Sex in the Hood Saga
Page 1
Sex in the Hood Saga
White Chocolate
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Epilogue
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Duke Johnson towered over a fucking, sucking tangle of bodies at his feet. The wall-to-wall carpet of black, brown and beige asses, titties, legs, arms and dicks extended up the huge staircase and under tall archways on each side. To the left and to the right were huge rooms where hundreds of people were bouncing and banging and blowing to a deafening bass beat and nasty rap lyrics.
Straight ahead, double glass doors reflected Duke’s six feet six inches of smooth, dark muscle draped in white linen pants and matching shirt. The dim light cast a crown-like glow around his bald head and made his diamond ring sparkle as he surveyed his enterprise, including the dozens of Barriors, black warriors who flexed like the ninja motherfuckers they were supposed to be if some fool went crazy in the middle of all this pussy. Wearing black from head to toe, the Barriors were double-strapped at the hips, watching to make sure everybody followed the rules in the hot, intoxicating fumes of booty, booze, and blunts.
Yeah, it looked and felt like the kind of pussy party that made Babylon the baddest in the business, but something didn’t smell right. So, The Duke was about to collect the bank his damn self and remind everybody who was the boss. Not Izz, the host of this Sunday afternoon fuck fest. Not any of these warriors who worked for him and were conspiring with Izz to steal his cash. And not Knight, who was reputedly trying to call the shots from behind bars.
Hell naw. The only one in charge of Babylon and beyond was The Duke—and only The Duke, now and forever. Especially after today, when he would meet the goddess who was going to help him take Babylon coast to coast.
“We gon’ be in an’ out in a Motor City minute,” Duke told his boy, Beamer, who stood beside him. “I ain’t gon’ let Izz’s bullshit make me late to get my Duchess.”
“You trippin’,” Beamer said. “You crazy if you think that half-white rich bitch from TV is gon’ come down to D-town worse hood an’ get wit’ yo’ gangsta ass.”
“Watch me,” Duke said, staring each Barrior in the eye. He had no time for anybody’s scheme right now, since Knight would be out in two weeks. Duke had to make everything perfect, to show he was handling business himself and building Babylon even bigger and better than what his older brothers started.
The four Barriors at the front door approached, handing Duke a miniature gold treasure chest full of cash.
“Babylon!” They shouted the way Marines would say “Attention!” with the loudest emphasis on the last part of the word. As they bowed to Duke, the tall, muscular men each pounded their right fists over their hearts and said in unison, “Massa Duke rule Babylon!”
“Wha’z up.” Duke’s nod let them know they could march back to the door.
“A lotta dicks is what’s up,” Beamer said, taking the heavy money chest and sliding it into his sleek black shoulder bag.
Beamer was usually obedient and reliable, but right now Duke wanted to slap the silly out of his boy’s big Bambi eyes. A goofy glow always seemed to jump off Beamer’s face, from the cinnamon-hued freckles on his plump, peanut butter brown cheeks to his thin brown lips. His wide, flat nose was pointed down at the tip. His hair, dark brown with a slight red cast, snaked back in cornrows that gathered in a ponytail down his neck as he watched a girl’s titties flap while she fucked.
“Stop gawkin’ like this the first time you seen pussy,” Duke said, biting down to make his jaw muscles flex.
“Yes, Massa Duke.” Beamer wrapped his chubby fingers around the BMW medallion hanging over his red, white, and blue Detroit Pistons jersey. His fast-talk was even more jovial than usual as he said, “This ain’t nothin’ compared to what your birthday party gon’ be Friday. Check out homegirl. She earnin’ her keep today.”
At the foot of the stairs, a Slut was working two guys. They were laying on their backs, their heads pointing in opposite directions. She was squatting down, fucking one guy with her ass pointed toward his face, while she bent over to suck the other guy’s dick. Both of them wore condoms to protect her mouth and her pussy, according to Babylon rules. She was like a pump; her ass went up when her head went down, and vice versa.
The dude under her pussy was squeezing her ass, with one black hand on each of her big, brown booty bubble cheeks. The guy under her mouth had his redbone fingers a
ll up in her black braids. They were flying all over his belly and hips as she worked it to the rhythm of some rapper chick squealing lyrics about how she loved to “bounce that ass, make it fas’, make it last, bounce that ass.” That’s what hundreds of people were doing on each side of this foyer, where big archways opened onto huge rooms full of sex.
“Damn,” Beamer said, scanning the scene that was littered with rubbers and wrappers. “They ’bout to play musical pussies.”
