by Noire
He lifted himself up and stood a foot taller than her, arms folded.
She inhaled his body. “Show me why they call you Pretty.”
He laughed. It wasn’t that easy. She called the shots, but he gave the bullets direction. He held out his hand for payment; his eyes never left hers.
She adjusted her shirt. She showed more cleavage and her lips pouted. She imposed her sexuality on her young thug.
“No disrespect, Mrs. Patterson, but I got to get paid before I release the hound.” His joke had serious intent.
She immediately snapped her fingers. Her movements were mechanical, like she had done this before. Mr. Patterson reached for an envelope in his suit jacket; his movements were choppy and unsure. It appeared to be his first and last time in this arena.
Mr. Patterson retrieved the envelope and slid it across the desk. Mrs. Patterson scooped it up and banged it against the palm of her hand. She offered Pretty the envelope. “Will this do?”
He accepted it and pushed it deep into his back pocket.
“You’re not going to check?” she asked.
“I don’t need to check. My bitches never short me.” He knew what she wanted. He used the word “bitch” like a tool to put women like her in their proper place. He figured Mr. Patterson wanted to call her quite a few “bitches,” but they had their parameters set, and it was hard to move in that direction after years of having it one way.
“Now ask me again.” Pretty paused. “Nicely.”
Mr. Patterson watched in awe. Pretty saw the way he scrambled with the air to get eye contact with him. Pretty looked in Mr. Patterson’s direction, but not directly. It pissed him off. Pretty would fuck with his head for all those times he called him Jarvis and meant it. Pretty figured that Mrs. Patterson would be careful not to let Mr. Patterson interfere with their situation. She was no different than the other white women that Pretty was around. They had dated white men all of their lives and wanted to see what the myth was all about. They thought that black men were hung like stallions. They thought that black men were unruly. They assumed that black men made love differently and fucked much differently than the rest of the world. Pretty put on his “black man” suit and gave the bitch what she wanted.
She changed her tone and spoke quietly, “Can you show me why they call you Pretty?”
They were a few feet away from each other. Pretty closed the gap. She smelled fresh, like a floral powder. Her cleavage showed freckled C’s or possible D’s trying to break free.
Pretty’s demand was low-key, “Ask him to leave us first.” Now he gave Mr. Patterson eye contact. Pretty’s lips creased in victory as Mrs. Patterson spun around and ordered Mr. Patterson out. He put up no fight as he once again slowly lifted himself from his chair. He went to the bar and finished his scotch and, without uttering a word, walked out the door.
“Is that better, sir?” she asked, proud of showing her authority at a split second’s notice.
“Sure.” He looked toward the bar and pointed. “Now I’ll have a drink.”
“What kind of drink would you like, sir?”
“The same kind your husband had.” Pretty slung the word around like mud.
She washed out the glass Mr. Patterson had used and filled it halfway with scotch. She brought it with her and watched him sip. He took smaller swallows. The fact that he wasn’t used to the finer liquor made him more appealing. She wanted something short of the jungle.
He ushered her over with his finger. “Come here.”
She followed direction. She wanted to touch his braids. She wanted to see if he had tattoos. She wanted him to rap about the hood. She wanted everything that MTV and the NBA had to offer.
“Why do you want this to happen?” he asked.
Her head dropped. Embarrassment crept in. She remained silent.
He sipped. It didn’t burn as much as it had before. “Did you hear me?”
She whispered, “Yes, I did, sir.”
He moved close. She smelled the liquor. “I don’t want a whisper.” He invaded her space. Got real personal. “I want the boardroom beast. I want the wild wife that can’t get what she needs from her husband. I want the bitch that I know you can be. Can you give me that voice?”
Her voice reached a higher decibel. “Yes, you can get that woman, sir.”
“Well, why do you want to be a part of this?” he growled.
“Because my husband can’t fuck, sir,” she shouted.
Pretty lost his composure. “Huh?”
