by Cairo
I nod. “Yes,” I meekly respond.
“Good,” he says, pulling his gun out from his waist, then holding it in his left hand. He uses his other hand to unbuckle his belt, then unzip his jeans. He lets them fall down around his knees. He’s not wearing any underwear. His balls are huge and hairy. His semi-erection is thickening with each stroke of his hand. He waves his dick in my face. OhmyGod, if I have to suck this nigga off I hope he at least washed, I think as he approaches me. The tip of his dick is pointing straight at me, like an angry arrow waiting to pierce through my lips. I jerk my head back. I decide I’m not sucking shit! I don’t like this nigga.
“You fucking piece of shit!” I snap. Yes, I’m deathly afraid of not getting out of here alive, but I’m also disgusted, and pissed, at the way this nigga is treating me, having me tied up and talking to me any ole kind of way, like I’m some rabid dog.
“Oh, you wanna front on a nigga, huh, bitch? Talkin’ all slick ’n greasy,” he snaps, snatching me by the neck. With one hand, he lifts me up out of the chair by the throat. “Bitch, don’t you know I will snap ya muthafuckin’ neck?” This nigga is literally choking the shit out of me. I feel my eyes starting to bulge out of their sockets. “You either suck my dick or you gonna die tonight, ho. You understand me?”
I nod my head with pleading eyes. Reluctantly, he loosens his grip from around my neck, sitting me back in my chair. Surprisingly, his dick is rock-hard. He brings it back up to my face, pressing the head to my lips, forcing them apart. “Bitch, open ya muthafuckin’ mouth and suck that shit like you love it.”
He tells me to lick it. I reluctantly do so. He tells me to kiss it. I begrudgingly do. Then he tells me to slowly open my mouth and make an ’oh’ shape. I do that as well. “And I don’t wanna feel no fuckin’ teeth on my shit, either. Or I’ma knock every muthafuckin’ tooth outta ya head. You got that?”
I nod. Under normal circumstances I would tell his ass that I suck dick, not scrape it. But I’ll show him instead. He pushes his dick slowly into the center of my mouth, parting my lips wider. He fucks my mouth as if it’s a pussy, every so often pulling the head of his dick out to the opening, then slowly pushing back in. I keep my eyes open and locked on his every move. Watch him intently as he grunts, making contorted facial expressions. He drops his left hand to his side, tightly squeezing the handle of his gun.
As hard as I am trying to get into it, I am struggling. Yet, there’s a warped, sadistic, part of me wishing this scenario of being tied up, held hostage, and having my mouth and throat fucked was a willing act on my part. Not forced. Not under threat.
My mind is reeling, trying to figure out a way to get out of here. But my first thought is getting my hands free; or at least one of them free. Though risky—and I’m sure deadly, I entertain the thought of grabbing him by the balls, digging my nails into his skin, then forcefully twisting them until I rip the mother-fuckers off.
“Suck my balls, bitch,” he orders, removing his dick from my mouth. He slaps it up against my lips before lifting up his balls for me to put in my mouth.
I grin, slowly licking them. Then I open wide and let him drop them down into my mouth. I suck and swallow them. Get him moaning. I look up at him. Watch him enjoying every minute of my mouth, then bite down on them, clamp my jaws tight and chew down on his balls. He yells and screams, punching me about the face and head to get me off of him. But I am too numb by anger and hurt and fear to feel anything. This nigga wants his dick and balls wet, thinks he can disrespect me, then I am determined to give him a little extra to remember me by. I continue chewing his balls until I draw blood. He grabs me by the face, tries to pry my mouth open.
“Aaaaah, shit…fuck! Aaaaaaaaah! Somebody come down here and help me get this bitch off of me!”
Someone runs down the stairs. “Yo, what the fuck?!”
“Nigga!” he yells. “Don’t just stand there. Get this bitch offa my muthafuckin’ balls…Aaaaaaah, fuck!”
The other nigga tries to help him pry my lips off of him. But I’ve become a pit bull. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs. Hearing his agonizing cries only fuels me. “Yo, nigga, what the fuck did you do to her? She’s not letting go, son.” He squeezes my nose; tries to shut off my air, thinking that’ll get me to open my mouth. But this dumb fuck doesn’t know that I’m an avid swimmer; that I can hold my breath for four minutes without blinking.
“Fuck! Get this bitch offa me. Goddaaaaaaamn it! She’s biting my balls off! Shoot this bitch!” I don’t let go until the nigga’s knees buckle and I have blood seeping out of my mouth. I spit at him, satisfied.