Duke looked to the right, where about fifty Sluts stood facing the four walls, pressing their hands to the red paint, bending over, and sticking out every size and shape of booty. Some orange Victorian-style lamps, the kind with the fabric shades and hanging beads, cast an orange light on the chicks’ asses, which were every color from almost white to blue-black.
In the middle of the room, a Barrior stood with a whistle, surrounded by fifty nude dudes with condom-covered cocks ready to rock. The whistle blew, and every guy found a pussy to drill. Thirty seconds into the act, the whistle blew again, and all the dicks had to swing to the next pussy on the right. All kinds of dicks—from that huge-ass licorice stick covered in cream to that brown pencil prick in the corner to that fat, brown sausage to the left—they all came out, shining like a mug with sex juice, then disappearing under some of the prettiest asses in Motown. They did this over and over, until each guy made his way around the room, sticking his dick into all fifty of those hot, wet holes. They were healthy holes, as the Sluts were checked by the doctor every week back at Babylon HQ, and the mandatory jimmy rule made sure all that pussy meat stayed clean.
Duke watched this symphony of sex being played by every kind of human instrument: titties that were pointed, flat, swole, bite-size, natural, silicone, suntanned and freckled, with nipples that looked like pepperonis, pink frosting, licorice discs, copper pennies, or bronze slots at the casinos, all with a little point or a big udder tip on the end.
He watched asses of every shape and size: huge, ripply ones that looked like if somebody put his hand on it, the booty would ripple like a rock in a pond, and tiny butts that were so skinny the whole asshole was exposed when they weren’t even bent over. But mostly, perfect booties filled the room—big and round, firm and smooth, muscular, and athletic—as if the bitch could buck and ride for hours and never get tired.
There was pussy hair that sprayed out like afros or was shaved into shapes like hearts, stars, and lips. Others had just a little strip of hair at the top—a Brazilian wax like Duke’s first baby momma, Milan, had—so everything else, including the pussy lips, was bald. Some of the chicks were shaved completely hairless. Other girls had pussy hair that was so nappy it looked like little black ants crawling around the tops of their thighs. Others had silky black fur that made a nigga just want to pet it like a cat while he was lapping up the milk in her steamy bowl.
The Sluts wore the hair on their heads in every imaginable style, all of it bouncing and flying around as they fucked like rabbits without getting tired. Lee Lee worked them in the gym as tough as she conditioned Babylon’s Secret Service because this was their job, and they had to be in shape . . . and healthy. But if Milan kept acting crazy, Duke was going to have to replace her scheming ass with somebody who could concentrate on keeping the Sex Squad schedules, doctor’s appointments, and income on time and accounted for. All of it.
Sudden vibration on his waistband made Duke pull the cell phone from his belt. MILAN flashed across the blue screen for the fourth time in an hour. He pressed his thumb to the little silver button to put that wanna-be-who-ain’t-gonna-be into voice mail. He’d heard enough of her bitching and whining for today, because this was a day for the history books of Babylon as ruled by The Duke. This was the day the black god that he was would meet the ultimate female partner—in business and in bed—and give her the power and glory that every bitch in the hood would kill to have as The Duchess.
“She trippin’,” Beamer said, holding up his red-flashing phone which read: MILAN. Duke shook his head. Beamer reattached the phone to the pocket of his saggy jeans. “Dog, I got a bad feelin’. Just like that night Prince got shot.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Duke said. “Don’t jinx my shit, ma’fucka. Don’t never say that to me again. Jus’ let me work. An’ tell me if Pound call. We gotta be on the spot right when Duchess come.”
“Yes, Massa Duke.”
“We rollin’ strong,” Duke said, referring to the back-up he had outside the kitchen windows and door, just in case. “But if you act like a bitch, I’ll treat you like one.”
A girl to the right screamed. “Fuck ma pussy, punk! Not ma assho’!”
In a flash, the nearest Barrior was on him, saying, “You out.”
“Aw, man, I won’t do it again.” The rule-breaker had a punk look on his face.
The Barrior’s big hand on homeboy’s shoulder made him sober up. “I said you out,” the Barrior repeated, pushing the punk toward the door. “Go to the Black Room. Ain’t no rules in there.”
The booty-poker stroked his cock as he left. He walked across the foyer to the room that was pitch black except for a few purple lightbulbs, which cast a lavender glow over the twist of shiny bodies. They were grinding and banging and shaking in every inch of the room.
“Look like a bowl of purple chitlins,” Beamer said with a laugh. “And if somebody get they period, it’s gon’ look like they poured hot sauce on the chitlins.”