She stood proud even though she gave away part of her family’s secret. “He cannot fuck, sir.”
“So, why me?”
She gave no eye contact. The schoolgirl in her came out.
“I said, why me, bitch!”
Her answer was short and aggressive. “Because you’re black, sir.”
He pointed toward the door. “There are a few black men out there. You could have any one of them. Why did your husband call me into his office?”
“Because I asked him to.” She paused. Irritation flared. “Sir.”
“And how do you know me?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, why did you ask for me?”
“Because you are the one that they call Pretty, sir.”
“Who are they?”
She stepped out of character. “Does it matter who they are?”
“I ask the questions, bitch!”
She fell back into place. “I’m sorry, sir.” She warmed to his commands. She ate his voice. “The they that I refer to is my good friend Mrs. Charleston, sir.”
Pretty coughed. He knew Mrs. Charleston as the lady with the unenviable task of time sheets. She was in Human Resources. She was Oriental and built like a sumo wrestler. How she knew his nickname was Pretty, he didn’t know.
“I know Mrs. Charleston. And she told you what?”
“She told me that they call you Pretty, sir.”
“Do you know why they call me Pretty?”
“I can guess. But I would love for you to show me why they call you Pretty, sir.”
Pretty moved to her ear. He tugged it his way before words found the inside. “I’ll show you why, but not here.” Her body language showed hesitation. He took it as defiance. They got their signals crossed. “We fuck at my place.” He checked his watch. His tone was disrespectful. “I parked in back. Tell Geronimo that you’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He pulled her near. “No questions. We do it my way. Understand?” His question was obviously rhetorical, because he didn’t wait for an answer. He strolled out. Her horse turned into a pumpkin.
He beeped his car horn as soon as she came out. She hurried over and waited for him to open the door. His chivalrous nature never made the trip. He flung the door open from the inside. She started to speak; his hand stopped her. He drove down a couple of streets before making a quick right down Thurgood Road. She’d heard about it. She watched the crowds change before her eyes. Near the bank, people were light as the day. As he rolled closer and closer toward downtown, their shades got dark, like her fantasies. She didn’t mind seeing it from a distance. She realized her fantasy was reality when his car came to a screeching halt near a bodega where three black men sat outside smoking and playing dominoes.
“Get the fuck out!”
She clutched her pocketbook. He cut the engine, grabbed his dick, and slid his seat back. He reached overhead and flipped his visor down. A tightly rolled cigar fell into his lap. He pushed his car lighter in and waited. He pressed his cigar into the cave of the lighter. He blew a steady stream her way. She choked and remembered the smell. Her ex-boyfriend used to smoke weed every day after class and before sex. She likened Pretty to him.
“Get the fuck out!”
She looked toward the men who continued to play games. “I’m not getting out here.”
Pretty placed his smoke inside the ashtray and started his car up again. He never looked her way. “I’ll take you back.”
She watched him rea
ch for the gears. She grabbed his hand. “Wait. Just tell me why I have to get out here?”
Pretty finally blessed her with eye contact. She felt his connection again. She watched him put his cigar back to his mouth. She dreamed about the places his full lips could kiss. His eyebrows were thick and tamed. His jaw was square and his goatee rode it from ear to ear. She wanted to ride him from here to there. His interest wasn’t the same as before. She wanted to get him back to that level and she knew she had to eat a few slices of humble pie. Resistance always made her come quicker.
He took a slow drag. His car filled with chocolate flavor. He rubbed his moustache and watched her squirm. He played his part. He would ask for his Oscar later. “You want the hood, right?”
Her banter was awkward. “I don’t know.” Her fingers trailed his thigh.
He slapped them away. “No touching. I want you to walk down the block, go to number 114, ring the third bell from the bottom, and walk upstairs to apartment 3.” She looked up and down the street. He figured she had more questions. He jumped in and pointed behind her. “Walk down that way. Don’t talk to anyone. When you’re in the crib, I want you to strip in the middle of the floor. You got it?”
