“Drop it! Get in line for the gas chamber, Carter,” my drill sergeant ordered.
“Sir, yes, sir!” Hurrying to the entrance, I stood in line behind other newly enlisted soldiers. For many of us, our next stop after training camp in Fort Jackson was Afghanistan.
I’d just seen countless soon-to-be-deployed soldiers running out of the chamber’s exit. Some leaned against trees. Others fell to their knees, prayed to the dirt where they puked until they heaved air. Two passed out.
I shuffled the steel-toed boots strapped to my feet to the door that all boot campers had to enter. No mask. No protection. The handle released, the building with no windows was filled with white clouds so thick each soldier vanished soon as they cross the threshold.
I stood behind a kid I didn’t know, dreading my turn to step inside. I had a strategy. I’d shut my eyes tight, hold my breath, until I felt the warmth of the sun kiss my face.
Wumpth!
The door locked behind us.
I was trapped. The poisonous fumes were all I had to inhale. Gas burned my corneas. I swallowed my vomit. Hit the door with my shoulder. Had to survive. I couldn’t swallow again. This time a yellowish bile poured from my nostril, then my mouth. Determined to make my mother proud, I yelled, “Arghhh!” Rammed the door repeatedly, until it opened. Stumbling, I gulped the fresh air.
“Mama.” I turned. The chamber had filled with water, the boat sailed away. Slowly my mother’s lifeless body rose to the top. The more I stretched my arms to rescue her, the farther away she drifted.
My screaming did not save her. Cursing did not bring my mama back. All I had left was suppressed anger that was easily triggered.
“Mama! Mama!” I awakened, fighting the comforter on my bed. Rattled my head. My pillow drenched. Sheets soaked.
I cried out loud.
Picked up my cell. Selected my playlist: I love my mama, and I listened to “Your Tears,” by Bishop Paul S. Morton and the Greater St. Stephen Mass Choir. He was my mother’s number one pastor, and that was her favorite song.
It had been almost eleven years since my mother drowned in Katrina. Seven since my honorable discharge from the U.S. Army.
Getting out of bed, I started my morning ritual. “Hate taking this fucking shit.” I swallowed the daily pills to treat my PTSD. These tablets were for anxiety.
When I didn’t follow the prescription as ordered the smallest things agitated me. I was what they referred to as a “walking time bomb.”
If I did take them, soon as I sat still, I’d doze off like a narcoleptic. Worse, my seventeen-year-old dick pitched a tent the four years I was enlisted, but when the doctor put me on three medications seven years ago, I became flaccid.
Had a different drug for nightmares, another for flashbacks. Same muthafuckas that manufactured all that shit produced male enhancements. In order to satisfy a woman, I needed to take that, too.
Scrambling three eggs, I mixed enough batter for four pancakes, then put six strips of bacon in a skillet. I stacked my plate with everything I’d cooked, poured a tall glass of milk on ice, opened a can of Steen’s cane syrup. Sat naked in front the television. Watched back-to-back episodes of my favorite, The First 48, while I ate. Midway through the third show, I dozed off.
A pic from Blitz with text, Met this CEO on a dating app, woke me up.
She was cute in the photo. He’d betta hope that shit wasn’t from ten years ago. I refused to pay to be on a dating site. Too many fine women living in my city, plus all that gm, hyd, wyd, gn back-and-forth shit was a waste when I could talk to her in person.
I replied, Cool, imagining he’d sent the same to the crewe.
Close to noon I popped in a XXX DVD. Having gone eighteen months of my four years in the military without seeing a woman I didn’t have to kill during combat, I never tired of watching naked ladies, porn, or eating pussy. Stroking my dick for a half hour felt good, but those fucking meds had kept my shit flaccid.
Smacked my dick five times. Cursed it out. “Motherfucker!” Choked the head. Flung it against my thigh. Left it alone.
I cleaned my kitchen. Restored everything as though I hadn’t cooked. Every single item in my house had its rightful place, and if anyone touched my stuff, I noticed it.
Opening the app on my phone, I viewed my four bedrooms, four bathrooms, living room, and theater room. The back and front yards were quiet. A few cars drove by. Had this setup for seven years. Everybody was the enemy, especially these thugs in the NOLA.
