by HD HOTEP
SADIE WHYTE:
THE LUST OF MY LIFE
Sadie Whyte: The Lust of My Life
-written by-
HD Hotep
Copyright © 2016 Blue Diamond Publications
Published by Blue Diamond Publications
Facebook: HD Hotep
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual events, real people, living or dead, organizations, establishments or locales are products of the author’s imagination. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Dottie D’Zigns
Editor: Artessa La’Shan Michelé
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission from the publisher and writer.
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication, and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Chapter 1
Whore
Bronx, New York
November, 1978
The small room in the motel was no larger than the den of a modern day two-bedroom apartment building. The dull, tan walls were so thin, a child could’ve punched holes in them. The carpet, faded, worn and thin, was covered in dust, overlooked by the cleaning efforts of the establishment. A thin layer of dust covered the nightstand’s table top like a sheet or a coat of wax, a protective garment. The air was thick and humid. One gazing into the moonlight shining into the room from the window would see a slowly floating midst of dust particles. The curtains partially covering the window were filthy, tan, and burgundy, thick monstrosities, dangling from the bending support beam above them. A wooden chair, with one-fifth of its third leg missing, rested against a wall, as if a crippled old lady taking a break from her foot journey of the evening, tired. The room smelled of mildew, old cigarette smoke, sweat, and sex fluids.
“Ahh, fuck me Daddy! Fuck meeee. Give it to me. Ahhh. Ahh!” Bernice, also known as Ms. Bee, yelled. Her legs were spread eagle, her heels shooting toward the ceiling at an angle. Her heavy 40D breasts bounced, sending ripples through them like the effects of a skipped stone over still water, with every stroke from her companion of the moment. She made faces fit for people suffering numerous physical injustices.
“Give it to me Daddy. Ahhh. Dammit. Ahh. Fuck me Daddy. Ohh!” she yelled. The bed; old, cheap, worn and torn, groaned, as if painful from the workout it was receiving. Sweat ran into Ms. Bee’s eyes. The rhythm of this particular sex session was high impact and strenuous, to say the least.
“Fuck me Daddy. Fuck me.” There wasn’t even a full second between strokes. The bed creaked. Sweat dripped. Ms. Bee yelled.
Her companion of the moment was no average candidate for such a session either. He looked like he’d been cross bred with a dinosaur. Standing 6’4” tall, black as a moonless midnight sky, strong as two oxen, and strapped with eleven inches of serious reproductive equipment; this gentleman had come to play no games. The veins in his neck bulged. He ground his teeth, working his jaw muscles overtime. The muscles in his torso twitched, flexed, and jumped as he pounded Ms. Bee, delivering such thunderous penetrating strokes that it may have appeared that he was attempting to kill the young lady beneath him.
“Ahhh. Ahhh. Ahhh.”
Moments later, sweat soaked face contorted into a tight knot, the gigantic gentleman snatched his bare love muscle out of Ms. Bee’s expanded hot spot and shot his life producing juices all over her face, breasts and stomach.
“Errrrrrrrrrrghh,” he growled, exploding everywhere.
“Yeah Daddy. Yeah. You are God, baby,” Ms. Bee said, before jumping up, wiping herself off, and demanding her money.
In the corner of the room, ignored, quiet, and watching, sat a young girl, six years of age, staring at a scene that had become routine. Her mother was interacting with another man. This is how her mother took care of her, doing these things with all these different men. Beatrice Miller sat there on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest, watching.
*****
“It’s all an act baby. I can take dicks twice as long and three times as fat as that. You’ve got to understand, it’s all a game. Whores don’t sell pussy baby. We sell an experience. A dream. We sell a man the fantasy that a fine ass bitch might really want his trick ass. But a whore’s job is to separate a mark from his money. And there are so many ways to do that. My job is NOT sellin’ pussy. Are you listenin’ to me, little girl?” Ms. Bee said to her daughter, counting her money and sliding back into her dress.
