Sex in the Hood Saga

by White Chocolate

  “Let’s go!” The Queen grabbed CoCo’s hand, and they ran down the hall, Barriors and B’Amazons in tow. Her mind raced as she dashed up three flights of stairs in her heels and wedding dress.

  What would Knight do in this situation? If some deadly conspiracy were going on with Duke or someone else, wouldn’t they expect her to run straight into Knight’s arms?

  Trust no one, she heard his voice inside her head. So it didn’t matter. If she ran to him and the bad guys at large caught her too, then that was how she wanted to go down; at Knight’s side.

  Something had to be wrong with Knight right now, or intuition would have responded to her in their telepathic love connection. She yanked open the door marked rooftop. It led to a covered, glass-walled area beside the elevators. This entrance area faced the beautiful arrangement for the wedding.

  But the terrace was packed with people. Security, celebrities’ assistants, cameramen and video crews, ready to capture every joyous moment.

  “Shit!” The Queen exclaimed. “Where is he?”

  All around her, “ooohs” and “aaahs” broke out in every direction. Then The Queen remembered she was in her wedding dress, and she was the star of this show. But she wasn’t here to meet and greet right now. And all this would be bullshit if she didn’t have the man who made her heart beat.

  Knight!

  A dark pink carpet stretched from beneath her life-saving stilettos over the brick-patterned floor and into the enormous white party tent. Giant white poles, covered with greenery and pink roses, held up the corners and inside lengths of the scalloped tent. Inside, explosions of pink flowers hung from the peaked ceiling. Rows and rows of pink satin-covered chairs held hundreds of beautiful people.

  Celebrities. Musicians. Politicians. Pimps. Madames.

  But The Queen didn’t care about anybody or anything except laying her eyes on her man.

  Knight, baby, where are you?

  All those people standing in the aisle, she couldn’t see the altar, except for the golden backdrop that cast a shimmery sheer over the wide-open view of the blue river and downtown Detroit’s skyscrapers.

  “Girl, wait,” CoCo took her left hand.

  The Queen realized she was still holding Duke’s gun. She turned toward CoCo, hoisted up her dress, and slipped it into her garter belt.

  “Play it cool,” CoCo said, pulling her into an elevator.

  “I gotta find Knight,” The Queen said.

  “Everything looks cool and calm up here,” CoCo said. “The Barriors are handling the situation downstairs, so don’t let anybody see you look flustered.”

  Trust no one.

  The Queen stared hard into CoCo’s eyes.

  “Girl, don’t even think it.” CoCo stared back just as hard.

  A B’Amazon stepped onto the elevator and nodded at CoCo, who let the bloody robe fall. She slipped into her pink dress and said, “Now zip me, girl. We got a wedding to be in.”

  As soon as they stepped out, Jamal and the Bang Squad, who were set up near the altar, began to play the wedding march.

  CoCo kissed The Queen on her cheek. “You come right after me,” CoCo reminded her.

  She nodded as CoCo walked in the soft, late afternoon sunshine toward the tent.

  Someone brushed The Queen’s hair while someone else handed her a giant bouquet of pink roses. Another person guided her to the edge of the tent.

  A hip-hop version of “Here Comes the Bride” boomed.

  Everybody turned around with more “oohs” and “aaahs.”

  The Queen stared straight ahead. She looked down the rose petal-strewn aisle, past the satin ribbons draped on the sides of the chairs, past all the famous faces in the crowd. There, under giant bouquets of pink, purple, and white flowers, she should have seen the sexiest man alive.

  The reverend was there. So was Jamal. But Knight was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 93

  A bride wasn’t supposed to feel this fucked up on her wedding day. She wasn’t supposed to fend off an HIV positive rapist or kick him in the face and dick or hold a gun to his head. She wasn’t supposed to have soldiers with rifles surrounding the pretty white tent where she would say, “I do.” And she definitely wasn’t supposed to have a gun strapped inside the lace and satin of her garter belt.

  No, Alice was not enjoying Ghettoland one bit. She wished she could pass through a secret portal into a Wonderland where she’d feel safe to live, love, and raise a baby with her man who would magically appear. Now.

