Naughty (6 page)

“That’ll be $43.87,” he said, carefully placing the boxes in a thick brown paper shopping bag.

Tyler handed over a crisp fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

She had just completed an on-site graphics assignment and as a bonus for being ahead of schedule, the company paid her on the spot, instead of making her wait the customary thirty days.

Tyler’s freelance career as a graphic artist was sketchy, with assignments coming in dribs and drabs. She suffered through the inconsistencies of a freelance lifestyle because she loved the flexibilily it offered. Deciding which projects to work on and making her own schedule gave her a true sense of freedom. But independence from the confines of the “Big House” came along with a price—giving up medical, dental, two weeks vacation,
and a guaranteed paycheck twice a month. When the checks did roll in, she could usually count on a hefty sum.

Tyler and Liz had been together for five years, so Liz was used to the erratic cash flow. Unlike most couples who argued about money or, more importantly, the lack thereof, they rarely let finances interfere with their romance. Living with an accountant had its advantages as well as its disadvantages. On the upside, Liz outlined a budget for Tyler to follow, so that her funds would last between droughts when the projects were nonexistent. The downside was, if Tyler went over budget one iota, Liz would become irate and give her famous “You Ought to Get a Full-Time J.O.B.” speech. Fortunately, there would be no speeches tonight, only the sweet sound of lovemaking.

Tyler walked down the street to the liquor store and bought not one but two bottles of wine, just in case their lovemaking lasted until the wee hours. She walked back to the car, put the bags in the backseat, then took out her cell and called Liz’s office.

“Tyler Reed calling for Elizabeth Alexander.”

“I’m sorry; she’s gone for the day,” announced the receptionist.

“Gone?” Tyler couldn’t believe her ears. Liz rarely left before five o’clock, especially during the crunch time of tax season. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No thank you,” she said before hanging up.

Tyler hit the end call button, then dialed Liz’s cell, but after four rings, her voice mail answered. “You have reached the cellular phone of Elizabeth Alexander. Please leave a detailed message and I’ll return your call at my earliest convenience. Thank you.”

“Hey, babe, it’s me. Where are you? Call me as soon as you get this message.”

Maybe she’s already at the house,
Tyler thought, then hit the speed dial to their home number. Once again, she was greeted with an automated voice. “Hey, babe, pick up.” Tyler waited for
a moment. “Okay, call me on the cell.” Her mind began to race, trying to think of where Liz could be. Maybe she was in her office behind closed doors, buried underneath tax returns, and gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed. Or maybe she was comforting a nervous client. People often panicked around the fifteenth of April, thinking Uncle Sam would swoop down and cart them off to jail if their returns were not postmarked by the deadline.

Tyler drove the short distance home and was surprised to see Liz’s car parked in the driveway.
Maybe she’s sick,
Tyler thought, pulling in. She parked and reached in the backseat for the food and wine. “Oh, shit,” she said, realizing she’d forgotten to pick up the massage oil.

Tyler walked around to the side door that faced the driveway. She loved their little house on the hill, as she referred to the cozy bungalow, because the house sat atop a small incline.

She unlocked the door, walked into the kitchen, and set the bags on the counter. It was quiet inside.
I’ll bet she’s asleep, no doubt exhausted from working so hard,
she thought, unpacking the food. They had hardwood floors, so she took her shoes off before going into the dining room to clear the table. Tyler was more domestic than Liz. As a child Tyler helped her mother keep a tidy home. Her family wasn’t rich, but her mother always said that cleanliness didn’t have an income bracket. Tyler always wanted the American dream, but her dream included another woman, not a man. Once the table was set, she tiptoed down the hall to check on Liz. Tyler slowly opened the bedroom door.

Liz was lying on her stomach underneath the covers and didn’t hear the door open. “Hey, babe, are you sick?” she asked, concerned.

“What are you doing home?” Liz spun around, alarmed.

“I finished the assignment ahead of schedule and left early. What are you doing home? Are you sick?” she asked again.

“I, uh, think I’m coming down with something,” Liz said,
pulling the covers up around her bare shoulders. “Can you run to the drugstore and get me some Robitussin?” She coughed.

