Effin stormed back to the bed and pulled off the ruined hosiery, glaring at it as if it were the cause of hunger, global warming, and her ceiling caving in!
The eighth pair went on just fine and Effin carefully tiptoed over to pull on a pair of high heels she thought of as date shoes.
But that just made the skirt even shorter!
“What the hell am I supposed to do?” She whimpered. “I look like five-dollar Fran!”
Then inspiration struck! Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her hanging scarves. Effin loved long and flowing things, and scarves were among her favorite things to wear. She raced to the stand and quickly pulled out an extra long rectangle of black lace.
Yes! This would work!
She quickly folded and tied the scarf around her waist. Joy! It covered her ass! And it added a Latin flavor to her dress as well. Grinning, she gave a twirl before the mirror, and hissed as she heard that telltale tearing sound.
Her stockings had gotten caught up in the lace of the scarf and run.
The ninth pair of stockings was carefully pulled on while she sat at her vanity.
She would not move until she had to!
She carefully placed makeup on a face that was no longer swollen, but kind of itchy, and smiled at what she saw. She was beautiful! Perfect! She would knock her date dead.
And just in time too! She heard the sounds of a high-end European sports car stop in front of her house.
She walked over to the window and smiled at what she saw.
There was a fine-looking brother easing out of a Jag and making his way to her house. She plucked up a small, black silk purse, tossed in some cash, her house keys, and the all-important cell phone before meandering down the stairs, trying to control a heart that was beating a mile a minute in her chest.
After waiting until she heard the bell ring, Effin made her way to the front door and eased it open.
“My name is Buster and I am here to collect Effin Hurtzs for the evening.”
Ohh! Polite, Effin thought. Things were definitely on the upswing.
“You have her.” Effin smiled and stuck out her hand.
“Charmed.” Buster grinned, looking handsome in his denim jeans and what appeared to be a silk shirt under his lightweight jacket.
It was unseasonably warm, so Effin just grabbed a light wrap.
“For you.” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand and handed her some yellow roses.
“Beautiful,” Effin breathed. “Thank you so much, Buster!”
Then he escorted her to the car.
This night was going to be a Valentine’s night to remember. Effin smiled. She had a perfect date on a perfect night. She hoped it never ended!
Chapter Seven
Her date began to go downhill very quickly after he escorted her from her house.
The dozen beautiful yellow roses Buster handed to her just happened to be fake. The ends were covered in what she suspected was graveyard soil due to the RIP tag hanging from one ragged end.
Shaking her head at the oddity of it all, Effin rallied and made her way over to the Jaguar that was sitting in her driveway, trying to keep the ultra-high hemline covered with the huge black scarf she’d wrapped around her waist.
She stood by the door of the car and waited ... and waited ... and waited, until she noticed that Buster was already seated and tapping the steering wheel impatiently for her to get into the car.
“And wipe off your feet before you step in my ride,” the man purred, eyeing Effin up and down like she was a side of beef ready for market.
Rolling her eyes, Effin halfheartedly scraped her feet on the curb before sliding into the cool, leather interior.
She turned to look at Buster, and what she saw eased her anger. Buster was a drop-dead gorgeous specimen of a black man. His hair was cropped close to his scalp, drawing attention to his caramel-colored eyes. Long, black lashes framed those amazing orbs and drew attention to his perfectly smooth, milk-chocolate skin.
His nose was a little broad and his nostrils flared as he scented her perfume. His lips were full and ... was that lip gloss or a sheen of moisture from where he licked his lips while staring at her bosom?
Pulling her wrap close around her, she faced forward, waiting for him to start the engine and get them on the way.
“So, what’s a fine mama like you doing, going on a blind date anyway?”
The question was unexpected, but was an interesting place to start a conversation.
“Well, Buster, I was asked to go on this date by my friend Christa. She says you are a wonderful person.”
“Christa? The high yellow bit ... chick with the high voice?”
