Trap House

by Sa'id Salaam

  Just as she slinked back into the club, her name was announced as next up. After a quick once-over in the dressing room mirror, Tiffany floated to the stage. She was so high her feet barely touched the floor.

  A stir of commotion rang around the club when the regulars realized that Tiffany, now known as “China Doll,” was dancing. Over the months, she had turned all of them down for dances, drinks, and dates, so her being onstage was a big deal.

  The DJ threw on the latest D-lite song, and Tiffany began moving to the beat.

  Wanda squeezed her way to the front to watch and coach her protégé.

  Mike, too, had come down from his office perch to watch from the side of the stage.

  The DJ announced that $200 would get China Doll out of the sexy boy shorts she was wearing. No sooner than the words left his mouth, hundreds of dollars were stretched toward her.

  Wanda motioned for Tiffany to go around and collected the outstretched bills. Naively, Tiffany took the first bills in her hand until Wanda caught her attention. She lifted her leg and snapped her garter belt, reminding Tiffany to let the patrons place their money there.

  Tiffany danced over to a twenty-dollar bill and dipped low enough for its previous owner to put it in her garter. The man’s hand rubbed against her crotch, causing her knees to buckle slightly as a wave of electric sexual energy pulsed through her body again.

  It seemed that every customer managed to brush against her crotch as they filled her garter belt. By the time she removed the boy shorts, they were soaking wet.

  A few hundred dollars more, and Tiffany was as naked as the day she was born. The excitement of the drugs, alcohol, and men touching her was too much for her. She was in a zone as she leaned against the pole, gyrating with the music and rubbing her rock-hard nipples.

  Tiffany lost track of her surroundings as she got caught up in the sensation she was giving herself. She slid down the pole until she was squatted with her legs wide open. Oblivious to the crowd and needing to get off, she began to masturbate.

  The club grew eerily quiet, as the DJ got so caught up in the show that he neglected to put another song on. The only sounds to be heard were Tiffany’s whimpers as she neared an orgasm.

  Tiffany couldn’t contain herself any longer and let out a scream as the powerful climax wracked her body. Her legs came out from under her, leaving her spread eagle on the stage, exposing her dripping vagina.

  The club was still, and not even the chirp of a cricket could be heard.

  “Hell, yeah!” someone yelled, causing the club to erupt.

  Tiffany was totally embarrassed as she came back to the reality of her surroundings. Through a rain of bills, she saw hundreds of smiling faces. Only one face wasn’t smiling. In fact, its owner looked mortified. Tiffany squinted to bring the shocked face into focus. It was her turn to be shocked once she recognized Carlos. She sprang to her feet and bolted from the stage.

  When she made it to the dressing room, Tiffany collapsed on a bench. She was just so embarrassed. She wished she could just disappear.

  Just as she made up her mind to get dressed and go home, another dancer came in with a bucket of cash. “Gurrl…you…turned that shit out!” Diva exclaimed.

  Tiffany was confused by the money but accepted it. “Um…thank you,” she mumbled, looking at what had to be thousands of dollars, not to mention the garter she wore was also stuffed with cash.

  Soon, the other dancers flowed in, all echoing Diva’s sentiments.

  “Girl, they still tripping out there!” one yelled.

  “Ima do dat same shit,” exclaimed another.

  All the girls congratulated Tiffany except one. Wanda was absolutely fuming at the thought of being shown up. It was her man’s club, and she was the star, the headliner. To make matters worse, she saw how Mike reacted to the performance.

  “What the hell is going on back here?” Mike boomed as he made his way into the crowded dressing room. “This s’pose to be a strip club, and all the strippers in here! Y’all get y’all asses back on the floor,” he commanded.

  The room emptied before all the words exited his mouth. The only people left were Tiffany, Wanda, and Mike.

  “You! Come with me,” Mike demanded, looking at Tiffany.

  “You want me to come too?” Wanda pleaded.

  “Nah. Go dance,” Mike replied without even bothering to look in her direction.

  Wanda shot Tiffany a dangerous glance as she rushed to catch up with Mike. She knew full well Mike intended to sex her after that nasty little show of hers. “I got you,” Wanda spat at Tiffany’s departing back. “Yeah, I got you.”