She nodded. He reached over and opened her door. She got out with hesitancy. He watched her look around before pulling her coat shut. She hurried past the old men and began her journey down the darkest street in the neighborhood. He spun his car around and drove to his house, never once checking on her. He jogged up the few flights of stairs and rushed inside. He put a few things away before settling in his favorite chair. He lit his smoke again, and waited. He listened to the hustle and bustle of the street and wondered where she was. She would probably jump out of her skin when she passed the Rodriguezes’. They kept their vicious pit bulls outside on a leash that was long enough for them to munch on those who were too scared to walk near the street. Dallas and his boys would definitely harass that fresh white meat when she strolled by. No telling who would jump out of the alley a few houses up and ask to shine her shoes for a buck. He knew she needed the whole experience of the hood, not just the dick. Years ago Pretty would have done her right in the office and took her money right then and there. Now she would get it where and when he wanted to give it. He would show her what separated him from the rest of the pigeons she was used to dealing with. He turned off all of the lights and left a blue track light on. He positioned it in the middle of the floor. He impressed himself with his ability to make women perform at a higher level. He lit his cigar again and blew smoke up his own ass.
He heard noises, and then the steady patter of feet approaching. He pulled his chair behind the light. He watched the door swing open slowly. Her movements showed hesitancy, perhaps unsure that she was in the right spot. He gave assurance with a “Hello.” She heard his voice, relaxed, but still stood motionless by the door. She looked out of place with her expensive clothes, her timid smile, and her unsteady stance. She wobbled. He barked out orders. She followed his directions and walked toward the spotlight. She looked better under the blue light. It gave her color and presence. It made her shape glisten. Made her feel like she was onstage. She would transform into his bitch on command. She wished her husband made her do what he wanted to do. He always asked.
She heard shuffling and then soft music played. “Strip!”
She whispered something to herself, lowered her head, and raised it with renewed vigor. Her top fell. He couldn’t tell what color mixed with blue made red, so he concentrated on the bra’s design. It was silky, half-cut, and her nipples made a strong attempt to burst through. They were the size of nickels, her breasts like cantaloupes. He loved his fruits and vegetables. He watched her undo her pants and ease them off. Her thighs were well trained and her skin was a smooth tan all the way through. He thought about Mr. Patterson. Thought about what he was going to do with his wife. Wondered what he would do when he got done and went back to work tomorrow. His hand went to his pocket and traced the swell of the envelope. He imagined if she’d come this far, no telling how far she would go. Three thousand was great, but more was better. He decided to give her that “string you out” dick. He knew if she was willing to pay for a stranger, she would pay dearly for “That Nigga!”
He filled his space with gray smoke and pushed it into her blue sphere. She acted like it was Febreze, the way she inhaled and closed her eyes, swaying to the music. He walked over, grabbed her attention and seized the moment. His grip was demanding; his scowl spoke volumes of what was about to transpire. She let her arm go limp inside his hand. She gave in to her money.
With a flick of the wrist, he flung her around and checked out her goods. He rubbed his chin. He was going to enjoy laying pipe to her dreams. She wanted the hood; he would give her a reason to come back. He pushed her to the ground by leading her with her shoulders. She popped back up and looked down. There was nothing to comfort her fall. Nothing to soften the blow.
“You want a pillow?” he asked. He was more affectionate than earlier.
She smiled. “Yes.”
His mood went back to being distant and obtrusive. “Husbands give pillows. Niggas give direction. That’s what you want, right?”
She didn’t know what she wanted. She wanted to control his controlling behavior. Her mind wandered; her fantasy was interrupted.
He noticed regression and picked up the pace.
“I’ll show you why they call me Pretty,” he said as he reached for his belt.
Her eyes dropped to his hands. She watched him expertly pull his belt without looking. She loved introductions. Most men whipped it out, hoping it would impress. He was different.
