room and identified her as the organizer of the sex fest.
It only took a moment for Arlene to assess the situation and lay blame. Through clenched lips she hissed, “Get that half-breed trailer trash out of my house this instant!”
Humiliation and anger overcame Andie as she realized she was the only one being unceremoniously escorted out of the house. When she was dropped off at her apartment across town twenty minutes later, Dr. Jefferson didn’t even wait to see if she got into the building safely as he sped away from the curb. Mrs. Jefferson’s withering look was etched in her mind—a look that said she was no better than common street filth. But it was Arlene’s parting shot that carried the most sting as Andie passed her on the way out the door to the awaiting car. “You’re nothing but a common whore,” she hissed, and paused for a moment before adding, “Just like your mother.” She then slammed the front door behind her.
CJ, who had followed Andie downstairs, and had been sniffling quietly in the corner, gasped at her mother’s cruelty. Arlene whirled around at the sound and her look sent CJ scampering off to her bedroom.
Meanwhile, in spite of the events of the evening, Andie was certain that she’d made some new friends, and it would all turn out okay once the shock wore off. She quickly learned her newfound friends were not her friends at all, for the girls distanced themselves from her. Even the once gullible Debbie no longer had time for her. While the girls never told what truly happened at the party, the whispers of half-breed and trailer trash followed Andie through her remaining year in high school.
It was a humiliation she would never forget or forgive.
2
2005
The café was nearly empty at ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning. It was the slow time that falls between the bustle of morning latte and muffin traffic and the hurried rush of the lunchtime crowd. As she leisurely sipped her caffeine-infused mocha java latte and scoured the local newspaper, Deandra fit into neither of these categories. She stopped there several times a week after her five-mile morning run.
Tall and lean, she was a stunning woman with an olive complexion and greenish-blue eyes. All traces of the awkward teenager she’d once been were gone. Andie Moore had dyed her hair and changed her name in a determined effort to escape her past. Her thick sandy blond hair was pulled up into a ponytail and poked through the back hole of a green baseball cap as she bent over the society section of the paper, studying her subject with the intensity of a high-school senior cramming for her SATs. While she bought the paper regularly, only two sections garnered her attention: the society page and the business section. The society page told her what was happening and where for the local who’s who. The business section let her know who were the up-and-coming movers and shakers in town.
This day she made a mental note that it was the third time in six months she’d seen the name of Marshall James. On the second page of the business section was a photograph of him as he received an award for outstanding community contributions. He’d donated a very large sum of money to renovate the local gymnasium of the community center. Although it probably wasn’t the best picture of him, Deandra could still clearly see his strong jawline and warm smile, and more important, she immediately recognized the five-thousand-dollar Concord Saratoga diamond watch on his left wrist. The coffers were starting to run a little low and it was time to find another benefactor. Marshall James looked like he would fit the bill perfectly.
A shadow moved across her newspaper and she looked up to see a twenty-something dark Italian cutie standing next to her table. He had smoldering, dark eyes with long, thick lashes. “Scusami,” he began, and indicated the chair opposite her as though to join her.
In a glance Deandra took stock of him from head to toe. He was wearing a tight-fitting tank top, lightweight sweatpants, and well-worn joggers. If she were hornier this morning, it might be worth the ride, but at the moment she had much bigger fish to fry. She pointed to the seat opposite her. As soon as he sat down, she collected her newspaper and prepared to leave.
He grimaced as he watched her long, fit frame rise from her seat. Dressed in a green sports bra, white spandex running shorts, and a white thong providing a clear outline of her ass cheeks, Deandra was a toss-up between athletic sportswoman and sex kitten, all in one. She knew she had a body that men lusted after, and used it to her best possible advantage. Her potential suitor looked at her with a perplexed expression and spread his arms in the international gesture of misunderstanding.
Sunlight glinted off a silver key ring in his hand. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the Porsche insignia on his key ring. A quick scan around the parking lot revealed a gray Porsche 911 Carrera, and a change in Deandra’s afternoon plans. Perhaps this young man wasn’t quite the guppy she envisioned. She discreetly lowered her body back into the chair.
“Buongiorno,” she said, and smiled with a new appreciation for his potential as an afternoon playmate.
An hour later they were on their way to her apartment, so he could show his appreciation for her naked body. Paolo was lean and strong. As a long-distance runner, like Deandra, he had the stamina of a racehorse. He’d begun undressing her on the way up the steps to her third-floor apartment. She’d stopped in the stairwell and allowed him to pull her spandex tights down over her hips. His lips blazed a fiery trail across her satiny butt cheeks and his tongue snaked down the crack of her ass.
She grabbed the handrails to steady her weakened knees. As she neared the top steps, she’d bent over and put her ass in his face. Paolo eagerly obliged, and roughly dragged the only barrier between her and his hot, extremely long tongue—her white thong—down to her knees.
He spread her ass cheeks with his hands and slipped his tongue into her moist, wet pussy. Deandra purred in response. Neither seemed concerned that they were in the middle of a public stairwell. Paolo lapped her body juices like a thirsty man in the middle of the Nairobi Desert. When he replaced his tongue with his long, lean dick, Deandra’s mind was transported into another millennium. As strong as he was lean, he wrapped his arm under her rib cage and lifted her up off the stairs and carried her onto the top landing. The length of his ten-inch dick was still embedded deep in her pussy when he pressed her face against the closed door of her apartment and continued pounding her with solid, steady thrusts. The thumping of her body against the solid wood door finally brought a curious neighbor into the hallway below.
“What the hell is going on up there?” exclaimed the old man at the bottom of the stairway as he tried to peer into the darkened upper landing.
Deandra reached inside her bra and pulled out her apartment key. She leaned back away from the door, only far enough to slip the key in the lock. When she turned the handle, the door burst open from the weight of their bodies.
Paolo kicked the door closed with his heel and continued his plundering of newly discovered land. Still positioned behind her, he assisted her as she pulled her sports bra over her head. He cupped her large, voluptuous breasts in his hands and squeezed as though testing them for ripeness. He guided Deandra into the kitchen, where he pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling her into his lap.
Deandra screamed as the length of his extra long dick pushed up farther inside her body. He put his hands under her thighs and lifted her closer to his groin and eased the degree of pain she’d felt. It was soon apparent that Paolo was no novice in pleasing women, as he expertly slipped his hand between her open thighs and started stroking her clit.
Deandra jerked uncontrollably as she was overcome with orgasm after orgasm. Pinned on his dick, with his hands securely between her legs, there was no escape from the sensations he created. Wet, milky juices flowed from her body and gushed over Paolo’s long, lean fingers
