Swirl Secrets

by Honey

Genres: African American Urban; General Fiction; African American

Synopsis

She was chasing a sexual fantasy, and he was just plain curious. Her dream to explore the land of chocolate matched his longtime need to know if there was truly magic in the snow.

Future attorneys Tyson Maxwell Junior and Mallorie Whitaker meet merely by happenstance. His secret life as a private "entertainer" thrusts him into her path when he's hired to perform at her friend's bachelorette party. It's lust at first sight for the prim and proper Southern belle of wealth, but Tyson sees her as a sexual experiment that could possibly be the answer to his million-dollar question.

Mallorie has always been considered the black sheep of her very affluent family. Often breaking rules, the one forbidden fruit she's avoided her entire life is a black man. And because his father abandoned the family for a new life with a blue-eyed blonde when he was a young boy, Tyson has pledged allegiance to sistas forever. However, his loyalty to black women doesn't keep him from wandering. So, although Mallorie is engaged to be married soon, and Tyson shares an apartment with his high school sweetheart and their infant daughter, they indulge deeply into a hush-hush sexuation that forces them to face social stereotypes, the racial divide, and prejudices of the past and present. Even if circumstances beyond their control eventually lead them back on their intended paths, neither will forget the lessons learned from their Swirl Secrets.

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Woo-hoo! Take it off, Mr. Chocolate! Take it off!”

“I w-want . . . want to see that l-looong choc . . . chocolate snake, b-baby,” a thick brunette with multiple piercings and tattoos slurred. She was intoxicated beyond the max.

The rowdy bachelorette partygoers burst into a drunken fit of laughter and started chanting, “Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!”

I never knew white chicks could be so damn ratchet. These girls were wild as hell. The bride-to-be and I were the only two sober people in the entire room. Shit, even Precious, the overly pampered poodle, seemed smashed. I peeped her little ass in the corner barking and jumping up and down like my striptease was making her little pussy wet too. That was fine with me as long as I was stacking paper. A poor and struggling law school student needed all the money he could get his hands on.

Actually, I was a long way from poor, but I wanted the extra money. And I enjoyed the thrill of controlling a room full of women with my body. Anyway, I rolled my hips and grabbed my crotch when my insane light bill popped inside my head. The climate was changing in the ATL in mid-October. The temperature was dropping lower with each passing day as the weather transitioned deeper into fall. I couldn’t have my pretty baby girl freezing in her crib. That’s why daddy was about to turn up the heat on these silly-ass, desperate white chicks.

I removed the loose bills from my black silk bikini briefs and stacked them into a neat pile without missing a beat to Ginuwine’s “Pony.” I turned my ass to them broads and shook it like a salt shaker. They went loco! I swear I could smell pussies creaming throughout the room. I did an exaggerated version of the snake in slow motion all the way over to the table where I had placed my moneybag. I dropped my stack inside as I rolled my hips. I did a quick about-face and grabbed the waistband of my briefs teasingly. Screams rose to a deafening decibel. I had the girls eating out of the palm of my hand. Some were actually licking their lips and salivating. Without warning, I pulled at the snatch-away sides of my drawers and gave them what they wanted. When the fabric hit the floor, it sounded like Sunday morning at a black Pentecostal church. Chicks were screaming like crazy, waving their hands in the air, and convulsing out of control.

“Damn, I’d like to taste that big dick,” a redhead screamed.

An exotic-looking snowflake with violet eyes and midnight hair pushed through the crowd with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in her hand. She stumbled toward me and stared at my dick for a moment as if she were inspecting it. She raised the bottle of whiskey to her full lips and took it straight to the head for a looong swig. Then, in an accent I wasn’t familiar with, she informed me, “I’m about to call my gynecologist because I’m going to need emergency surgery before the night is over. I want to ride you all the way to the equator and back.”

The pot had been stirred. The women started cheering, cussing, and hooting like dirty, old men. I shook my head and inched backward with sweat dripping heavily from my brow.

“Where’s a fucking yardstick? I want to measure that baby!” Rhea, the chick who had introduced herself to me as the bride’s cousin, shouted at the top of her voice.