“Excuse me?” Effin snarled, turning to glare at him with anger-filled eyes. What did he just attempt to cover up calling her best friend?
“Why? Did you fart or something? Don’t be farting in my Jag.”
“I ... Uh ...” Effin’s eyes widened as she stared in disbelief at the man. “I most definitely did not pass gas, and if I did I would apologize for it. I was referring to what you almost called Christa.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Buster smirked. “You not high yellow but you have a nice ass.”
Before Effin could comment, Buster started the engine and set the huge car purring. Within seconds they were racing down the small street at breakneck speed and with an obvious disregard for any life forms stupid enough to get into Buster’s path of destruction.
It only got worse from there.
The only music he would play was gangsta rap that glorified violence and gang life and contained so many curse words that if it were played on the radio all you would hear was one long continuous bleep. He made several loud, annoying cell phone calls to people named Murder Dog and Body Count, cut in front of no fewer than three tractor trailers, and flipped off a mother with two kids and a stroller after nearly running them down in a crosswalk.
Effin was ready to kiss the ground and thank the good Lord for helping her survive this trip.
But it got even worse.
* * * * *
House of Waffles was not her ideal choice of fine dining establishment.
Before he parked the car so they could enter the waffle house, he slipped off his jacket and pulled something that looked suspiciously like a semi-automatic weapon out of the glove box. He climbed out of the car without assisting Effin out, stuck the gun in his waistband, and gave a few of the dealers at the corners of the restaurant assessing looks before tossing up what had to be a gang sign and getting a nod of respect ... which made Effin want to dive back into the dubious safety of the Jag’s faux leather interior and its fiberglass exterior.
Fuck second thoughts. Effin was on fifth and sixth thoughts by the time they reached the restaurant doors.
Then, he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close to the muscular body that would have looked lovely had he been wearing anything other than a pair of black jeans three sizes too big and a sleeveless silk muscle shirt two sizes too small. That jacket had hidden a lot, and what she’d thought was a tasteful outfit turned out to be more of a clown costume.
Effin forced a grin on her face as they took a seat at the sticky booth in the highly lit restaurant and a bored-looking, white-haired Asian man eyed them with a smirk before demanding to know what they wanted.
“Scrimps,” Buster promptly stated with a smile wide enough to show Effin something she hadn’t noticed before -- all the imitation platinum blingage around his front teeth. The word grill had never had such an exact meaning.
Effin resisted the urge to ask about health department certification and calmly began to examine the laminated menu. Before she could open her mouth, Buster began to order for her.
“It’s à la carte, baby,” he crowed. “Order what you want! In fact, she’ll have the scrimps, too.”
Then he grinned at her, the light glinting off his mouth metal so it seemed to twinkle with studio effects.
“I can order fo
r myself,” Effin gritted out, trying to smile because she wasn’t dateless on Valentine’s Day.
“I love me a independent woman.” Buster laughed, slapping the table with his hand then staring at the spot where some syrup stuck to it, before shrugging it off. “Independent women are da bomb. She’ll have the scrimps with extra ketchup and hot sauce. Gotta keep that booty clappin’, girl.”
Effin rolled her eyes and tried to remind herself that this date couldn’t get any worse. She was wrong.
Somewhere between the water course -- apparently the substitute for an appetizer -- and Buster striking the bottom of the ketchup bottle and spattering it across the front of her black dress, the very same Murder and Body Count decided to join in their little Valentine celebration.
“My dawg!” Buster crowed, rising to his feet, arms extended in welcome.
It was then that Effin got her first glance at the friends Buster kept.
Murder was a tall, thin white man with a pencil-thin mustache and long, knotty locks. He was wearing a goose-down jacket with the name of some local sports team emblazoned across the front in bright purple. He had a joint tucked behind one ear and a dead expression in his slate-gray eyes.
“S’up,” he nodded, then took a seat in the booth, pushing aside Effin with nary a glance.
