The Man Handler

Of all the people to run into first thing this morning, I have to bump right into Everett’s ass, literally and figuratively. “Ooh,” I shriek. He turns around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there,” I say, looking up at him. I was so deep in thought, looking over some last-minute changes to one of my weekly reports, that I rammed right into him.

“Anytime,” he says, offering me a mischievous grin. He steps back onto the elevator with me. “I’m glad it was you, instead of someone else.” He flashes me a smile, pausing, taking me in with his eyes, considering what stands before him. Today, I am stylishly dressed in a brown and orange print wrap dress with a pair of brown four- and-a-half inch heels. My hair is in an updo with a sweeping bang that curves along the right side of my face, and I am wearing a light coat of cranberry-wine lipstick to accentuate my luscious lips. He scans my body, smiling, then continues, “I’d like to bump into you as many times as I can.”

I roll my eyes, waving him off. “Yeah, I’m sure you would. Umm, I thought you were getting off.”

“I was,” he says, seductively licking his lips and eyeing me up and down. I try to act as if I don’t notice. But his smoldering gaze is slowly causing a fire to stir between my thighs. “But I forgot something.”

“Oh, really?” I inquire, pressing the button for the basement level. The door closes. “And what’s that?”

“You,” he says.

I roll my eyes dramatically and say, “Oh, please. How many times have you used that tired line?”

He laughs. “Including you, three. But those other two times don’t count since I didn’t mean it.”

I smile. “Oh. And now you do?” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, glancing up at the flashing numbers of each floor, trying to keep my eyes focused on anything other than him.

He steps in closer, lowers his voice. “I mean everything I say when it comes to you, pretty baby…”

I slowly begin to fade out of this conversation. I quietly inhale, hold the air in for a few seconds, then slowly exhale. At this moment, there’s a battle going on in my head. My ho voice is fucking with me, whispering shit like: “Ho, fuck him one good time; then be done with it. The nigga is practically throwing you the dick…you know you wanna wet his dick up, so stop acting all shy ’n shit. Fuck him already. You’re a ho, damnit! Let’s do what we do, ride that nigga’s dick. Let ’im feel how good that pussy is…”

Then there’s my other voice, the one that is milder, tamer, and a bit more logical in its ho thinking, saying: “Stay focused, ho. Fucking him would be your biggest mistake. We don’t shit where we eat, remember? Keep it cute, and keep it moving…”

Both of you bitches shut the fuck up, I think as Everett’s baritone voice forces my attention back to him. I hear him saying, “…all you need to do is give me one night to show you.”

“Big daddy,” I say, allowing my eyes to linger over his body much longer than I should. “You couldn’t handle me in one night.”

“Try me,” he says, in a tone full of dare.

In my mind’s eye, I see myself yanking his black boxer briefs—assuming that’s the color or kind he wears, or that he wears any at all—down to his ankles, watching his soft and surprisingly fat cock plop out. Before he can speak, I grab it at the base, then shove my open mouth around it, slowly slurping and sucking and slobbering all over it until it begins to lengthen and thicken. He looks down at me in delicious delight as his dick hardens, hitting the back of my throat. I moan, and continue to take his dick, inch by inch, into my mouth. I can tell he is turned on watching his dick disappear each time he thrusts. Streams of spit drizzle out of my mouth and roll down onto his big, heavy balls. I cup them, and begin massaging and gently tugging on them while increasing the suction of my sucking, causing a popping sound to echo around the elevator car. And then…and then…

The bell dings, and the elevator doors open. I step out, and turn to face Everett. I give him my most seductive look, and just when the doors are about to close, I blow him a kiss. He quickly sticks his hand in the doors, causing them to reopen.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, sticking his head out.

“Nope,” I say, walking off, glancing over my shoulder.

“You need to stop playing with a brotha’s emotions,” he says jokingly, clutching his chest.

I ignore him and continue sashaying down the hall. I feel his eyes on me and purposely throw a few extra shakes in my hips, glancing over my shoulder to catch his eyes lustfully locked on my perfectly shaped ass. I shake my head, laughing. “I hope you’re enjoying the view.”

“You know you’re wrong for saying that, right?” he says, laughing also.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” I respond over my shoulder as I head toward the cafeteria.

Fifteen minutes later, I am sitting at my desk back in my office drinking a bottle of Lipton Green Tea, and going through my emails. There’s one from Everett. I click on it, and wait for it to open.

It reads: It was nice “bumping” into you. We’ll have to do it again. How about later today, before, during and after lunch?

I type back: no, not interested!

Five minutes later, another email comes through. Oouch! Thanks for putting the steak knife through my heart.

I respond: Enjoy your day!

So you’re gonna let me bleed to death?

Yep, I type. Now stop harrassing me. I have work to do.

My office line rings. Its tone tells me it’s an internal call. I pick up. “Bianca Rivers speaking. How can I help you?”

“You can help me by letting me take you out. Give me one night. I promise you, I’ll be on my best behavior. Gentleman’s honor.”

I laugh. “Everett, don’t you have work to do?”

“Of course I do,” he says. “But right now, trying to get a date with you is more important.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” I say, laughing even harder. “Stop wasting company time trying to fraternize or I’m going to report you to HR.”

He chuckles. “I’ll take my chances.”

“’Bye, Everett,” I say, hanging up on his ass, knowing he’s not going to give up his quest for some of this good pussy easily.

Thankfully, the rest of my day at the office is uneventful until Nahdirah stops by with another round of foolishness. “Hey, girl,” she says in singsong, sticking her head in my office.

“Oh, hey,” I say, looking up from my laptop. “Where you been?” I ask the question, but I honestly don’t really care. She walks in and closes the door. “I haven’t seen you around in a few days.” I watch her as she makes her way across the room.

“Yeah, I had to take a few days off.”

“Vacation?”

She sighs, taking a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Not really.”

“Oh,” I say, staring at her. I take her in a few seconds longer, then blink.

I blink again, attempting to keep my face from revealing what I’m thinking: Jake done went upside her head.

She has what look to be the remnants of a black eye, and a lump on the right side of her forehead. “What happened to your eye?” I inquire, pretending like I don’t see the knot on her head.

She shifts in her seat, touching her cheek area. “Oh, I accidentally got hit in the face with a van door.”

I tilt my head, giving her my “you-really-don’t-think-I’m-believing-that-shit” look.

“Whose van was it?”

“Uh,” she says, searching for a lie, “a friend’s.”

“Really? Hmm. How did it happen?”

I purse my lips as she begins to give me her distorted reality of what happened. She claims she was helping “a friend” move. When she went to open the back doors, they were stuck, so she pulled on the latch, and one of the doors swung open and hit her in the eye.

Now, I don’t know a lot about domestic violence, but I know enough to know when someone is getting their ass beat. And this chick’s face has definitely met a punk nigga’s fist.

As I sit here looking at her, this whole scenario reminds me of an incident that happened almost eight