  As she walked slowly on trembling legs down the pink aisle, she hated that all these people were staring at her when she wanted to burst into tears or cuss somebody out or both. She hadn’t even brushed her hair on her wedding day.

  Neither had CoCo, but she still looked gorgeous up there, grinning back at The Queen, like there was something in this nightmarish day to smile about.

  Knight, baby, where are you?

  Suddenly, Knight rose from a chair in the front row, next to his mother, who wore a giant pink hat with netting over her face. Like an ebony tower rising in front of all the guests, Knight turned around. His eyes sparkled at her, his sucka lips curled up into a smile that broke out into a grin.

  Thank you, God! My baby is okay!

  The Queen wanted to run down the aisle and throw herself into his arms. She had to feel the long, firm length and warmth of his body; then she’d know that he was safe and that his heart was beating just fine. They could get married and live happily ever after.

  Yeah, right.

  It seemed like forever as The Queen walked toward Knight, fighting the bad vibe in her gut. Still wearing no panties, her pussy was sweaty and swollen. The friction of her walk rubbed Celeste, just right, to take a tiny bit of the edge off this awful state of mind.

  I want him inside me, now. I want to make love to the infinity with the only one who matters.

  All these fabulous people didn’t matter to The Queen. They had on beautiful dresses and suits. Famous musicians, actors, and politicians dotted the crowd. It was as picture-perfect as the celebrity tabloids, daily newspapers, and hip-hop magazines could imagine, yet Knight had issued a ban on all media, for both the wedding and The Games, even though the who’s who of the hip-hop world was here to celebrate her big day.

  But they don’t care about me.

  Not Emcee Sexarella in her rhinestone-studded blue leather dress and her entourage of big-haired beauties. Not Rip Masta and his crew of hardcore gangsta rappers. And not all these other people who were officers and associates of Babylon from across the country. They were just here for the hype factor of the hottest wedding in Babylon history and the sexiest entertainment ever, anywhere, for The Games tonight in the auditorium downstairs at The Playhouse.

  Oh, baby, you look like hell.

  Hot tears blurred the gray pallor on Knight’s face. The closer she got, the harder her heart pounded. Whether it was stress or her curse or panic attacks or PTSD or something worse, she was sure that it would kill him if they didn’t get out of here.

  He held out his arms as she approached.

  Her dress fluffed around her feet as she walked, and her palms got sweaty around the satin-ribboned handle of her bouquet.

  Finally, she felt beautiful. Not because it was a gorgeous dress whose price tag could finance the purchase of a small house. No, she felt beautiful because her Knight was staring down with so much love in his eyes. She thought she would faint. If she died right now, she would have experienced more love with him in the past year than some women ever got in a lifetime. It was pure.

  And we’re perfect together.

  The Queen hoisted up her dress and ran the last few steps into Knight’s arms.

  His eyes grew wide as he glimpsed the gun on her thigh. That wasn’t part of his security plan for today, but he played it off by embracing her and lifting her up and spinning her around.

  They pressed their lips together and kissed long and hard.

  The audience exploded wi
th cheers.

  The reverend playfully cleared his throat, his microphone attached to the collar of his black robe amplifying the sound. Laughter erupted among the guests.

  The Queen never wanted to stop breathing health and life into her man. She pressed her face into his neck, feeling his pulse beat against her eyelids.

  Yes, he’s alive. Alive and well.

  “May we begin?” the reverend asked playfully.

  “Yes, sir,” Knight answered. “Let’s do this!”

  As The Queen looked up into Knight’s onyx eyes and he stared down into hers, they faced each other and gripped hands. She just wanted to hear the words husband and wife so she could stroll off into the sunset with the man of her dreams.

  They were close, because the reverend said, “If anyone here has any objection to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  A piercing scream made The Queen’s gut cramp. All the guests spun around to look.

  Blood-covered Reba stumbled onto the pink aisle. “Watch out for Duke!” she screamed.

  A shocked gasp rose from the guests. “Watch out for Duke!” Then she collapsed.

  In black, white, and gray fatigues, Barriors and B’Amazons descended on her, plucking her off the carpet and carrying her away.