Hadn’t quite wrapped my heads around what I’d agreed to, but I was prepared to capture footage of these women, starting today. Having killed countless men, women, and children to protect the men, women, and children in the United States, money and material things didn’t excite me. I was in the challenge with my crewe for my love of competition.
All these wannabe gangstas packing pistols would scream like bitches if they had to do a fraction of what I’d done to protect their asses. I secured peace and liberties for white folks who still called me boy. One called me a nigga to my face. Almost squeezed his last breath out of him. Recruiter convinced me joining the military was a good way to control my—what he’d referred to as—anger management.
Now that ungrateful motherfucker Uncle Sam had moved on to the next group of recruits to fuck up their minds and dicks, without giving a damn about me. Well, fuck that nigga, too!
I took my enhancement drugs. Showered. Got fresh in my rust-colored slacks, a black T-shirt, black leather loafers. Gold chain, twenty inches, 18k. Wore pinky rings in case I had to bust a dude in his mouth right quick I’d split that lip wide open.
Secured my gun behind my back inside the waistband of my pants. Shoot-outs in the Big Easy could happen anytime, anywhere. Combat was a sport. I missed the hunting, the fighting, blood splattering on my uniform. Torturing someone excited me. Knew how to leave a man for dead by tying his hands around a post, tucking one foot behind his knee, then placing him in the squatting position.
* * *
Making my way inside the Ernest N. Morial Convention Center, I checked out the sexy women strolling Hall A as I stood in line.
When it was my turn, the woman behind the glass asked, “How can I help you?”
“Let me have six super-lounge tickets. Two for each night,” I told her.
Super lounges were more fun than being cramped on the main floor restricted to a seat where you had to step over motherfuckers to go take a piss. Plus, the lounges didn’t have chairs. I could get as close or far from the stage as I wanted, and the cost to see the artists wasn’t no $200 to $4,000 per ass like on the floor.
Putting the passes in my pocket . . . I entered the exhibit section in search of my date. Hundreds of vendors from Coke to Walmart to African clothing, to jewelers, to food stands spanned from Hall A to H.
Spotted date number one, a pretty, brown-skinned sistah trying on sunglasses. “Those look nice on you,” I complimented her.
A gold rack capped her top six teeth. Ordinarily, that would be a turnoff, but long as she took them off before sucking my dick, I was on a mission to win the competition.
“You think so?” she asked, admiring herself in the mirror. Did the extra to show her uppers. “You handsome, daddy.”
Couldn’t lie. Her compliment made me feel good. “You going to the concert tonight?” I asked.
Taking off the glasses, she answered, “I want to, but I don’t have tickets.”
Showing her mine, I said, “Well, I do, but I don’t have a date. First I need to know how old are you?” Before I could formally invite her, two other females slid into our picture.
One scanned me up and down. “You’re tasty. Love your tats.” She touched my bicep, then rubbed my neck.
I twitched, snatched her wrist.
She pulled away. “My bad. Didn’t know you were sensitive,” she said, then asked her friend, “Where’d you meet this one?”
A “may I touch you?” would’ve been in order. That way I could’ve
told her no. She’d better be glad she didn’t touch the image of my mother that was high up on my left arm underneath my sleeve. Nobody felt Mom without prior permission.
“I’m twenty, soon to be twenty-one,” the female I was interested in replied.
“Gurl, you always meeting some man. Who’s this?” Her girlfriend seemed annoyed.
Introducing myself, I extended my hand. “I’m Dallas.” She was legal, so her age wasn’t a concern for me. Young girls didn’t require much, and most of them enjoyed sex.
“Dallas, I’m Keisha,” the one with the gold teeth replied, shaking my hand. “Do you have concert tickets for all of us?”
Damn. I hesitated. Women who traveled in packs seldom put out.
Keisha’s girlfriend, the one that was hating, lowered her eyes to my dick, then back to my face. “Well? Do you?”
Her friend was so thirsty, I could bend her ova, fuck her for free right here, then leave her with a wet ass. My standards was never higher than a woman’s.