He slid his belt from around his waist and let it hit the ground. He watched her watch him. He knew she was into the slow, tantalizing introduction. She loved his ruggedness. She was intrigued by his name and its meaning. He would play it for all it was worth. Three thousand dollars’ worth.
His commands were strengthened by his deep voice. “Get on your knees.”
She followed his direction.
He wanted her hands behind her back. He barked for her to lift her head and close her eyes. “And open your fucking mouth.”
She opened her mouth as wide as she could.
He corrected, “Open it slightly. I want my dick to fight through a closed mouth and reach for your tonsils.” He laughed. “You do have tonsils, right?”
She opened her mouth and gave a loud “Ah.” She closed her eyes and her mouth, finding his request easy to accomplish.
His voice was stronger and more determined. “You love black dick, right?”
Her voice got softer and weaker. “Yes, I do, sir.”
He put his hands on his hips and beckoned her to open her eyes. “Release the hound, bitch!”
She hurriedly reached for his pants. She fumbled for a second before unsnapping the buttons. She brought her nose near him. She breathed his soul and kissed his stomach.
He snatched her head back. “You kiss when I say kiss. Understood?” He threw her head back to her.
“Yes, it is, sir.” She reached for his pants again, and stopped short. “Is it okay if I continue, sir?”
“Dig it out,” he ordered. “Slowly.”
She pulled his underwear out with one hand, and with the other, she dug deep. Her eyes slammed shut; her groan was seductive. She immediately withdrew her hand. Her hesitancy heightened his arousal. The print that outlined his piece throbbed through his pants. She could see it pulsate, jump, and then try to break free.
He admired his tool: His weapon of choice. He knew he had her exactly where he wanted. He just couldn’t fuck it up. He had to keep her on the ropes with directness and sharp lashes of his tongue. He reminded himself not to get too comfortable and complacent. “Take this dick out, bitch!”
Her hand found a home back inside his pants. Her eyes slammed shut again and her nipples hardened. He stood above her and watched her growing nubs press against her bra. His rough fingers pinched her
nipple before stroking it with tiny flicks of his forefinger. She almost came.
Her fingers held his piece tighter as her orgasm neared. She thought about a burglary to bring her high down. She wouldn’t dare come so soon. Three thousand dollars was nothing, but it was enough for her to want to take her time. She grabbed the sides of his pants and slowly inched his jeans to his knees. She looked up and saw his “pretty.” She drew back in amazement. Her eyes bulged at the size. Semi-hard, it hung from her eyes to her chin. The thickness was not to be denied. Her tiny hands barely fit around. Her thumb and fingers struggled to meet in the middle. And it was the color of wet wood. Darker than his legs, but lighter than his knees. It was pretty. Pretty fucking big. Pretty fucking chocolate. Pretty fucking thick. And pretty fucking straight. It hung to the middle. It throbbed toward the top. She brought it to her face. Her moan was sadistic, like she never had dick near her face.
“I want to eat it. And I want you to tell me how, sir.”
He held it in his hand. It was the same color as his hand. “Eat the head,” he ordered.
Her mouth raced for the tip. The contrast was stimulating to her. Her white skin near the rich darkness of his dick proved enticement. She’d fallen in love with the difference years ago on a ski trip. Pretty never fell in love with the color nor the contrast, only the results. White chicks gave him what he needed. A few tried to be bossier than normal, but without slave papers, they would get hard dick and bubble gum.
She licked his head. It blossomed and got thicker. She loved portabella mushrooms, especially chocolate ones. She kissed the head, attempting to swallow his pride. His grip remained around the top of his dick. He wouldn’t allow her lips to go any further down. With one hand he grabbed her hair. He couldn’t get much in his grasp, so he gripped the back of her head and turned her face to the side. “I want to see those white lips on my dark dick.” He knew she wanted to hear his verbal assault.
She massaged his head with her tongue. With every light flicker, she moaned like he was her favorite flavor. Black macadamia nut. He stood above and admired her work. He marveled at her enthusiasm for pleasing him. He was sure she could hear him beating his chest.