Body Count was a short Hispanic man with a clean-shaven face and his hair buzzed short. He was wearing a hip-length black leather coat and a pair of overly large jeans with a belt buckle shaped like a gun. He looked over at Effin, then dismissed her as if she didn’t exist.
“So ... you down for tonight?” Body Count asked, giving Buster an unreadable look.
“Tonight, man? I’m on a date! Don’t go messin’ with my flow.”
“Ditch the bitch and let’s move,” Murder insisted. He kept looking nervously around, observing the comings and goings of the other people in the room.
And of course, Effin took offense at his words.
“Excuse me, you troglodyte,” she snapped. “I do have a name and I ain’t nobody’s bitch.”
Body Count raised surprised eyes to her for a moment, before a slow grin spread across his mouth. “You got spunk. I like that, kid. But let me tell you that my man Buster ain’t got no use for a mouthy woman. Why do you think we call him Buster?”
“Because that’s the name his mama gave him?” Effin smarted back, common sense taking a back seat as she faced off against this man.
She was having one hell of a date, and that was meant in the harshest terms, and now these two yahoos were coming in and making things even worse. She had had enough. Something had to give!
“No.” Body Count laughed. “We call him Buster because he busted a cap in the ass of the last woman who mouthed off at him. Bust her in the ass, if you want the whole name.”
“Check, please!”
Effin raised her voice and her hand as soon as the words passed the man’s mouth.
“Effin ...” Buster began as his friends exploded into laughter. “It didn’t happen like that, baby.”
“Check!” Effin screamed, shoving at Murder to get him to move his skinny ass so she could leave. ”Check and a cab!”
No fewer than three disreputable looking men rose to their feet and offered hack services, almost making Effin sit back down, but the desire to leave this place overruled all.
“Look, I’ll take you home,” Buster, or whatever the hell his name was, sighed. “Damn, dawgs,” he grumbled as the Asian man returned, holding their orders in two brown paper bags. “Cock blocking ’n shit.”
Wordlessly, Effin snatched one of the bags and made for the door, not caring that her scarf was slipping and that she was giving a wonderful view of her bouncing, irate ass as she made for the door.
“Damn, that ass is phat!” one of them -- maybe Murder -- said with a chuckle, and Effin increased her speed. This had positively been the date from hell. Christa would pay!
Chapter Eight
“Kami-sama, yeah!” Masa moaned ... well, meowed as he found the perfect spot to rest and relax and relieve a little tension.
Who knew that sinking your cock into a warm, moist manhole cover was rather like getting a hot piece of tail? Okay, he was stretching it a bit. But who knew the warm heat and the moisture bellowing up from the small exhaust hole would feel so good to his kitty cock? It had been pure dumb luck that he chose to sit on the vent to warm his more delicate parts, but when the first blast of moist heat surrounded his sheathed cock and balls, his libido had flown through the roof. His cock had come out to play and he did what any self-respecting tom on the prowl would do. He took advantage of the situation.
He sighed as he bent his head to lap at his swollen pink organ and his tiny, fuzzy balls. How the mighty had fallen, he thought for a moment, and then bent to work again, lapping at his rapidly swelling and throbbing cock.
He had no idea what had driven him to this spot, but now that he had found some form of entertainment, he was determined to stick around for a while and enjoy it. He slitted his eyes as the feelings began to swamp his body -- familiar feelings that made him tingle and shiver.
His tail lashed wildly and his breathing increased as little kitty mews left his throat.
Yeah, there was nothing like being able to give himself head. The heat and moisture of the vent gave him the sexual stimulation his cat’s body needed to actually achieve an erection for other than cleaning purposes, and he cleaned himself thoroughly. Constantly. He had the cleanest kitty cock in existence!
But this was a rare treat and might even drive him toward orgasm! It had been how many years?