A few intoxicated snow bunnies lunged toward me. I backed away quickly because I didn’t want Thunder to get handled to the point of injury. Some of the females were bold enough to reach for my junk. It was times like this when I needed a bodyguard. I moved farther away and smacked my thighs as I thrust my hips upward with force like Bobby Brown used to do back in the day. I was stroking in the air with Thunder swinging back and forth and side to side. My well-toned pecs and abs were shiny like new money because I’d oiled them just right. I threw my head back and did a slow belly roll, giving my newfound fans a better view of the long and thick python dangling between my thighs. I knew what I’d been blessed with. Hell, I impressed my damn self sometimes. My dick was my moneymaker, and that was exactly why a wicked amount of bills was lying on the floor all around me. A couple of loose dreadlocks that had escaped from the rest of them I’d secured at the back of my head with an elastic band were swinging in my face as I went in for the kill. I was humping and bucking these white chicks into delirium.

“I want to kiss it!”

“Let me touch it! Let me touch!” The blond babe with blue eyes fell to her knees at my feet. “Please, let me touch it!”

I stepped back again. I was kind of scared until I looked into the steel-grey eyes of this one chick who seemed fascinated, but she was maintaining her cool. Make no mistake about it. She was lit up like a Christmas tree. I had watched her throw back tequila shots like a dude just minutes before I started my routine. Almost in delayed time, she floated forward and placed her petite body between her shameless friends and me with her arms outstretched. It was like she was trying to protect me. The bride pushed the button, shutting off the music on the Bose system.

“The party’s over, ladies!” Miss Grey Eyes yelled over the loud boos and hissing in the room. “We bridesmaids have a group appointment at Bubbling Brook Spa at eight o’clock sharp in the morning. Let’s call it a night so we can sleep off all of the booze we’ve consumed.”

As the crowd of women began to disperse, she turned around in circles, searching for something on the floor. She found my briefs, picked them up, and handed them to me without saying a word. I watched her eyes crawl from my face down to my chest . . . and lower. When her grey orbs reached my dick, she drew in a quick breath. She exhaled it slowly before she swallowed hard.

“I have one question,” she whispered, filling my nostrils with the harsh smell of tequila.

“I’m listening.”

“Is it real?”

“Huh?”

“Your penis . . . Is it real?”

“Touch it and see.”

Time, silence, and curiosity held us in place, staring each other down. The dare had been tossed. She’d been bold enough to ask the question, and I had returned her boldness with the invitation to find out. I was a future attorney. Evidence always solved the case. And I had hard evidence for her ass.

Instead of satisfying her curiosity, she reached into her bosom and pulled out a white envelope. “I’m Mallorie, Bridgette’s maid of honor. Here’s the rest of your fee. Thanks for coming. Have a good night.”

I removed the damp envelope from her hand and smiled. Fear caused Miss Grey Eyes to spin on the balls of her feet and get the hell away from me in a hurry. She headed straight to the bar in the corner of the room. I was amused that she needed a drink. After all, she had just shut down the party for the rest of the guests. I guess she was about to try to drown the lust and temptation I had stirred up inside of her.

I heard Genesis crying the moment I entered the apartment. I dropped my duffel bag on the floor, rushed over, and removed her from Pilar’s arms. I also grabbed her bottle of breast milk mixed with formula. “I got her. Go back to bed. Daddy can take care of his princess before he starts looking over case files.”

I didn’t expect a “thank you” or even a greeting from the mother of my child, but either one would’ve been nice. Pilar was a trip. After a failed eight-year relationship, a baby, and six months of living together for the sole purpose of coparenting our child, she could at least be civil. But I guess that was too much to ask for from a bitter woman. It’s funny because I’m the one who should’ve been bitter. Pilar’s ass had cheated on me during my second year in law school. Yeah, almost two years ago while I was busting my ass, trying to stay ahead of the pack at Emory University School of Law, she was out screwing around with a big dumb-ass motherfucker named Chad. She was slick with her shit back then, and I was too busy even to notice any damn thing. The only reason why I found out was that she’d gotten knocked up and didn’t know if the other cat or I was the father.

Pilar’s pregnancy was a painful waiting game for me. The experience was a fucking nightmare. There I was, going to doctors’ appointments with my high school sweetheart, looking at sonograms, and shopping for a baby that I wasn’t even sure was mine or not. But I wanted to do the right thing, just in case. Where the hell was Chad? That stupid bastard was MIA. He didn’t give a shit about Pilar. She had risked the relationship we’d started when we were 16-year-old sophomores at Excel Academy for a sleazy affair with an asshole.

