prosaic and basically played out. Randall is sitting next to me, gabbing in my ear about our bosses at work; he may as well be talking to a bag of air -- all I have is Mimi on the brain, and the blood rushing below my waist thinking about how I just had my hands between her legs.

She's assisting a group of servers hired just for the party to serve the guests. She walks out of the kitchen holding a tray of individual souffles. I'm sitting as far from the kitchen entrance as the table permits, but that doesn't stop her from giving me a knowing glance from across the room.

I pull my phone from my blazer pocket and fire up the app. As she leans down to serve a soufflé, I start the pulsing vibration and watch her body jump. She beams a look in my direction and cracks a large smile. By the time she makes it another quarter-length around the table, I command the app to deliver a mild, steady stream of vibration. Amid all the prattle at the table, I watch Mimi arch her back and work to steady the tray of souffles as the pulses run through her.

As she serves guests and puts on her best professional face, only we know what's going on inside of her.

Emboldened by the sense of power, my attention to the dinner and its guests disappears completely, and I exclusively dedicate my attention to my phone like the rudest guest at any party. Randall puts his hand on my shoulder, inquiring if everything is well.

"Nothing man...just...mama reaching out to me. See how I'm doing. You know how it goes...can't leave her hanging for long."

By the time Mimi makes it near me with her serving tray, I'd become a quick study on the app; I deliver a protracted pulse/stream combination that throws her off her concentration so much that she noticeably has to catch her tray from falling, leading one of the older guests to ask if she's okay. She quietly assuages his concerns.

She's close enough to me now that I can see the dribble of wetness soaking through her white linen pants. When she makes it to my plate, she leans over my shoulder, allowing me again to take in her wonderful scent. She takes the opportunity of a table full of distracted people digging into their soufflés to relay a message in my ear.

"My pussy is soaked. Look at what you've done to me. Do you see this? This is all for you."

She leaves my ear and heads back to the kitchen.

*****

The sun has retreated for the day. The guests are well-lubed, which means the conversations in the house have gotten louder and sillier. At this point, Randall has introduced me to a bunch of people who couldn't care less about my black ass.

The service people are pacing around, picking up empty glasses and d'oeuvres plates, but I haven't seen Mimi. I haven't been able to focus on a thing or person since I saw her at the dinner table. I pull out my phone and tinker with the pulse and vibe controls. About seven seconds after I start playing with the app, I hear a dish crash against the floor of the kitchen, briefly halting the conversation in the room I'm in.

Mimi quickly strides out of the kitchen, turning her head in every direction until she locks eyes on me. She heads toward me.

"Let me take your glass, sir." She places her hand on my nearly-empty glass and talks to me in a hushed tone, never compromising her "service smile." She leans forward and her voice lowers even more.

"Third floor. Second room to the right, down the hall, once you get to the top of the stairs. Wait about a minute until I leave your sight."

She leaves me and turns a corner. I'm not entirely sure what to do next -- Randall is nowhere in sight and I'm standing here, partially in awe; partially scared out of my mind. What does Mimi have waiting for me up there?

My heart is pounding out of my chest. Heart beating, I leave the room and head around the corner I watched her disappear around. There, surrounded by dark space, is a lit staircase, inviting me to walk toward whatever destiny awaits me at the top. As I ascend two stories, the wooden stairs creak; the din of houseguests becoming ever fainter.

I walk to the door she instructed me to about and stand in front of it for several seconds, reticent to walk in.

"C'mon, quit fucking around. It's been awhile," I tell myself in my head.

I open the door to what looks like that one room that every rich bastard has in his huge-ass house -- polished mahogany shelves filled with what look like historical relics from a war long-ago fought line the walls. I don't dwell on the aesthetics for long: near the back of the room sits Mimi, legs crossed, on a dark, brushed leather chair that looks like it belongs in a psychiatrist's office.

She quietly ushers me to her with her index finger; my gaze is transfixed on her as I close the door and push close the lock on the knob. I stand in front of her as she remains seated on the couch.

"So, tell me...how long were you married?

"Seven years."

"And, in those seven years, were you a good boy?"

"Meaning?"

"Were you faithful to your wife?"

"Absolutely"

"I see. And have you been a good boy since your divorce?"

"I mean...yeah. Haven't had too many o--"

Before I can finish, she quickly runs her hand under my shirt, grips my belt and yanks me closer to her. She uses the other hand to run her fingertips over the erection she knows is there on the other side of my jeans.

"Yeah...yeah it's been awhile."

"I can tell. Are you a bit nervous?" There's a wrong answer here, I think. Gotta play it cool.

"Nah, I'm good. I suppose I'm a little surprised, is all."

"By what? This...?"

She unzips my pants. Very slowly.

"Yes...by this. How did you know...?"

"How did I know you wanted to fuck me?"

She reaches inside my boxers and pulls out what I think might be the hardest cock that I've ever made. It's the first time another woman has touched it in the better part of a decade. I close my eyes and exhale as she wraps her fingers around it and lightly strokes it with her thumb.

"Do I really need to answer that question?"

"Well shit...I guess not."

There's no cool left in me. I can feel myself pulsating in her hands -- every throb an invitation for her to grip just a little tighter. She gently strokes my cock as she gazes down at it, running the tip of her tongue across her upper lip.

