by Cairo
He strokes his dick, pullin’ in his bottom lip. “Yo, feel like suckin’ some dick?” Little does the nigga know, I had already planned on spinnin’ his top lovely. Show the nigga how a real bitch does it. I lean ova and stick my tongue out, lettin’ ’im brush the head of his dick up against it as he jacks off.
I shift my body. Press my lips to the tip of his dick and start plantin’ soft, wet kisses all over it. I swirl my tongue ’round the head, then wrap my mouth ’round it. The nigga tells me he gotta thing for havin’ his balls grabbed, then yanked—well, okay, lightly pulled is what he says—while a bitch is spinnin’ his top.
“If it’s done right, it’ll have a muhfucka shoot rockets in the air, word up…yank them shits for me…you got my muhfuckin’ dick achin’…oooh, shit…a muhfucka’s ready nut…”
“That’s what you want, muhfucka? You wanna feel these pretty-ass lips wrapped ’round ya dick while I work them balls?”
“Straight up, baby.”
“Stop callin’ me that, nigga.”
“Yo, c’mon, you killin’ da mood.” He cups his balls. “You know I’ma keep callin’ you the shit, so chill.”
“Whateva, muhfucka.”
“C’mon, stop fuckin’ ’round, Kat…yank on these muhfuckas and let me feel ya mouth heat up on this dick, baby.”
Let me stop fuckin’ wit’ this nigga, I think, grinnin’. I slowly stroke the lower part of his shaft. “Yeah, just like that. Oh, fuck…keep doin’ that shit, baby.”
“Mmm,” I moan, lookin’ up at him, speed jackin’ his dick while suckin’ and lickin’ his balls.
“Aaaah, fuck…”
“I want that nut, muhfucka. You gonna give me that nut?”
“Yeah, baby…Daddy ’bout to let you get that nut. What you gonna do wit’ it?”
Daddy? This muhfucka is so ova himself. I let the shit go, keep milkin’ the nigga’s dick. “I’m gonna use it as a face moisturizer… it’s good for da skin.”
He chuckles. “Damn, baby…oh, shit…you nasty, you know that, right?”
I nod my head, spittin’ on his dick. “Yeah, muhfucka, you like it when a bitch gives it to you nasty.” I flick the head of it wit’ my tongue, then plant soft kisses all over it. I slather it wit’ my spit. Suck the shit real nasty like. Get that thick, juicy cock nice and wet and shiny.
“You gonna haveta work for that load, baby,” he tells me, holdin’ the back of my head.
I slowly slurp ’im, then pick up the pace, decidin’ to stop fuckin’ ’round and show this muhfucka how’a real bitch handles a big-ass dick. I swallow his dick down one inch at’a time, slowly ease ’im down into my throat. When the head hits the back’a my throat, I stop, take a deep breath, ease up on the dick a bit, then gulp and push my face up against the base of his dick.
“Ohhhh, shiiiiit, baby…aaaah…that’s wassup…you ’bout to make me spit…”
I pull his dick from outta my throat, then spit on it and start jackin’ him off. “Give me that milk, muhfucka.”
I start deep throating him again. Take him deep into my neck for ten minutes, nonstop. A bitch’s in neck ’n gulp mode, tryna spin this nigga’s top to the roof. I glance up every so often, watchin’ him fluctuate from moanin’ and pantin’ to tossin’ his head back and groanin’ to bitin’ down on his bottom lip to peerin’ down at me amazed at how his whole dick disappears down in my throat.
He reaches ’round wit’ his free hand and starts playin’ wit’ my pussy ’til it starts to drip down his hand. I slurp and moan and wiggle my fluffy ass to match the thrust of his fingas movin’ in and outta my fat, tight pussy. He palms the back of my head like a basketball and bounces it up and down on his dick. I suck the shit harder. I guess the nigga thought a bitch was gonna start gaggin’. Not. My eyes start to bulge and get watery, but I keep the pace, speed slurpin’ the dick nonstop. I’m that bitch, muhfucka; thought you knew, I think, squeezin’ ’n yankin’ his balls.
“Oh, yes…aaaah, fuck…ohmigod…ohmigod…aaah, shit…you ’bout to make me spit, baby.…here it comes…uhhhh…aaaaaah… aaaaah…fuuuuuuuuuk…”
Forty minutes later, I’m at the bathroom sink brushin’ my teeth while Alex takes a shower. I peep ’im through the glass shower doors.
“You sure you don’t wanna come in?” he asks, turnin’ to give me a full view of his soapy body. Soap suds cova his dick and balls.