No one knew better than Pilar did about my dreams to become the next Johnnie Cochran. I had to prove a point to my low-life father. I needed to show him that even though he had left my mother, sister, and me devastated for a white woman, we could still rise. I was going to be a more successful man, father, and attorney than he ever was. I had shared all of that with Pilar. That’s how come I couldn’t understand why she would mess around on me. Our future together was looking bright.

Anyway, she did cheat on me with an Arena Football League player from the Jacksonville Sharks named Chad Morris. Pilar and everybody else thought that punk was going to the NFL for sure. Well, his ass ain’t. He broke his neck trying to show off for some pro scouts in a throw down against his team’s archrival, the Orlando Predators. He made a full recovery, but no NFL or Canadian teams will give him the time of day. They consider him damaged goods. I don’t take any delight in his unfortunate life-changing injury because the dude could’ve been paralyzed according to his doctors. The main fracture was a sliver of an inch away from his spinal cord. Although he didn’t deserve it, God had watched out for that buster.

Chad’s injury happened a couple of months after Genesis was born, so he’d had plenty of time to check in on Pilar during her pregnancy to make sure she was okay, but he rarely ever did. And it served her unfaithful ass right. I was on my job the entire nine months, knowing there was a fifty-fifty chance that the baby wasn’t even mine. But I was there when Genesis was born. Chad was calling Pilar’s cell phone periodically while she was in labor, no doubt praying like hell that he wasn’t the father.

Luckily for me, my daughter entered the world looking just like her daddy. Chad’s worries were squashed the instant I laid eyes on my pretty little princess. That bulldog-looking son of a bitch was too damn ugly to make a baby as beautiful as Genesis. But, of course, a paternity test was performed immediately, and it confirmed that I was indeed the father.

I upgraded from a studio apartment to a two-bedroom spot and moved my daughter and Pilar in with me when they were released from the hospital. That back-and-forth-from-Mommy-to-Daddy shit wasn’t an option for my baby. I was determined to raise Genesis as a hands-on, ever-present father, unlike Tyson Maxwell Senior. That fool had skipped out on both of his children. I didn’t want to be anything like him. Although at the time I couldn’t stand the sight of Pilar, I was in love with our daughter. We’ve been living together as a family for six months. It’s a dysfunctional one, I must add, but a family, nonetheless.

Genesis and I share the master bedroom. Her crib, changing table, and dresser are in my sleeping quarters. Because Pilar doesn’t work, she cares for our daughter most of the time while she takes classes toward her master’s in sociology online. I’m a hustler. In addition to my internship with the Fulton County District Attorney’s Office, I work some weekends for a landscaping company and strip at private events for ladies only. And they’re usually white women I’d never see again. With my multiple incomes, I pay the rent, all of the utilities, and buy groceries. Plus, I maintain health insurance on my daughter and keep her dressed in brand-name clothes. Pilar doesn’t contribute a dime to the household. She does take excellent care of Genesis, though. I have to give her credit for that.

I couldn’t get the vision of that sexy black stripper out of my mind. I was sexually frustrated even after masturbating with my trusted vibrator, treating myself to the orgasm of the century while thinking about him. I was still horny as fuck, though. How the hell could that be? There was something about black men in general that turned me on. They seemed so rugged, dangerous, and in command—Nothing at all like Collin. Mr. Chocolate made my panties wet the moment I caught him staring at me. I was forced to take a few shots of tequila to numb my pulsating clit.

Back in undergrad, I had watched plenty of porn flicks with black men in the lead roles. I used to fantasize about sucking a big black dick before having it rammed so far up inside of me that it’d exit through my mouth. I have often wondered how it would taste on my tongue and what it would feel like sliding in and out of my cunt. After my brief encounter with Mr. Chocolate, I was more curious than ever.

His dark fudge skin was as smooth as silk. And his tall, athletic body told me he worked out often enough and counted calories whenever necessary. He stood a few inches above six feet and was packed with muscles in all of the right places. The thick, long, male muscle between his thighs was my most favorite part of his body of all. It was a monster. Besides that, I was drawn to his full lips accented by a neatly groomed, curly mustache.

That deep baritone voice of his made me shiver when he dared me to touch his dick before he smiled, displaying a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. I couldn’t get the vision of him out of my spinning head. I was drowning helplessly in a sea of lust over him.