  * * *

  “Close the door and lock it,” Mike demanded as he entered his office with Tiffany in tow.

  She did as ordered but stayed by the door, afraid she was in trouble. She’d heard Mike complain time after time about the vice squad spying on him. One girl had been arrested the week before for solicitation. Tiffany clutched at her robe just knowing she was about to be fired.

  “Come around here,” Mike ordered in a softer tone as he sat at his desk.

  Tiffany, still fearful, didn’t budge. When Mike began to unbutton his shirt, it became clear what he wanted. Tiffany decided in an instant that she was going to give it up to him.

  When she came around the desk, Mike picked her up and placed her on the desk in front of him. He opened her robe and then laid her back and spread her legs. To Tiffany’s surprise, Mike buried his bearded face in her crotch. By now, he knew enough of Tiffany’s sexual and hygiene habits from Wanda and had no qualms about going down on her.

  Tiffany, who had never experienced oral sex and considered it to be gross, came in seconds. When Mike’s tongue slipped inside of her, she was shocked that it felt as large as Marcus’s penis.

  Mike kept licking her until another strong orgasm shook her small body. When she came, she emitted a spray of juices that splashed Mike’s face. When he stood up, his beard was literally dripping.

  Remembering how, at the dentist, looking at the needle was always worse than the actual shot, Tiffany told herself not to look as Mike removed his pants. She regretted not taking her own advice when she saw the huge penis in front of her. It looked to be the same size as his leg.

  Mike lined himself up and pushed forcefully inside of her. Tiffany screamed as he filled her up, then again when she came for the third time. A few strokes later, Mike screamed as he let go inside of her. Through the pain, Tiffany was quite pleased with herself when the large man slumped on top of her, breathing heavily.

  Wanda had heard enough from the door and removed her ear. Blinded by tears, she ran to her car without even bothering to change into her street clothes.

  When Mike’s breathing returned to normal, he ordered Tiffany to get dressed to leave. He called his assistant manager and told him he was leaving for the night.

  Sam, the assistant, understood; he’d seen the show as well.

  Tiffany would have to get the tour of Mike’s swank Buckhead condo some other time. As soon as they entered, he practically dragged her to the rear. The plush furnishings and 1,000-gallon fish tank filled with colorful creatures were just a blur.

  Mike’s bedroom walls were painted black to match the carpet, curtains, and furniture. He turned on a black light that bathed the room in a gothic glow. “Go on. Knock that out,” Mike said, handing her a black plate with neat white lines of powder cocaine.

  Tiffany longed for a blast, but this would have to do.

  He popped a pill and swallowed it with a large shot.

  “What’s that? X?” Tiffany inquired giddily between snorting lines.

  “Uh-uh. Viagra,” Mike replied with a wicked grin. He almost felt sorry for the young girl, knowing what was in store for her.

  When Mike began to feel the effects of the Viagra and the liquor, he stripped Tiffany and then himself, and everything was underway.

  * * *

  The next morning, Tiffany’s vagina was so battered and s
wollen she couldn’t even put her panties back on.

  Mike got a kick out of watching her limp around his apartment. “You a’ight? Sprain yo’ ankle or something?” Mike giggled as they made their way to the elevator.

  “Ha ha,” Tiffany replied, poking out her lip.

  “How much did you make last night?” Mike inquired, sounding businesslike.

  “Um…almost $2,000,” Tiffany answered, a little taken aback by the change in his demeanor.

  “I know you was in a hurry last night, so make sure you bring your 10 percent when you come tonight. You’ll do a lot better once we get you a few table dances,” Mike rambled on with dollar signs in his eyes.

  Tiffany chided herself internally for allowing herself to think last night meant something. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said sadly.

  Mike wasn’t new to the game. He heard her tone and knew she needed to feel special right then. The young ones were like that. He’d been turning girls out on some level since third grade. “This is just the beginning for us,” Mike said, pulling her close. “I have much bigger things in store for us.” Mike planted a soft kiss on her forehead to punctuate the word “us.” The girls liked that word; it made them feel included.