“Sure, no problem. Why don’t you put on some pajamas,” Tyler said, and walked over to the bureau to get a nightgown.

“I’ll get the gown!” Liz shouted and sat up slightly. “Just go to the store,” she insisted.

“Excuse me?” Tyler was taken aback at her urgent tone.

“I’m sorry for yelling. I just need that cough syrup.” Liz coughed again.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” She walked back toward the bedroom door, but stopped dead in her tracks when she heard . . .

“Hey, babe, where’re the towels?”

Tyler spun around, and standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing only a smile, was a strange man. Their eyes met as he tried in vain to cover his rather large manhood with both hands.

“Who the hell are you?!” she shouted.

“I’m Wayne,” he said in a deep, husky voice, “and who are you?”

Tyler ignored his question and glared at Liz, who was clutching the covers tightly underneath her chin. “Who the hell is
he
?”

“Wayne is, uh, Wayne is . . .”

“I’m her boyfriend,” he said, finishing her sentence.

“Her what?” Tyler asked, mouth agape. She then shouted, “That’s impossible, because I’m her
girlfriend
!”

“You mean her roommate,” he said, with an air of assurance in his voice.

“Is that what she told you?” Tyler moved closer to the bed. “Tell him, Liz,” she demanded. “Tell him, damn it!”

“Tyler is, uh,” Liz’s voice began to tremble, “Tyler is . . .”

“I’m her LOVER!” Tyler screamed at the top of her lungs.

Wayne dropped his hands from his privates. “Her what?”

“You heard me. I’m her lover, damn it!”

He looked confused. “What?”

“Oh, Liz didn’t tell you that she’s a lesbian?” Tyler asked, dropping her voice to a low register and staring at her girlfriend, who had begun to cry.

He suddenly began to chuckle, and then said with a sly grin, “Apparently not anymore.”

She swung around to give him a piece of her mind, but stopped midsentence. She couldn’t believe her eyes. He was standing in the middle of the floor butt naked, stroking his dick and suggestively licking his lips. “Why don’t you come on over here and get some of this,” he said, massaging the tip of his now rock-hard penis.

“Wayne. Please!” Liz shouted.

“Aw, baby, let Daddy turn her out, like you know I can. The three of us can have a lot of fun. I’ve got more than enough to go around,” he said, stroking his shaft.

Tyler thought she was going to throw up right on the spot. She could feel bile rising from the pit of her stomach. How could this be happening? She had no idea that Liz was bisexual. Liz never gave any indication that she was interested in men. Tyler felt like a stranger in her own house. She had to get out of there before she lost her lunch in the middle of the floor.

Looking at Liz, she could see the devastation in her eyes. Tyler opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. A lone tear fell to her cheek, followed by another, and then another. “Good-bye, Liz,” she said in a soft whisper, and walked out with her head held high. There was no way she was going to completely lose her dignity in front of Liz and her
man!
So much for her American dream.

NAOMI WAS
beyond pissed! It had been a few days since Jacob’s promise of serious lovemaking, and once again he was up and out of the house before she had a chance to open her eyes. He had called when she was in the shower, and left a lame message about an important early-morning meeting. He then promised yet again to make it up to her. Jacob had reneged on his word so many times that she was hard-pressed to believe anything that came out of his mouth. She listened to the message one more time before erasing it. Naomi had to admit that Jacob did sound sincere in his apology, but she still wondered why he was being so neglectful. He always had had a healthy sexual appetite, and it was hard to believe that his libido had done a complete one-eighty. He was still a relatively young man, and should have been making love to his wife on a regular basis. Though Naomi didn’t want to entertain the thought that her husband was screwing another woman, she couldn’t help but ponder the obvious. He wasn’t fucking her, so chances were he was fucking someone else. Naomi may have been a housewife,
but she wasn’t an airhead. She knew that most men—especially her man—lived for sex. The more she thought about the possibility of Jacob cheating, the angrier she became. Naomi picked up the phone to call his office, but quickly put it back down. She had no evidence to support her theory, and would sound like a lunatic if she began hurling accusations at Jacob.