  “Continue, please,” Knight said.

  Minutes later, the reverend said, “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

  For a moment, their charmed circle of love made everything around them fade to gray. This was their Technicolor dream, live and in color, as they officially became one and three all at once.

  But that bliss was shattered when the ear-splitting sirens blared, and B’Amazons and Barriors around the perimeter of the rooftop terrace drew rifles and ushered all the guests to the center of the tent.

  Yeah, this was about the most fucked-up wedding day any girl could ever imagine.

  But part of The Queen felt like it didn’t even matter. Because her beautiful black Knight was pulling her up against his strong body, and she was burying her face in his neck where his pulsing veins confirmed that he was alive. Now they just had to escape this hell.

  Chapter 94

  Trina Michaels sat in a surveillance van, watching the outrageous display of gaudy ghetto flamboyance through the eight tiny video cameras hidden on Rip Masta and his fellow thugs. “Imagine a shootout at a wedding, and we have the exclusive video!” she exclaimed to her cameraman, who would leave the van and go inside for more video after the feds rushed in. “This story gets better by the second!”

  In a matter of hours, after Rip Masta would get great video of the sex Olympics, Trina would get the media coup of the decade. The plan was for Federal officers to storm into Babylon and capture Victoria Winston.

  The agents were waiting right now in vans parked throughout this riverfront warehouse district where Trina had gotten fucked so good a month ago inside The Playhouse.

  “Bye, bye, Miss Queen!” Trina giggled as she watched the live video showing those soldiers calming the frantic wedding crowd. “If you think your day is bad now, just wait!”

  This would serve both her and her pet gorilla right for daring to threaten the great investigative journalist Trina Michaels. They would see who’d come out on top.

  Me!

  “This whole story epitomizes the fact that an obsession with sex in the black community is its downfall,” Trina said. “HIV, pregnancy, prostitution—these are all manifestations of the sex addiction that’s gripping our inner cities.”

  The cameraman, who was adjusting knobs on the wall of sound and editing equipment, crinkled his beige face at her and said, “You’re a racist witch. Do you have any idea?”

  “As a white male,” she snapped, “you have no right to call me racist.”

  “You’re a racist, snobby bitch whose sexual frustrations give you a mega superiority attitude,” he said. “You wish you were as wild and free as these folks. At least they don’t try to pretend they’re something else. Isn’t that what the term ‘ghetto fabulous’ is all about?”

  Rat-tat-tat!

  “Gunfire!” Trina shrieked. “Look at ’em scramble. Nice wedding, Miss Queen. You’d do Martha Stewart and Emily Post proud today.”

  The cameraman put on a headset that blocked his ears; then he turned back to his equipment. “You got serious issues.”

  Trina gloated at the screen as The Queen huddled under an arch of pink roses with Knight. “No, I got an award-winning, urban docudrama in the palm of my hands!”

  Chapter 95

  “Babylon, let’s fuck!” screamed the thousand-plus people packing The Auditorium for The Games. They were singing along with the Bang Squad’s thunderous theme song for this much anticipated annual event.

  It was about to get started, and it couldn’t get finished soon enough for Knight.

  So we can slip away forever.

  As he stood backstage, just inside the huge, heavy, purple velvet curtains, his insides trembled and his chest squeezed almost as horribly as those tense moments during the lockdown after the wedding. The alarm had gone off because Paul had spotted Li’l Tut on the security cameras, limping out of suite 515 with Dickman’s assistance. Then Paul reported to Knight that Li’l Tut was holding his crotch with one hand and pressing a towel to his bleeding cheek with the other.

  Now we gotta finish what The Queen started.

  The Queen had jacked him up good, but Li’l Tut was still alive and lurking somewhere in this building. Big Moe and a team of Barriors who were searching every inch had explicit instructions to call Knight to come and finally put that muthafucka out of his misery when they found him.

  Lightning bolts of stress pains shot through Knight’s chest at the thought of Li’l Tut cornering The Queen in her wedding suite, trying to shoot her up with the deadly weapon that his dick had become.

  All while I was blacking out down the hall.

  Anger and frustration at himself threatened to suck away Knight’s breath.