Since I couldn’t sleep, I left my bed and stumbled into the kitchenette for a drink. I was still pretty tipsy, so I don’t know why the hell I was pouring myself a glass of vodka at three o’clock in the morning. All of my suite mates were asleep. We had raved and lusted shamelessly over Mr. Chocolate for a couple of hours once we checked into our lavish executive suite at the W Hotel. Damn! I wish I had touched his dick when he dared me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I just couldn’t force myself to do it with a dozen pairs of eyes watching. Every girl who’d attended the party knew I was engaged. Oh, but if he and I had found ourselves in a private place like in the bathroom, an elevator, or a closet, I would’ve done more than touch it. I would’ve tasted it and probably hopped on it for a wild ride too.

I gulped down the liquor in three long swigs and coughed through the burning sensation in my chest. My buzz crashed down on me quickly, as if I really needed to sink further into intoxication. I was drunk, bored, and horny out of my mind. And it was all because of the one thing my father, the great and accomplished Attorney Joseph C. Whitaker, had always preached to every other unattached female and me in our family to avoid at all cost—a black man.

Ever since I was old enough to know the difference between blacks, whites, Hispanics, and others, I’ve heard my dad’s sermons proclaiming that the corruption of mankind was the direct result of the very existence of black men. According to Daddy and his three self-righteous brothers, who are also fellow attorneys in the law firm of Whitaker, Sons, and Associates, which was founded by my unapologetic racist grandfather, all black people are beneath the lowest level of the food chain. And they have no legitimate place in a civilized society. Slavery had been a blessing to the worshippers of Allah and other so-called pagan gods, who had been rescued from the underdeveloped, poverty-stricken continent of Africa. Slave traders had done them all a favor by bringing them here shackled in chains like cargo on ships to the land of milk and honey to teach them how to work hard for a living and introduce them to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob of the Old Testament. Black people are just ungrateful. After all that European Americans have done for them, they want more . . . and more. Shame on them all.

Uncle Frederick often says to his brothers’ delight that if Africans had been left on their own soil, they wouldn’t know the difference between the White House and an outhouse. Every time he spits such foolish venom, I want to whip out my voter’s registration card to show him, Daddy, and the rest of the lynch mob that I am a proud liberal who contributed to the historic election of our country’s first African American president. Yes, I secretly campaigned and voted for Barack Obama in 2008 and 2012. My choice had nothing to do with how fine, towering, and sexy I thought he was. I simply liked his message. And I’d longed to see a black man and his family residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C.

I poured more vodka into the glass and guzzled it down before I tiptoed back to my bed. The heavy buzz would knock me out until it was time for me to rise and dive headfirst into my maid of honor duties. Bridgette was so lucky to have found a hunk of a man like Blake. He was good-looking, rich, successful, and all into her. He was exciting, too, and quite funny. He would make Bridgette happy for the rest of her life for sure.

Collin, on the other hand, could barely keep my juices flowing during sex. How the hell was he supposed to make me happy for a lifetime? And why had I accepted his ring and agreed to marry him after such a lackluster and predictable proposal? I guess I’d done what had been expected of me.

The night my beau of three years dropped down on one knee and asked me to become his wife in front of our families, friends, and associates should’ve gone down in history as the most special birthday I’d ever had. But that was not the case. My twenty-fifth birthday will forever be remembered as the day I finally did something to make my mother happy and proud that she’d given birth to me. Before then, I had always felt like I was only a disappointing afterthought that had slipped into the family right before Sarah Spaulding Whitaker transitioned into menopause.

My brother, Godfrey, has always been the apple of her eye . . . her pride and joy. He still is because he’s perfect. He was the ideal student in high school, college, and law school. He never dated beneath our family’s standards. His wife, Katie, is a prim and proper socialite who came from one of the wealthiest and most influential pedigrees in Atlanta. And she’s very beautiful with a tiny size-two figure even after giving birth to my nephew, Garrett. Godfrey is perfect. His wife is perfect. Their son is perfect. My brother has a fucking perfect life.

I, Mallorie Elizabeth Whitaker, have always felt like the family’s disgraceful failure. Nothing I’ve ever done was good enough. I didn’t get into Emory University School of Law like Godfrey or the other gang of lawyers in the family because my admission score wasn’t high enough. So, to my parents’ displeasure, I’m a student at Georgia State University College of Law. I consider my current situation another di. . .