He grabs his bloody balls, screaming. The nigga’s sweating and shaking. His partner catches him before he hits the floor. “You a dead bitch,” he screams, stumbling. His boy helps him up the stairs with his pants still wrapped around his ankles. “You hear me! Dead! Aaaah, fuck!”
“Fuck you! You ball-less, bitch-ass nigga.”
I yell and scream at the top of my lungs, hoping someone on the outside hears me.
THIRTY-ONE
I am not sure how many hours or days go by before I hear someone else unlocking the basement door, then flipping on the light. I have to blink a few times to adjust my eyes. I see a pair of Timberland clad feet, followed by long, muscular legs coming down the stairs. He’s in a pair of Duke Basketball shorts and has on a white wife beater. Like everyone else, his face is masked. He’s carrying a tray of food. I’m not sure what is on the tray, but whatever it is, it smells good. Like curry. My stomach growls as he gets closer to me and the aroma assaults my nose. I am weak to the point that I actually feel sick.
He sets the food on the pool table, then grabs a wooden dinner tray and sets it up in front of me. He removes the tape from my mouth. There’s something about him that’s different from the others. He seems calmer. And hopefully, he has a heart.
“Listen, I brought you something to eat and drink. You hungry?” I nod. Attempt to speak, but the back of my throat feels like it has been swallowing sandpaper. He grabs the drink from off the tray, then kneels down in front of me. “Here, drink.” He holds the straw up to my lips. I take long, deep sips, allowing the cold, sweet elixir to soothe and moisten my throat. It’s an Arnold Palmer—a mixture of sweet tea and lemonade, one of my favorite drinks.
“Thank you,” I am finally able to say in a whisper.
“I hope you like curried chicken and rice and peas,” he says, scooping up a forkful, then bringing it up to my lips. My mouth waters. Again, I nod. I open my mouth and let him feed me. I stare at him; try to see his eyes, but he won’t make eye contact with me. He shifts them, almost nervously. Maybe he has a conscience, I think. There is something strangely familiar about him.
I chew, then swallow. “Please,” I beg in a whisper, “let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone. I just want to go home.” I feel myself starting to get choked up. Tears well up in my eyes. “Please…”
“Listen, that’s not gonna happen,” he tells me, dashing any hopes that he might have an ounce of empathy for me, maybe even become an ally. “But if you wanna get outta here alive, then you gotta do what they tell you, understand me?” I nod. A single tear rolls down my cheek, then another.
“Don’t let them do this to me.”
He shifts his eyes again. “No one wants to hurt you,” he offers.
“Then what do they want with me? To rape me? Fuck me all night, what?”
He hangs his head. “To teach you a lesson.”
“A lesson? What kind of lesson can I learn from being tied up like some dog?” He lowers his voice, glances over his shoulder to make sure no one’s around. “Look, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this, ma. This shit’s almost over. All you gotta do is handle ya business and it’s gonna be over. We gonna let you go as long as you do what you’re told, feel me?”
I nod. “Why you telling me all this?”
He stares at me. “I have my reasons,” he tells me. “Eat it up.” He scoops up another forkful of foo
d, then shovels it into my mouth. He alternates between feeding me and giving me sips of my drink. Although he isn’t willing to help me get out of here or to give me any more information, I appreciate him not manhandling me like the others. I appreciate him saying as much as he has.
When I am finished eating, he tells me that he is going to untie me and let me use the bathroom, take a shower, then put on clean clothes. My mind immediately begins to race, plotting my escape. But, again, my hopes are quickly shot to pieces when he tells me that the bathroom door will be open. That there are no windows in the bathroom, or exit doors with the exception of the one that is chained up so if I have any ideas of trying to escape to forget it. He tells me that there are other niggas upstairs so it wouldn’t be in my best interest to try, or do, anything slick.
“I’m your safest bet,” he adds, standing up and removing the tray table from in front of me. “But I’m warning you. Don’t take my kindness for weakness. We understand each other?”
I nod. “Do I have to suck your dick, too?” I ask.
He shakes his head, walking toward the steps. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll be back to help you get cleaned up.” The way he walks, his body build, is familiar to me. I stare at him. I know this man…I know this man, I think, watching him climb the stairs and disappear behind the door—to freedom, but where?