I told Keisha, “I will give these two tickets to you for your girlfriends. . . if you accompany me back to the box office so I can get our tickets. We, you and me, can hang out and meet up with them at the Superdome later.”
The friend who’d been quiet spoke. “What’s your cell number, Dallas?”
The hater placed her phone in front my face, snapped a picture of me. I couldn’t take a bitch like her out. I wanted to choke her disrespectful ass with one hand.
“Five, o, fo.” As I said the remaining numbers, each of them locked me in.
Taking a chance on dipping inside of Keisha after the concert was not happening. I kept my word, got our tickets, then took her straight to my place.
* * *
Putting my gun in the drawer of my nightstand, I asked from my bedroom, “What do you want to drink?” I hung my clothes in the closet, kept on my underwear, pissed in the half bathroom that was off of the living room with the door opened.
“You got any Cîroc?” Keisha flipped through channels. “You have a nice home. Where’s your girlfriend?”
Noticed she’d moved one of my seven white candles on the mantel. After my mother died, I collected money from the state and city governments, rehabbed the home she’d died in, rented it out to a single mother with two kids. Used my VA loan to purchase my spot uptown off of Magazine Street.
Fuck getting paid a dime of retirement or disability. Should’ve listened to Mom and never joined the military. I didn’t mind serving. It was my country’s abandonment after pledging my loyalty, putting my life on the line every day for years for my government, and the uncanny ignorance from clueless motherfuckers in the United States that made me keep my artillery polished.
“Coconut, vanilla, pineapple, amaretto, red berry—”
“Dang, I shoulda brought my gurls over here. Let me sip some of that red berry straight.”
I poured her drink over ice. Hen for me. Sitting on the couch, I cupped Keisha’s breast, closed-mouth-kissed her really quick. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist those lips.”
“That’s okay, daddy,” she said, then sipped her drink. “I thought we were going to dinner.” She stared at my boxer briefs, exposed her grill. “Nice imprint.”
That muthafuckin’ rack had to go. I got up, brought her a small china plate with gold trim. Placed it in front her. “Your mouthpiece will be safe here.”
I sighed relief as she carefully removed them.
Sipping her drink, she swished the vodka, then swallowed.
“I didn’t want you to get sleepy on me. We’re going to eat right before the show. Anywhere you want to,” I paused, placed my hands on her shoulders. Gave her a massage.
“That feels good, daddy.” She closed her eyes.
Pulling her panties to the side, I sipped my drink, then licked her pussy.
“Oh, daddy. You the man. I have to thank you first.” She released my semierect dick through the opening.
The red berry in Keisha’s mouth splattered on my lap, stained my suede sofa.
It was clear liquid. Nothing wipes couldn’t clean up. I smiled, pulled back my foreskin. “Suck him.”
Raising her hands like there was a stickup, and my dick was an assault rifle, she rattled her head, scooted back quickly.
Enhancements were in full effect. My shit was huge. Could understand how I must’ve frightened her but I was ready to blow cum in her face. Get my first count on record.
“Don’t be scared. He’s bigger than his bite,” I reassured her with a grin as my dick got harder. “But I’m going to nibble on your nipples.” I wasn’t joking as I reached for her hand, pulled it toward my swollen head, leaned in to kiss her breast.
She jumped up, then shouted, “Ugh! It’s nasty! Your dick looks old. Why do you have so much loose skin? I’ve never seen that. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.” Keisha put down her drink, snapped in her grill.
Bitch! I stared at her. Slowly my face grew tighter. I couldn’t stop the rising tension. Best if she left right this fucking minute. My eyelids narrowed.
“I’m sorry, daddy, but I’ve never seen anything like—”
Snatching that bitch at her throat, I tightened my fingers. I made sure she swallowed her next words.
Dumb ho! I wasn’t the biggest and thickest, but I had above average length and girth, and I ain’t never had no complaints.
Didn’t she know, once this dick was inside her pussy, she wouldn’t feel the foreskin?
Well, Keisha was about to find out.
CHAPTER 35
Dallas
Day 3
An American flag was not going to get delivered to her mother’s home. “Grab my hand! I got you!” My fingertips touched hers.