I need proof,
Naomi thought, sprang up from the side of the bed, and rushed into the closet. She started rifling through the pockets of his suit jackets and pants, hoping to find something—a book of matches, a hotel receipt, condoms—anything that would prove that he was having an affair. Her search proved futile. She found nothing. Naomi was relieved and frustrated at the same time. If Jacob wasn’t having an affair, then she was apparently the problem. Maybe he wasn’t attracted to her anymore. Naomi couldn’t fathom that reasoning either. She went to the gym on a regular basis and ate healthy. Her body was tight and in better condition than it was before she got pregnant. She also made a point to keep her hair and nails done weekly. If her husband didn’t desire her any longer, it was no fault of hers. She ran her hand across her taut midsection and rubbed her round ass.
Well, if he doesn’t want all of this, I’m sure I can find someone who does.
Naomi’s anger at being rejected by her husband was making her think irrationally. The thought of cheating had never entered her mind until now. She was tired of getting cheap thrills from a novel and wanted to feel a hard dick between her legs.

Naomi stormed out of the closet and plopped back down on the bed.
What the hell are you thinking?
she asked herself. There was no way she would ever have an affair. She wouldn’t jeopardize losing her family over a quick fling. She picked up
Auld Lang Syne
and read the last few steamy pages. At least getting cheap thrills from a book was safe; that way she didn’t have to worry about getting caught in the act.

After Naomi finished reading the novel, she went downstairs
to the solarium, her makeshift office, and began finalizing the details of her son’s birthday party. She loved the ever-present sunlight of the room, and though it was designed for house plants, Naomi had put a desk, computer, printer, and fax machine in one of the corners, creating her own cozy workspace. She was extremely efficient, and had folders for every aspect of Noah’s party. He was their only child and she indulged him in every way possible. She had taken him to see a Broadway show a year before, and he wanted the theme of the musical incorporated into his party, as well as a Zorro theme. Noah was infatuated with the swashbuckler and wanted masks and capes for all his friends. Naomi had secured the capes, but had yet to buy the masks.

She logged onto the Internet and began to search. She combed through several sites, but had yet to find an appropriate mask for children. Naomi couldn’t find a local source on the net, so she reached for the old reliable—the neighborhood Yellow Pages. She thumbed through to the M’s and found a section dedicated to masks. She earmarked a few companies and picked up the phone to call and find out more information. Instead of a dial tone, she was greeted by voices.

“Beth, I’m sure you have preconceived notions of what a sex club is, but trust me, you’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“And what makes this place so special, Rhoda?”

“Well, for starters, it’s extremely sophisticated.”

“How so?”

“Instead of a run-of-the-mill champagne fountain, their fountain spews ice-cold Belvedere, and that’s just for starters. Every stitch of the decor, from the chandelier to the drapes, is imported from Europe, not some tacky knockoff. You know that I don’t give out compliments easily, but this place is exceptional.”

Naomi didn’t know what they were talking about, but was intrigued nonetheless. Obviously she had been patched into
someone else’s line by accident. She felt like the proverbial fly-on-the-wall, and continued to listen.

“Exceptional? That’s a strong word,” the other lady on the phone said, sounding skeptical.

“Well, I must give credit where credit is due, and the Black Door gets my vote hands down,” Rhoda said.

“How long have you been a member?”

“Ever since my divorce I’ve been celibate. Not by choice, mind you. I needed a tune-up, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t meeting any decent men, so Meri told me about this club that caters solely to the needs of women . . .”

Naomi’s ears perked up. She desperately needed to be lubed up before she totally dried out, and this place seemed intriguing. She couldn’t believe her timing. She’d picked up the phone right in the middle of a conversation meant for her ears.

“. . . men work there, but they can’t be members. And to ensure anonymity, everyone wears a mask, so nobody knows your real identity.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting, but what about STDs?”

“Well, all the members as well as the servers go through a rigorous screening process, which includes background checks and medical exams. I’m telling you this place is totally safe.”