“Yes Ma Ma,” Beatrice said, not really understanding what her mother was telling her, although she’d heard it numerous times before.
“Ain’t no good gotdam men. If it is, it’s one in a billion and the odds of you findin’ one is NONE. They’re all tricks. Nothin but tricks.”
*****
Beatrice sat in the corner of the shanty motel room, nibbling on a candy bar. Some of the men who’d come to do the things they did with her mother refused to go any further with her sitting in the corner. On such occasions, Ma Ma Bee would have a fit, cursing Beatrice’s very existence.
“Always in the gotdam way… wish I woulda’ never had yo ass.”
But many men didn’t seem to mind. Beatrice tried to stay out of the way the best she could, to become invisible. However, she noticed that the things her mother bought her all stemmed from the money the tricks gave her. Some guy, not a very big or attractive guy, would always take most of it though. Beatrice didn’t understand why.
Her mother, once again, was involving herself in another physical sweaty dance session with a stinky man. Beatrice noticed that this particular one, a lot lighter than the last, was built a LOT differently than the one before him. Ma Ma Bee didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh yes. Yes, God! Ahhh,” she yelled.
Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack!
The man behind her slammed into her with all his might, it seemed to Beatrice. “Take it. Take it, you whore,” he barked.
Smack-smack-smack-smack-smack!
He clutched her hips as he methodically smashed himself into her from behind, over and again.
“Yes. Yes. Ahhh.”
He snatched a tuft of her silk black hair and pulled, as if attempting to rein a horse. “Arrghh!” The scream this time was different. “You whore. Take it.”
Smack-smack-smack!
He punched her in the ribs, still clutching the hair.
“Argh. What the-”
He hit her again, only harder. He hit her in the back of her head. Ms. Bee tried to flee this scene, to escape the insanity of this trick gone mad. She kept a knife in her pocket book, which was sitting on the dusty nightstand.
The man wouldn’t let her go. He began choking her, slamming her onto the bed. He held her down, squeezing her neck. With one hand, he began beating her, closed fisted. Blood ran everywhere, exploding out of her nose and her lips. He punched and punched, crushing Ms. Bee’s face beneath the pressure and persistence of his blows.
“Take it bitch!”
Beatrice sat, eyes wide, unable to breathe, petrified, in the corner. Her candy bar hit the floor. Tears welled up in her eyes. She jumped up and ran for the door screaming, a delayed reaction.
The gentleman flew off the bed, slapped her across the room, and approached her slowly. Still nude, he brought his index finger to his lips and glared at Beatrice. She lay on the floo
r, blood running from her nose, still seeing stars. She nodded her head obediently, cowering in the corner.
“Shhhhhhhhh.”
The large, nude gentleman continued beating Beatrice’s unconscious mother. She’d stopped moving moments ago. He flipped her onto her stomach and pleasured himself, no longer a two-person dance but a one-man show.
Smack-smack-smack-smack!
“Ahhhhhh!” he roared, erupting inside Ms. Bee.
It was an event that would NEVER leave her mind or her memory.
“…They’re all tricks…”
Chapter 2
Shrewd
Harlem, New York
1986
Harlem was notorious for its China White heroin, which had turned penny pimpin pushers into men others idolized. The east side of Harlem was known for its pure product, while much later, the west side would get by selling scramble, a watered down version of the real thing.
Mid 80’s Harlem spawned crack cocaine, which opened up another can of worms all together. You had West Side Harlem and Spanish Harlem. But no matter the case, in Harlem, most were poor. There were exceptions like Seville Row, which was an immaculately maintained strip of homes and brown stones.
The China White and then, the crack cocaine, preceded by free base, opened doors for many opportunists of the time. As time passed, 190 Benzes, 528 BMW’s, Porsche’s, Jetta’s with kits, and Saabs with gold rims began cruising up and down the streets, exposing many men and women to portions of the American Dream previously reserved for dreams alone.