Trembling, she started crying. “I’m trying!” Her elbow bent slightly.
“Don’t you dare give up on me, Private!” I commanded, choking on the cloud of dust surrounding us. “Try harder! I stretch! You stretch!”
Giving it all she had, she grunted, “Ughhhh!”
“That’s it. I got you! I got you!”
A boulder fell inches from us, a cluster of rocks rained down on our back. Each blast shook the foundation. More dust rose from the ground, covered our air space, choking us. Gripping her wrist with both hands, I could hardly see her face. I grabbed underneath her armpit. Another boulder descended moving the earth beneath like a quake.
“Hurry, Carter!” She shoved her body toward me.
I yanked her closer. “That’s it! Keep coming!”
“I’m stuck!” she yelled.
Boom! Rocks descended like golf balls of hail.
“Ahhhhh!” She tried to break our grip.
I refused to let her go.
I’d heard that sound before—the kind that roared from the gut, releasing the soul from the flesh. Blood squirted out her mouth.
If I pulled again, her pain would worsen. If I gave up, she’d lose hope. If I left her there, she’d die. Not on my watch. I mustered the strength to free her body, maneuvered her onto my back, then ran fast as I could, carrying her deadweight.
Mama! Mama!” Boxing with the comforter on my bed, I rattled my head until my eyes opened. My soldier’s face flashed before me. My pillow was drenched. Sheets soaked.
I cried. Picked up my cell, inserted my earbuds. Listened to “Your Tears.”
“Are you okay?” the naked woman in my bed questioned.
“Nah, I’m never going to be okay. Ran into my daddy at the concert.”
I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Wouldn’t have been my first time choking a man until his eyes popped out of his head. Didn’t have hatred for my sperm donor’s wife, Noelle, but had no love for her, either. Took her cell number because she wasn’t the only one who had things to talk about. It was time for me to get answers to why Hawk left my mama for dead.
“Which one was your dad?” she asked.
Staring at the ceiling fan blades going round-and-round, I shook my head. Exhaled. Answering her would make
me show her a side of me that I was sure she wouldn’t like.
Noelle’s boys were my half brothers that I’d never said hello to. Why the fuck she waited until I was damn near thirty to share her fucking contact? Didn’t matter when I was in elementary school, they all lived four doors down. They wouldn’t feed me, but her ass knew there were days when my mother couldn’t make ends meet.
Sitting up, I asked the strange woman in my bed, “You hungry?”
She had green eyes. Her weave was tangled. I liked her womanly figure, curvy hips, big ass, and fake, beautiful breasts.
“Depends. On what you have to eat,” she said real sexy, then spread her thighs.
Diving into her pussy, I lapped her lips like a dog feasting on a bowl of milk. Instantly my dick got brick-hard. Couldn’t recall much of what happened after we got in from the concert. Didn’t want her to disrespect me the way that twenty-one-year-old had done.
I flipped her onto her stomach, penetrated her doggie-style. Ramming her from behind, I yelled, “Take this dick like a soldier.” I made the crown of her head hit my royal-blue plush board.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” she repeated.
Not sure and not caring if she was trying to say anything else, I elevated to turbo speed. Sex for me was more about feeling the inside of a woman’s hot, juicy flesh. I replayed a porn video in my mind (that was the good flashback), started slapping her ass, yanking her hair. She grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t touch me!” I yelled, slinging her arm toward the mattress. “You asked for it. Take, all, this, big, dick,” I said, thrusting hard as I could.
“Stop!” she screamed. “You’re hurting me!”
None of my neighbors were close enough to hear her cry. Her screeching excited me. I hoisted her pretty ass up, French-kissed her asshole, then ate the cream off her pussy lips. My dick was at attention again. I put him back inside her.
“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” she repeated.
I wanted to ejaculate so badly I became tensed. Even with the enhancement meds, it was hard for me to come. Before enlisting, if a chick blew on my dick, I’d bust one in her eye. Fucking felt amazing. I could go as long as my erection lasted. Nothing came out. My balls smacked her labia as though they were in a National Open and this round was for the win.
Head Games Page 18