“You a nasty ma’fucka,” Duke said, turning back to the musical fucking, where another dude took the booty-poker’s place.
“Shit!” another Slut shouted. “My pussy ain’t the Windsor Tunnel, an’ I ain’t lettin’ yo’ eighteen-wheeler bust through!”
“Ooh,” another girl purred. “Send ’im to me.”
The Barriors rearranged the guys, blew the whistle, and let the fucking begin again.
Duke loved to look at all this sex. No matter how many times he had seen this, his dick would get cocked as hell. But right now, Timbo wasn’t swole for any of these bitches. Timbo was as big and hard as a tree trunk with only one pussy in mind. Her ridiculously fine face on TV this morning was stuck in his head like a hologram, touching every thought, shooting a laser beam down to his dick. Even his fingertips were tingling with the need to give that virgin pussy the Mandingo dick-down of the millennium, which The Duke would do before the night was over.
Even though he’d never met the girl, he just knew he had to have her the first time he saw her beautiful face and heard her brilliant, sultry voice on the news a few weeks ago. “And so it is written,” he had said, quoting the Ancient Egyptian pharoah Ramses from The Ten Commandments. “And so it is done.”
And it would be done in a couple of hours. But for now, Timbo was hard as hell for another reason. Every one of those pussies and every one of those dicks represented big dollar signs in Duke’s mind. Big, big dollar signs. Money he learned how to make from Prince. Money he earned by building the Sex Squad to three times what Prince had started. Money he planned to make even more of once he got Duchess in on negotiating and strategizing to make every part of Babylon bigger, better, badder.
With a brilliant business mind, a pretty, light-bright face and the Queen’s English, that chick was about to become the money-making face and voice of Babylon. And if he had any concern about how her lily white suburban-raised ass would react to this, he knew she would get over it in a Motor City minute. The sex power in her eyes was so strong he had felt a chill when she looked into the TV camera and out the screen, right into his soul.
She’ll be all into this. Might like it too much. But I’ll be bangin’ her fine ass so tough, I’ll give her some Timbo ten times a day if she want it. An’ she will.
Gold-tipped titties came bouncin’ his way. Long fingernails tickled his cheek. Like a brown Barbie with straight black bangs, a bob-style haircut that swayed just below her ears, and thick fake eyelashes, Chanel’s face came at him.
“What’cha need, Massa Duke?” she whispered, her
sparkly gold pasty crushing into his arm along with her big, ripe, caramel brown titties. She smelled like expensive perfume as she did a pole dance on him. Standing on one gold six-inch stiletto boot that came up over her knee, she rubbed the side of his thigh with the gold lame crotch of her thong. It was held up by three gold chains that draped over her hips and came down to the crack of her ass, where they disappeared. Her other leg was up in front of him, in the gold boot, and her knee was stroking Timbo.
“I need somethin’ ta suck,” she whispered through big, swollen lips shining with coral-colored gloss.
“Chanel, baby girl, you fine as hell,” Duke said, loving that intoxicated-by-lust look in her big, dark eyes. It was a look that he would soon put into Duchess’ eyes and keep there. Forever.
He reached down, squeezed her soft ass and said, “I got bidness ta han’le. Hook up ma boy, Beamer. He hurtin’.”
Chanel puckered and squinted those false eyelashes together. She mouthed “I miss you,” then she slid to her knees, kicked her spike heels up to her pretty ass, and worked Beamer’s jeans with those long, gold fingernails. His big, peanut butter brown dick came flying out like an arrow, making a bulls-eye into Chanel’s shiny mouth. Didn’t take but a minute to blow his nut. Chanel knew right when to stand up, turn around and bend over, letting Beamer jack his hose as he sprayed a white fountain all over the caramel curves of her ass. His cum dripped down her round, mouth-watering booty like sugar glaze on a golden brown donut.
“Hell yeah,” Duke groaned. For a second he was tempted to pull them gold chains to the side of her booty crack and drill himself some relief in a pussy that had never disappointed Timbo. But he had work to do, and he didn’t need the mellowing powers of pussy to dull his mind when he was talking with bad-ass niggas about his bank.
Sex transmutation. That was the term in one of Duke’s favorite self-help audiotapes based on the book, Think and Grow Rich by Napoleon Hill. It said most men didn’t earn their fame and fortune until after they turned forty because they were so distracted by chasing pussy. In the hood, forty was the equivalent of ninety in the white world. Duke was damn lucky he was about to celebrate twenty-one, let alone fucking forty. So, on the hood accelerated life plan, he was right on target. And he was going to stay that way, with Duchess’ help.