People, young men and women alike, congregated at The Roof Top skating rink, gambled at Joe Grant’s, and hung out at Rucker Park while watching the skilled regulars play ball. Fast women were referred to as hotties and freaks. Hip men called each other “B”, sporting Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and straight legged jeans. They shopped at spots like Dapper Dan’s and AJ Lester’s. It wasn’t rare to see pimps and hustlers wearing house medallions with gold and diamonds, and fast women wearing bracelets with their names written in diamonds. Very few had yet reached the level of wearing Rolexes regularly, though, at the time.
“Ahhh. Ahhh. Ahhh Daddy,” Beatrice moaned.
Her young body was shapely, her breasts perky, but her face, captivating with knowing, large dark brown eyes, tended to draw perverted men to her more so than anything else about her, besides her whorish strut.
The gentleman beneath her was overweight by at least 60 pounds, dark brown, wearing a small well-trimmed afro. His eyes were closed. His hands gripped her young buttocks.
Boom!
The door to the small room flew open. The overweight gentleman’s eyes popped open. Beatrice froze.
“You’re fuckin my girl?” the massive, dark, gentleman in the doorway growled. Beatrice jumped up.
“He was makin’ me fuck him. I told him I ain’t want to,” she said, grabbing her clothes.
The overweight man on the bed scrambled up into the sitting position with an expression of disbelief on his face. “What?” he yelled.
The massive gentleman, face balled into a tight knot, made two fists and approached the young man on the bed. “I-I don’t know what she’s talkin about. I was payin her to fuck her. I swear. She was lettin me fuck her,” the man stuttered.
“No, I was not. He said he was gonna hurt me if I ain’t give him no pussy.”
Shaking his head, tears welling up in his eyes, the overweight man spoke. “She’s lying man. She’s lying.”
The huge gentleman approaching him paused. “How much money you got?”
“I don’t know. But you can have it all. I didn’t know she was your girl. She said I could fuck her for some money,” the overweight gentleman said, fear dominating his face. He threw the big man his jeans. The imposing man took his wallet and all of his money.
“If I ever catch you fuckin my girl again, I’ll kill you.”
Mid-eighties Harlem is where Beatrice Miller grew to understand her world. Being a ward of the state wouldn’t cut it for Beatrice. Early tests had proved, although unknown to her, that her IQ was a bit too high to remain content simply “going with the flow” of her hectic and dismembered life. She’d run from the foster home she’d been placed in in the Bronx and made her way to Harlem. She’d met Troop, a huge young man for his tender age of 17 years, who protected her, had sex with her, and prostituted her. And Beatrice, only 14, had learned many scams so as to provide for Troop and herself. And the “You’re-fuckin-my-girl” scam was the latest that she and Troop had successfully mastered.
*****
“Ahh. Ahhh. Ahh,” Beatrice moaned.
She stood with her hands pressed to the wall. A ragged, bearded gentleman held her small hips as he banged her from behind, her dress hiked above her buttocks. Beatrice had snatched his pants and shoes off. She’d swallowed his meat stick and turned her head into a yo-yo on his throbbing member. But he wanted more.
“You got some more money?” she’d asked, lightning quick.
“I got plenty of money,” he’d said, eyes bulging, tongue nearly hanging from his mouth.
“Do it. Fuck me good. Oh,” she moaned, throwing her small backside into the man’s pelvis.
He moved his hand from her hips and wrapped his arms completely around her, pressing his sweaty face into the crook of her neck. His breath was hot and stale. He was several times her size. Yet, she felt that she was handling him.
“Do it. Fuck me. Oh, fuck me good,” she cooed.
The man began to shutter and convulse seconds later. “Arrrrrgh,” he groaned as he reached his climax.
When his knees slightly buckled as he erupted, Beatrice slid from in front of him, jetting straight to his pants and his underwear and tossed them out the window. The half-nude gentleman’s face turned to stone.
“You dirty little freak,” he growled, pursuing her.