  “Mmm. Bigger than this?” Tiffany asked, playfully grabbing his manhood.

  “Don’t start nothing you can’t finish,” Mike warned, reacting to her touch.

  Tiffany felt a stab of pain in her crotch when Mike began to stiffen in her hand. She quickly pulled away, fearful of dealing with that monster again so soon.

  Mike got a good laugh out of the horrified look on her face and teased her about it.

  They were so caught up in their playful banter that they walked right past Marcus, who was slumped down in a stolen car. He’d followed them from the club the night before and spent the night smoking in the parking lot. Marcus smoked and plotted, plotted and smoked. He fully intended to make good on his promise. Tiffany had just been added to his list.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Why they won’t just deliver it like they used to? Why you gotta go way up there?” Blast grumbled as she re-counted the money.

  “They say they need to talk to me,” P.I.G. said more confidently than he felt. He’d been wondering the same thing. P.I.G. knew his New York connection was salty when he abruptly changed suppliers. The Mexicans had the same grade of cocaine at a better price than the Dominicans he dealt with in New York. Once Atlanta was established as a major distribution city, New York felt the pinch.

  “One fifty,” Blast announced as she neatly stacked the cash inside a tote bag.

  P.I.G. traded the raggedy sweatpants he generally wore around the house for a tailored suit. The Dominicans, although ruthless drug dealers, were very formal. Blast had selected a charcoal-gray suit and set it off with black gators and a matching belt. A gray brim covered the intricately designed braids Blast had just completed.

  “Get Gina ready. I’m taking her along for the ride,” P.I.G. demanded as he admired himself in the mirror.

  “Don’t bring her back!” Blast demanded in a tone she rarely used. She had begun to despise the young girl since her husband seemed to prefer Gina’s mouth to hers.

  P.I.G. heard the bitterness in her tone and knew Gina’s time had come. “Maybe I can sell her,” P.I.G. offered, hating to let her go. She was, after all, payment for a debt. He started to argue that point, but then he thought better of it.

  Being as large as P.I.G. was, a plane was out of the question—not that he would have flown anyway because he was afraid of flying. Earl pulled his boss’s custom SUV in front of the house and waited. Besides the custom paint and rims, the truck also boasted a state-of-the-art entertainment system including a thirty-two-inch plasma TV, satellite dish, and over twenty speakers. All of the middle and rear seats were removed and replaced by a large loveseat, custom-made to accommodate P.I.G.’s vast size.

  P.I.G. checked the street carefully before making his way to his vehicle. He clutched the bag containing $150,000 closely to his side.

  Gina, in one of her seductive outfits, ambled behind him, looking like Nicki Minaj.

  Once everyone was settled inside, Earl and P.I.G. prepared themselves for the long ride. For Earl, that meant having his shooter and an ample supply of rocks close at hand.

  Meanwhile, P.I.G. pulled out his penis and summoned Gina. He had to call her again to break the trance the outside world engulfed her in. As soon as she saw his exposed penis, she made her way to it, just as she was trained.

  “Let me know if you want some of this,” P.I.G. snorted, offering Gina to Earl for the hundredth time.

  “Naw, I’m cool,” Earl said, declining for the hundredth time as well.

  “Don’t let me find out you don’t like women no mo’,” P.I.G. said, roaring with laughter.

  “I get a lot more than you think I do,” Earl shot back with enough hostility to make P.I.G. leave him alone…for now.

  * * *

  Following the GPS navigation system, Earl pulled in front of the suppliers’ building in just over thirteen hours. They could have made better time if not for P.I.G.’s addiction to Mickey D’s. Every time he saw those golden arches, he demanded that Earl pull over.

  “We’re here, boss!” Earl repeated again, louder to wake the snoring, slobbering man.

  Once P.I.G. was fully awake, they exited the vehicle, leaving Gina behind to chase the incoherent thoughts through her crippled mind.

  A runner greeted P.I.G. and Earl warmly and escorted them into the building.

  The Washington Heights section of Harlem was one of the most dangerous places on Earth, unless you were there to do business with the Dominicans; then it was one of the safest.