"Well, I just want to let you know that I consider it an honor to be the first woman after your wife to touch this beautiful black dick. And beautiful it is..."

She leans in and pushes her tongue against the wet tip, licking for just a moment before forming a suction with her lips and sucking in whatever wetness that I didn't leave on my boxers. The sound of her inhaling my fluids sends a jolt down my entire body, forcing me to hold on to the orgasm that will come too soon if I don't exercise complete control.

Mimi removes her lips and pushes me back. She stands up and unbuttons her pants, which by now have a clear streak of wet that has made its way down most of the pant leg. I'm not sure how she'll return to work in them.

"This is your baptism back into your single life. You won't let me down, will you? Because you've got exactly...one...shot."

No pressure, right?

Mimi pulls her pants down slightly and I see that she has no panties on -- just the purple C-shaped vibrator she had me control...part of which sits inside of her. I watch her pull it out and lob it to me. I catch it, and it leaves a puddle of her juices in my palm.

"Make sure you use that shit. You know what to do."

Mimi turns her back to me, arches her back over the leather chair and pulls her pants down to the bottom of her thighs with one hand. Her ass -- immaculate, smooth, perfect -- pokes out at me. Her pussy drips like a melting icicle, on her thighs and the floor.

"Come get it."

My cock is still standing at full attention out of the fly of my jeans, but it can wait. I rush toward her, drop to my knees and bury my face in-between her legs. I drink from the icicle, moving my tongue from her clit on back. Her feedback comes from quiet moans and knees that start to shake. Just what I'm looking for.

I simply cannot let the juice running down her thigh go to waste, so I run the broad side of my tongue from the top of her knee up to her pussy, making sure I don't miss one drop. I place my face in her pussy once again, pursing her clit with my lips as her essence coats my nose and mustache.

The only thing stopping her knees from buckling and falling back on my face are my palms, both of which cup her ass. It's a dual-purpose move -- keeping her propped up while also allowing me to spread her out with my thumbs. Her tight asshole also beckons my tongue, but I demure...

I stand up, remove my blazer, and -- emboldened by her buckling and collapsing in my mouth -- swat away the butterflies in my stomach from fucking someone new for the first time in years. I push her pants all the way down to her ankles with my foot; with my left hand, I push her back down further in an arch over the back of the chair, and with my right hand, I slap my cock on the crack of her ass several times to let her know what comes next.

Simply entering Mimi is the culmination of everything I imagined it would be: her pussy is tight like a sexual neophyte's and so sopping wet that I will fall out of her if I'm not careful. I start off slowly, moving within her to the rhythm that her body and moans demand of me. Before long, however, the clap of her ass against my thighs is loud enough that someone standing just outside of the closed door would become the wiser.

The faster I fuck her, the louder she gets; like a trained ballet dancer, she pushes herself up on the tip of her toes, deepening our arch and causing my dick to push directly into her G-spot. Her hushed moans make way for a raised pitch; my ever-increasing fear of getting caught is the only thing keeping me from coming before I'm ready.

"Shh, you have to be quiet!"

"Don't you worry about me. You just don't fucking forget what's in your pocket."

The vibrator! I've been concentrating so much on not embarrassing myself for the first time back at the big show by coming too quickly that I forgot my instructions. I slow down my thrust as I pull out the device with one hand and my phone with the other. I set up the app to provide a constant pulse and hurl my phone in the corner with little regard for it as I reach down and hold the vibrator on her clit.

The added stimulus makes her jump with a gasp, inadvertently falling back onto my cock so that I'm inside of her as deeply as I can be. As we fuck with the vibrator on her clit, she continues to grow even louder, apparently forgetting that we're in a house full of people -- however large. But as I hear her preparing to climax, I care even less about the noise.

Mimi comes for about 16 straight seconds, squirting her juices in an intermittent spray all over the brushed leather, creating a massive wet spot. She collapses from her feet and plops her chest and stomach on the chair, heavily breathing, in her own puddle. Her tan blouse soaks up her wetness, further leaving me to wonder how she will return to work without a fresh set of clothes.

"Well damn...this is what your wife had to work with? Why the fuck did she give you up?"

I pick Mimi up, flip her around and set her ass down in the chair. Her pants are still bundled up hanging off of her left ankle, so I remove them and throw them on the hardwood floor, followed by my own pants and boxers. Remembering that she's at work after all, I exercise the restraint against the impulse that makes me want to snatch all the buttons off of her blouse and slowly unbutton it instead, revealing a champagne-colored bra with a front clasp that I quickly undo with the flick of one hand.

Her breasts are perfect and round; her nipples at full attention, awaiting attention from my mouth. Now, It's my turn to whisper in her ear.

"I sure hope you're flexible."

I climb atop her, stretch her right calf over my right shoulder and enter her. I'm transfixed by the sight of my dick as it moves in and out of her, her pussy lips moving back and forth against my shaft with each stroke. I pull out of her and pause only so I can marvel at her pretty brown pussy; before she can fix her mouth to protest, I glide my shaft across her clit before going back inside of her. I lean up to watch her ass make streaks in the leather with her own juices.