I laugh, sittin’ up on the sink counter. “Nigga, ya greedy ass ain’t gettin’ no more of this pussy.” He starts strokin’ his dick. “And you ain’t gonna be standin’ there wastin’ my water playin’ wit’ ya dick, eitha.”
He laughs wit’ me. “Yo, why you always tryna put a muhfucka out?”
“’Cause I don’t want ya ass gettin’ all comfortable ’n shit.”
He opens the glass door, then steps out. Beads of water roll down his chest. The mouth of my pussy opens ’n closes. Bitch, you know you wanna ’notha round of that cock. I watch ’im as he dries off, then wraps the towel ’round his body.
“Too late. I already am.”
“Well, that’s too bad.”
He walks up on me, leans in and kisses me on the lips. “Yo, I want you to spend da weekend wit’ me down at my crib.”
I grin. “I ain’t stayin’ no whole weekend wit’ you so you can try runnin’ ya dick up in me da whole time. I don’t think so. I’ll stay da night.”
“Nah, I want you”—he kisses me again—“to myself da whole”—more kisses—“weekend.” He slips his tongue in my mouth. Ho, get this nigga up outta here ’fore you end up fuckin’ ’im again.
“I’ll think ’bout it,” I tell ’im, jumpin’ off’a the counter, then poppin’ my hips back into the bedroom. He follows behind me, grabbin’ at my ass. “Nigga, will you stop.”
“Daaaaamn, you gotta bangin’-booty. All fat ’n juicy and what-not; I want sum’a that.”
I snap my neck ova at ’im. “Nigga, puhleeze. You jokin’, right?”
“Nah, I’m dead-ass. I been meanin’ to ask you when you gonna let me hit that.”
I walk into my walk-in, then open up my trunk. “So, let me get this straight. A muhfucka who ain’t my man and ain’t put no ring on it thinks a bitch should let ’im run his dick all up in ’er ass, right?”
“Baby, I’m tryna be ya man, but you keep frontin’.”
I keep searchin’ for what I’m lookin’ for. “Yeah, well, I want da ring muhfucka.”
He laughs. “How ’bout you let me test run it, first. Then we can talk ’bout it.”
When I find what I need, I walk back out into the bedroom. “Well, I tell you what. Since you ain’t tryna put no ring on it, how ’bout you let a bitch run this”—I swing a twelve-inch dildo at ’im—“up in you, then you tell me if you still wanna hit this ass.”
He laughs. “Hahahaha; you got jokes, right?”
I smirk. “Nah, nigga. I’m dead-ass. Let me fuck ya asshole out da frame wit’ my lil’ friend, then we can talk ’bout you gettin’ up in this juicy ass.”
He shakes his head, slippin’ on his underwear. “Whatever, yo. You can cancel that shit. It ain’t happenin’.”
I shrug, tossin’ the dildo onto the bed. “Oh well, then I guess you don’t get none’a this.”
He slips on his jeans. “Yeah, aiight. I need to leave a change of clothes here.”
I tilt my head and look at his ass like he’s crazy. “Oh no da hell you don’t. You ain’t leavin’ shit up in here. When you go, e’erything else goes, includin’ that toothbrush I gave you.”
I walk outta the room and head downstairs. He follows me.
“Yo, you real extra; you know that, right?”
“I know it’s time for you to go. I got things to do.”
“Like what?”
I shoot ’im a look ova my shoulder, suckin’ my teeth. “Nigga, like none’a damn business.” I watch ’im pull out his phone, then turn it on. I decide to ask ’im why e’erytime he’s wit’ me he turns the shit off. He tells
me e’erything shuts down when he’s wit’ me ’cause he ain’t tryna have a buncha distractions. That there’s no one else he needs to talk to. “Hmmmm,” is the only thing I say.
“What, you think I’m bullshittin’?”
I eye ’im, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “I think it’s time for you to be gone.”
He walks up on me. “Yo, check this shit out. You da the first chick I ever turned my phone off for. I don’t even check da shit when I’m wit’ you. No other broad ever got that. So all that ‘hmmm’-in’ you doin’, save it.” He eyes me. “Stop tryna look for shit. I’m keepin’ e’erything on board wit’ you.”
“Nigga, I ain’t lookin’ for shit. Whateva you do is what you do.”
He leans down and kisses me. The muhfucka’s lips are soft ’n juicy. “Yo, I’ma call you later, aiight.”
“If you want,” I say nonchalantly, walkin’ ova to the door.
“Yo, Kat, real shit…stop fuckin’ frontin’ on a muhfucka. You know you feelin’ me, so let’s see if we can make this shit pop.”