Beatrice flew out the front door and shot down the stair case, ignoring his threats. Reaching the ground floor, she ran out front and retrieved the man’s pants, relieving him of his wallet and fleeing the scene.
“I’ll kill you, you little freak!” the man yelled out the window. “Somebody stop that girl!”
Chapter 3
Business Expenses
1988
Beatrice was no ‘poor little thing’. She was no one’s sob story. She didn’t wallow in self-pity. And though she was petite and slender, yet curvy, she didn’t maneuver through her young 16 year old world in fear. She was no push over. In fact, she was no less of a woman than any other adult female she crossed paths with, in her mind. She’d experienced a LOT over her few years of existence. Her mother had been murdered in front of her. She’d witnessed it!
“They’re all tricks.” Her mother had taught her some very valuable lessons from her point of view. And these lessons assisted her in surviving and maintaining. Her young body had been ‘around the block’, so to speak. And what made what she did a lot easier was the fact that she was a very attractive, young, brown skinned lady. Secondly, her body and the way she unintentionally and consciously, at times, moved it, also moved men’s heads in her direction. But the most important thing about Beatrice’s profession and method of survival was the fact that she LOVED to fuck.
Her mother had been a whore. And although she’d talked about how deficient men were a lot more than she’d ever spoken about the possible joys of sex, Beatrice might have gotten her insatiable lust from her mother. She’d also learned that men would ‘change’ and do things they might not normally do for a ‘…piece of hot tail.’ And Beatrice was growing better and more skilled at persuading men to do such things by casting anticipation-of-great-sex spells on them on a regular basis.
Beatrice sauntered up the street, the bottom of her buttocks bouncing beneath the cut of her tight shorts. Daisy Duke would’ve immediately felt out of her league if placed in a competition against Ms. Beatrice Miller. She switched her little hips, stepping effortlessly in high heels she’d been accustomed to wearing on a regular basi
s since the age of twelve. She carried ten band aids, a box cutter, cortisone cream, a pack of gum, condoms, and lubricant. She also carried an extra pair of panties. She’d learned that some men would actually purchase her soiled panties and keep them as souvenirs. She never carried ID of any kind. Beatrice was whomever she chose to be.
Although Troop had gotten himself incarcerated for an attempted murder, Beatrice refused to stop providing for herself in his absence. She’d run into a few skirmishes with her competition, with pimps, the police, general haters, and victims of her and Troop’s scams.
“Baby, Ms. Bee. Oh my God, is that you?” an older whore, who hadn’t noticed that her time had passed some time ago, asked.
Beatrice stopped and stared at the lady. She whipped her long silky hair out of her face. A smooth, caramel complexioned face with noticeable jaw lines, accentuated by large innocent eyes, perfect kiss shaped lips and a distinctly African American nose. She was blessed with beauty and what had been referred to as ‘good bones.’ She gave the woman a defiant once over.
“You’re Ms. Bee’s daughter, aren’t you?” the woman persisted.
“Who are you?” Beatrice asked, feisty.
The woman took a deep breath. Her eyes grew larger. The excessive blush worn too high on her cheeks made her appear to be wearing a silly disguise. The fake lashes, the wig, and the pant-suit, a couple sizes too small, didn’t help matters much either.
“I’m Sylvia. You look JUST like your Ma Ma, girl. Your Ma Ma was like a sister to me…”
Sylvia had hit a soft spot: Ma Ma. Beatrice didn’t know much about her mother. All she had were a few years of memories. Beatrice and Sylvia wound up sharing the same room; Sylvia talking and Beatrice listening.
“Your Ma Ma was the best that ever did it. She was one hell of a lady. EVERYBODY respected Ms. Bee. She could make a trick spend his last penny on her pretty ass. And damned if you don’t look JUST like her.”
Beatrice asked many questions and Sylvia answered them all. Beatrice learned many things about her mother. The way she now cocked her head to the left whenever she didn’t trust someone had stemmed directly from her mother.