  “Don Carlos, he is very happy to see you,” the runner smiled as the elevator rose. Once they reached the third floor, the smile disappeared from the man’s face, and his demeanor changed. “You stay with me,” he ordered Earl, who looked at P.I.G. for approval.

  P.I.G. gave a nod and then went inside.

  “Mi amigo!” Don Carlos exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He rushed over and shook the large man’s hand.

  “Uh, what’s up?” P.I.G. asked, a little confused. He fully expected to be scolded for jumping ship the way he did.

  “Please sit,” Don Carlos said, pointing to a circa-1970s sofa still wrapped in thick plastic.

  A worker came out of a back bedroom and reached for P.I.G.’s bag of cash. P.I.G. was hesitant until Don Carlos gave a reassuring nod. The worker took the money to be counted as P.I.G. and Don Carlos made small talk.

  “Very sorry to hear about your Mexican friends,” Don Carlos said unsympathetically. In fact, it was he who fed them to the Feds. It was part of the dirty game they played. Don Carlos considered himself merciful for turning them in instead of murdering them as his partners suggested.

  The men negotiated to have twenty kilos of cocaine shipped once a week, same as before, except for a $1,000-per-bird penalty. P.I.G.’s disloyalty was going to cost, and the next fee would be his life.

  Once the transaction was complete, Earl was allowed to enter to carry the twenty-three pounds of coke to the truck.

  Don Carlos and P.I.G. exchanged niceties that neither truly meant and then said their goodbyes.

  “Say, you wanna buy a sex slave?” P.I.G. offered at the door.

  “Excuse me?” Don Carlos asked in confusion.

  “A sex slave. She do anything. She retarded. I got her in the truck right now,” P.I.G. said proudly.

  “I’ll have to pass. I’m afraid my wife would not approve,” Don Carlos replied apologetically.

  * * *

  Back in the truck, Earl lined up hits of crack on the dashboard for the trip. P.I.G. got another blow job and was asleep before they hit the George Washington Bridge.

  Five hours later, Earl pulled into a Mickey D’s in Washington DC, as instructed.

  “Right there! Right there!” P.I.G. squealed as the iconic arches came into view.

&nbs
p; “The usual, boss?” Earl inquired as he prepared to exit the truck.

  “Yeah, and take Gina inside for a Happy Meal and leave her happy ass,” P.I.G. replied.

  “Leave her?” Earl repeated, not sure if he heard correctly. “In there?”

  “Yeah, in there, nigga! What? You Captain Save-a-ho now?” P.I.G. barked. “You can stay with her if you want.”

  “Come on, Gina. Eat,” Earl said solemnly. He hated having to do that to the girl. He tried to comfort himself by pretending someone would take her in, though the chances were that in that neighborhood, in that outfit, she would almost certainly be victimized further.

  It was at that moment that Earl decided to kill P.I.G. He and Blast had talked about it several times over the last few months—every since he’d forced them to have sex with each other.

  Once, on a slow night, he ordered Earl to fuck his wife in her ass.

  “This coochie mine, but can have the ass,” P.I.G. said with a sickening chuckle as he taped the episode. Whenever he felt like humiliating one or both of them, he’d play the tape for the junkies in the room.

  What P.I.G. didn’t count on was that Evil and Blast were catching feelings for each other. He was far too arrogant to believe that the help could take his wife. They both realized life could be for the better without P.I.G. in it.

  “Your days are numbered,” Earl swore as he led the handicapped girl to be stranded. “Time’s almost up!”

  * * *

  When they arrived back in Atlanta, P.I.G. was wide awake…and wide open.

  “A’ight. Let’s get this money,” P.I.G. announced to Blast when they entered the house.

  “Where’s your retard?” Blast asked when she didn’t see Gina.

  “What’s it to you?” P.I.G. snapped, still bitter about having to give her up. “You need to start cooking and stay out my business. I want y’all to whip a bird for each house, and stick with the fifties,” P.I.G. ordered, fully intending to milk the drought for all it was worth. “Earl, run over and check the traps. Bring back the money so we can make another move.