“You right. But know this. I’m not da kinda bitch who lives wit’ regrets, so, do not have me regret fuckin’ wit’ you.”
He grins. “Yeaah, baaaaby; that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
He tries to kiss me again, but I push ’im back wit’ my hand. “Whoa, slow down, Playboy. Let me give you da ground rules. You not my man. We chillin’ to see what kicks off. I tilt my head. “We clear.”
“Yo, fuck outta here wit’ all that ‘you not my man’ shit.”
“Aiiight, muhfucka. Be stupid if you want. You get three strikes; nuthin’ more, nuthin’ less. You fuck me ova, you get fucked up.”
“Whatever, yo. Am I gonna be ya man or not?”
“Like I said, three strikes, muhfucka.”
“I ain’t strikin’ out, shit. So go ’head wit’ that. Now stop all ya bullshittin’ and give ya man a kiss.”
Ohmigod, this muhfucka is a piece’a work, I think, lookin’ up at ’im, smirkin’. I keep my mouth shut. Let ’im press his lips up to mine. We kiss for a few minutes wit’ this nasty nigga tryna play wit’ my clit and run his fingas up in my pussy. But I shut it down, openin’ the front door. My eyes ’n mouth pop open.
His whip is kissin’ the ground; somebody done slayed all four of the nigga’s tires. He races out the door, snappin’. “What da Fuck?! Who da fuck got at me like this?”
The bitch who did ’im in wrote PUSSY-ASS NIGGA in big red letters across his windshield. And you AIN’T SHIT is written on the back window. The nigga looks wrecked.
I fold my arms, leanin’ up against the doorframe wit’ my lips twisted, watchin’ ’im walk ’round his whip, lookin’ like he’s ready to flip his lid. I don’t say shit. Shit, ain’t shit to say. A bitch’s mind is already made up. Nigga, strike one!
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Decisions, decisions, decisions…what’a bitch gonna do?…Tell da nigga it’s a wrap…that a bitch is thru…dead it ’fore he gotta get jacked ’n slapped…nigga poppin’ sum good shit, though…still…a bitch ain’t tryna be played like she type-slow…
“Yo, why you actin’ all funny ’n shit? You actin’ like I did some shit to you. What’s good, yo?” Alex asks two days after that shit went down wit’ his whip. Today’s the first time I’m fuckin’ wit’ ’im since the shit happened. And the nigga sound mad tight, too.
“Muhfucka, I’m still tryna figure out why ya shit got housed on my muthafuckin’ property and what bitch you done pissed off and got tailin’ ya ass to my muthafuckin’ spot. That shit ain’t it, nigga.”
“Yo, you act like I know who da fuck did it. I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ no one. I told you. I cut all them birds off a minute ago; true story.”
“Well, maybe you did; maybe you didn’t. I don’t know what da fuck you’ve done. But I do know this: whoeva da fuck it is, the bitch fucked up, bringin’ that shit here. So ’til you find out who da fuck it is, ya black ass ain’t comin’ here.”
“Aiight, cool. Then you can come down and chill at my spot.”
I frown. “Nigga, you done got the shit twisted. I ain’t ’bout to be ridin’ up ’n down da parkway for a muhfucka who gotta buncha shit wit’ ’im. You need ta handle them bitches you been fuckin’ first.”
“Yo, stop sayin’ that shit. I told you, I ain’t fuckin’ no one. Damn.”
“Then one’a them needy bitches ain’t tryna let go. Either way, I ain’t feelin’ da shit; especially since you done brought the shit up to my doorstep.”
“Yo, I ain’t bring it to ya door.”
“Nigga, puhleeze. Obviously da bitch followed you here. So, as far as I’m concerned, you brought da shit here. Say what da fuck you want.”
“Yo, you actin’ like I got control over what da fuck some nuttyass bitch does. What you want me to do?”
“Muhfucka, you know what, don’t do shit. Just keep on doin’ what you do, but leave me outta it. A bitch got more pressin’ things to deal wit’ than to be wrapped up in a muhfucka wit’ a buncha drama.”
He lowers his voice. “Yo, c’mon wit’ that bullshit. I ain’t beat for da drama, either.”
I huff. “Nigga, I can’t tell.”
“Yo, I’m tellin’ you.”
“Yeah, and what you tellin’ me don’t mean shit. All of a sudden out da blue ya shit sittin’ on da ground and all tatted up wit’ paint. Nigga, puhleeze. That’s the handiwork of some ho you done pissed off. You need’a handle that. And I ain’t fuckin’ wit’ you ’til you do.”
“I ain’t tryna hear that shit, yo.”