  I am a warrior. Manifest Destiny is mine.

  Just a few more hours.

  “Babylon, let’s fuck!” The audience thundered with the blasting bass beat as Knight and Jamal stepped onto the stage from opposite sides. At the edge of the shiny pine stage floor, giant glass block letters spelling THE GAMES AT BABYLON glowed cobalt blue. Artificial steam from dry ice cast a sexy-smoky mist around them. The smoke glowed blue and purple, creating an outer-space-fantasy feeling as it wafted over the floor of the stage.

  The stage dropped about four feet to the floor, where Barriors stood shoulder to shoulder in ninja black, double strapped with rifles. In front of them stretched a long table where six celebrity judges sat with laptop computers that would record and tally their scores for each event.

  Beyond the judges stretched a rolling sea of blingin’ urban style and vibrant energy. Every purple velvet seat in the place showcased sexy chicks, thugged-out dudes, glitzy celebrities, huge athletes, famous musicians, and Grammy-winning rappers.

  Knight savored a sense of pride at the beauty of his people, as purple spotlights flashed from the stage, highlighting the mass of people. A haze of ganja smoke cast a surreal cloud over the people as they smiled, laughed, drank, and put in orders to waitresses, who strutted up and down the aisles in white Babylon dresses and laced-up gold sandals.

  Knight wished folks could do without the intoxicants, but this whole show was about to offer up the most enticing intoxicant of all; booty.

  As he took all this in, Knight’s mind reeled with images of how he hoped that the Barriors had caught Li’l Tut by now, and how in just a few hours, with this crowd whipped into a frenzy of fucking here and up in The Playroom, he and The Queen would be well on their way to paradise.

  His chest squeezed under his black silk Armani suit, under which, he hid four guns.

  There’s no room for error. If some shit goes down, this is our only chance, or we’re stuck.

  Knight sucked down gulps of air
to disarm this barrage of worries. He had to enjoy his last night of this outrageous carnal indulgence that made Babylon what it was. In a few days, he’d be able to redefine carnal indulgence one-on-one, tropical style, with The Queen.

  “How e’rybody doin’?” Jamal shouted, launching into his rapper posture, holding the mic and taking long, excited steps from one end of the stage to the other. He stopped in front of three enormous white beds that were draped with mosquito netting suspended by huge, black-and-gold striped masks of Cleopatra and Tutankhamen.

  Jamal, wearing baggy blue jeans, black Tims, a white tank top that showcased his caramel-brown muscles, and the heavy gold chain with a Bang Squad medallion, held the mic toward the audience.

  “Babylon, let’s fuck!” they responded with the music. “Welcome to The Gaaaaaaa-mes!” The audience went wild.

  Jamal held out a hand toward Knight. “Now some o’ y’all was here las’ year when the new sheriff blasted back into D-town, guns blazin’!”

  The audience roared.

  “All y’all know, this the baddest muthafucka eva, rulin’ Babylon like a king! Show some love for Knight Johnson!”

  Guys in the audience punched their fists in the air and barked. Girls shrieked. Some yanked up their shirts and shook their titties as they cheered.

  “Firs’, though, y’all congratulate the King o’ Babylon for gettin’ married today.”

  “Babylon, let’s fuck!” the audience screamed.

  Jamal worked his hips in a sexy love-grind, which made the girls shimmy their titties once more. “Yeah, bet they gon’ make love tonight,” Jamal said playfully. “There go The Queen, who’s blazin’ that shit up the charts!” He pointed up at The Queen in the closest golden box seat balcony overlooking the stage, where she sat with CoCo and Mr. and Mrs. Marx. Honey would join them after the first competition.

  Emcee Sexarella, sitting with her girls in the balcony next to The Queen, stood. Tall, curvy, and wearing a transparent gold bodysuit with sequined stars over her nipples and pussy, she screamed, “All hail The Queen, y’all!” Her round, brown face sparkled with gold eye makeup. And her high black ponytail, which was long, straight, and silky-looking, flipped over her shoulder as she shouted, “Give it up ’cause she got what all y’all want—the sexiest dude in Babylon!”