But thoughts like that would take his mind away from reaching that ultimate pleasure, so he stopped thinking about history and started thinking about the present ... the present orgasm that was building.
He flexed his toes and marveled that his right leg never got tired being hitched up to the sky.
But the sexual tension in his body began to tie him into knots. He felt his tail begin to tingle, his whiskers twitch, and his balls burn as his tongue lashed over the pink head of his throbbing cock. Some part of his mind marveled that he had achieved a full erection. The furry sheath that protected his cock in this form was fully retracted, allowing him full access to the head and shaft, access that he instantly took advantage of, using both the moist heat from the grate and his rough tongue.
Faster and faster he lapped, licking away the precum that made his cockhead glisten, stimulating the whole of his cock until he felt his body stiffen, his back arch, and white lights began to dance behind his eyes.
Letting out a mewl of desire, Masa’s head arched backwards, his body going rigid as the first drips of milky seed exploded from his cock.
His body spasmed convulsively at the first release he’d experienced in ages.
Breathless and panting, Masa rode the waves of release until his body lost its rigid stance and settled onto the warm grate.
Exciting, he thought to himself, as he allowed his eyes to close. Deep purrs emerged from his chest. Not as good as it is with a partner, but damn fine indeed.
Sighing deeply, Masataka relaxed and rolled beside the vent, a slow purr rumbling through his chest as he let the afterglow take him. He would wait here until the warm, lazy feelings eased and then he would head home. The pressure in his chest had relaxed a bit, and he decided that it had been an attack of horny, after all.
With one final, muffled meow, Masa closed his eyes and waited for the lethargy to lessen. This was not exactly the life, but it was better now that he’d had his first orgasm in Kami-sama knew how many years.
* * * * *
“I’m sorry about the guys,” Buster -- whatever the strange man she was out with was really named -- stated. “They just don’t know how to treat a lady.”
Effin didn’t say a word, but she reached for the radio on switch and she noticed that the car didn’t have a cigarette lighter.
“The guys are always kidding, and they just picked the wrong tim
e to show up. I wish I didn’t tell them we were going for chicken and waffles.”
Was that a no smoking sticker on the dash?
Effin was beginning to suspect that she was in a rental.
“So ... What is it that you do again, Bus ... man?” There wasn’t a friggin’ cigarette lighter!! Only rentals and preachers’ cars and taxis ... “I understand you work with Christa.”
“Understand,” he chuckled. “I love an intelligent bit-- lady. I am in stocks.”
“You play the market?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she examined the creature she had been running around with. She was beginning to feel uneasy. She turned the radio on in hopes of finding something decent to talk about.
“The only market I play in is Pantry Pride. I work in stocks, as in the stock room.”
Effin smiled at the creature with a smile that showed all of her teeth.
Then she reached into her purse for her cell.
Still grinning at the stock boy, she pressed speed dial, instantly getting Christa’s cell.
The stock boy opened his mouth to speak, but Effin held up one hand to halt his words.
“Christa?” she purred. “I am having a won ... I am having a time with Buster the bitch slayer, and I want you to know that I will thank you personally for this one.”
“Not now, girl! I’m on a date!” Christa’s voice was almost drowned out by music and the sound of cutlery clanking against real glass plates. “It’s rude to speak while at dinner.”
“But ...” Effin tried not to scream and call her best friend some horrible names.
“Later, girl! Henry might propose!”
Then, her best friend unceremoniously hung up on her.
Effin turned a sick smile to the oblivious Buster the Stock Boy and turned up the radio just in time to hear the newscast.
“Police are looking for a black male about six feet tall with dark brown eyes and black hair, driving a rented Jaguar. Baxter Collingsworth is wanted for questioning in the brutal shooting deaths of several Baltimore women. Police believe that he may be a serial killer and could be trolling for his next victim. The suspect can be identified by his extreme amount of platinum teeth.”
Wild Wishes: A Happy Effin Valentine Page 3