“Well, too bad. It is what it is. So get ova it.”
“Nah, fuck that. I don’t have nuthin’ to hide from you. I gave you all my passwords and shit, so you can see for ya’self. What da fuck I gotta lie for? Why da hell would a muhfucka give you access to all of his shit if da nigga wasn’t tryna be on the up ’n up wit’ you? C’mon, Kat, give a muhfucka some credit, damn, yo. Have you checked the shit?”
Mmmm, da nigga gotta point. Still… “Yeah, I checked da shit once,” I admit, steppin’ outta my panties, then walkin’ into the bathroom. I turn the shower on. The same day he gave me the shit I went upstairs and ran all through his shit. Read his messages, emails and the shit on his Blackplanet guestbook. The nigga has thousands of naked-ass hoes up on his shit, throwin’ the pussy at ’im. It was mad extra. I even read notes and emails he sent. But, nuthin’ really popped out to make me think the nigga was tryna be on some playground shit.
“And?”
“And, there wasn’t shit to see.”
“Aiight, then. That should tell you sumthin’.”
“Nigga, that don’t tell me shit. All it says is that day there wasn’t shit to see—that time. That doesn’t mean that next week or week after that that some extra shit ain’t gonna pop off.”
“Yo, then keep checkin’ da shit anytime you want.”
“Nigga, my name ain’t Inspector Gadget. I ain’t da kinda bitch whose gonna keep investigatin’ shit. Only dumb-ass, dick-whipped bitches do that stupid bullshit. I’m good.”
Me and this nigga go back ’n forth for anotha ten minutes wit’ ’im tryna convince me that ain’t shit extra goin’ on on his end. That he’s kept it funky wit’ me from the rip. I wanna believe the nigga, but I know how crafty and slick muhfuckas can be. I start zonin’ out on the nigga ’cause the shit’s startin’ to cramp my asshole. “Look, I ain’t beat for this convo. So you either change it, or hang up,” I tell ’em, puttin’ the phone on speaker. I step into the shower.
“Yo, what…you in da shower?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, word? What you gettin’ ready to get into?” I tell ’im I got business to handle. The fact that I got these child welfare hoes comin’ up to my spot to complete their background investigation ain’t really none’a his concern. Nor is tellin’ ’im that I’m goin’ up to the hospital to sit wit’ a baby that I’ma be raisin’. I get knots in my stomach just thinkin’ ’bout
it. If I decide to keep this nigga in my space, then I’ll eventually tell ’im what’s really good. I know it’s not sumthin’ I’ma be able to keep from ’im. But for now, he only needs to know the basics. Not much. Shit, takin’ on a baby is gonna be mad responsibility. Shit, I don’t even know if I’ma be beat for. So the last thing I need is to be fuckin’ wit’ a nigga who’s gonna come wit’ a buncha distractions. “What time you gonna be done?” I tell ’im not ’til late. Tell ’im I might be stayin’ in Brooklyn. “Wit’ who?”
I suck my teeth. “Damn, nigga, wit’ Chanel.”
“Yeah, aiight, yo.” The nigga gets quiet. “Dig, if you ain’t beat to fuck wit’ a nigga, let me know so I can fall back before a muhfucka’s head gets all fucked up.”
“Nigga, puhleeze. Ya head’s already fucked up. You know you ain’t ready to let go’a this pussy heat.”
“Whatever, yo. Who else you lettin’ hit that?”
I shake my head, steppin’ outta the shower. “No one at da moment. But, trust. That can change at any time. Right now a bitch is chillin’.”
“Yeah, aiight. Let me find out ya biscuit head givin’ out Daddy’s goods.”
I laugh. “Ohhhhhhhmigod, you so fuckin’ ova ya’self.”
“And I’m tryna be all over you, but you wanna be on some ole other shit.”
I walk into my closet, pullin’ out a red long-sleeve Gucci tee and a pair of pencil jeans. “Mmmph; if you say so.” I decide to pick the nigga’s brain to see how he feels ’bout kids. “Would you eva deal wit’ a chick wit’ kids?”
“I don’t know. I’ve fucked chicks wit’ kids, but I ain’t neva wanna wife any of ’em. I’m not sure if I would wanna be dealin’ wit’ a chick wit’ ’em on some exclusive shit unless she doesn’t have a buncha baby daddy issues. A muhfucka ain’t beat for that. Why, you got some kids you ain’t tellin’ me ’bout?”
“Maybe; maybe not.”
“Yeah, aiight.”
“Well, what if I did?”
“Well, hypothetically, if you did. How many you talkin’ ’bout? One, two?”