THIRTY-TWO
It is night out. There is no light coming in through the small window over in the corner. Calm One has been the only one coming down to check on me, uncuffing me, taking me to the bathroom, and allowing me to stretch. He hasn’t said much more than what he’s said to me earlier. I guess he knows he said more than he should have. Still, he can barely keep his eyes off my body. He glances at his watch, then looks over at the door. He whispers, “Yo, ma. It’s ’bout to go down. Keep ya head, aiight? This shit’s almost over.”
I nod, knowingly. The next minute, the door opens and a bunch of loud, rowdy niggas come stomping down the stairs. The moment of reckoning has come. The grand finale, I think, swallowing back my nerves. I count—one, two, three, four, five, six of them. They all have on ski masks. And different color basketball shorts. Easy access, I suppose. They start talking shit, cat-calling and whatnot. I can tell they’ve been drinking.
“Gottttdaaaaamn, this bitch is fiiiyah.”
“Word is bond; she sexy as fuck!”
“Daaaamn, she’s the bitch suckin’ niggas outta they minds?”
“Wooo-ooooh, she got my dick hard already.”
“Yo, she bit the shit outta L. Tried to take that nigga’s balls off, yo.”
They laugh. “Yeah, I heard she had that nigga cryin’ like a lil bitch. She try that shit on my joint and I’ma take her pretty head off.”
“Word up,” they all agree.
“Yo, uncuff that bitch,” the nigga wearing red shorts says to Calm One. “I’m ready to get this party started. He has a blunt dangling from his mouth. “I wanna see what all the hype is about this ho. She got muhfuckas talkin’ like she’s the new Superhead or some shit.”
Calm One walks behind me, squats down, then whispers, “Remember what I told you.” He uncuffs me, then walks over to the other side of the room.
Red Shorts walks over to me, grabs me by the face and puffs on his blunt. He squeezes my face. “Yo, ma, you pretty as fuck. But I will beat you the fuck up if you scrape, cut, or bite my shit, ya dig?” I nod. “That’s what it is. Now let’s see ya work.”
I look around the room, scan the niggas gawking at me, then catch Calm One’s eyes. He nods his head on the sly. Funny thing, I’ve always prided myself on being a phenomenal head giver; on knowing how to take care of a man’s dick—to not only suck it, but to make love to it. To slob it because I love it; because I adore it. There’s something about slobbering all over a dick, twirling my tongue all over it—its slit slick with sweet precum, gliding my lips and mouth up and down its length, engulfing it—that has always made my pussy wet, but not this time. And not under these conditions. I never imagined I’d have to do what I enjoy in order to save my own damn life. Still, if these motherfuckers want a five-star show, then damn it…that’s what they’ll get.
The only thing on my mind as I reach out and touch the front of Red Shorts’ shorts is getting out of here alive, and getting home. I slowly rub his dick until it starts to grow. Then I reach for his waist and pull his shorts and boxers down. His dick is discolored. It’s light brown with a reddish tip, and curved. I take it in my hand. Kiss it, lick it, then take him in my mouth. I bob my head slowly at first, then pick up speed, making popping sounds with my mouth.
“Aaah, shit…”
“How that shit feel, man?” I hear someone ask.
Red Shorts dips at the knees. “Nigga, what you think? Good, muhfucka.”
Someone laughs.
“Aaaaah, fuck, baby…goddamn…shit, baby…aaaaah, shit. Oh, fuck… oh fuck…I’m cumming…aaaah…”
I pull out and jerk him off, letting his nut hit me in the face. Niggas start clowning his ass for busting off so quick. “Yo, fuck all ya’ll muhfuckas. I haven’t busted a nut in three days. You let this bitch suck you and let’s see how long you hold out.”
“Fifty says I can make this bitch’s jaws lock,” the nigga wearing yellow shorts says. He pulls out a fifty dollar bill, slapping it on the pool table. Red Shorts bets him.
“Yeah, aiight,” Red Shorts says. “Make it lock, muhfucka.”
Yellow shorts steps up to me. I look up at him. “Damn, this bitch is sexy,” he says, pulling his shorts down. His dick is real short and fat. I keep a straight face, slipping him in my mouth. It doesn’t take much effort to swallow him. But the nigga proves me wrong. His dick is a grower, not a shower. It starts off small, but grows into a long, thick dick. I slurp and gargle and slob him down until his knees start to buckle. Niggas in back of him are cheering him on. Hooting and hollering. But in the end, he loses. The nigga starts shooting his seeds all over the place. Everyone laughs. “Yeah, muhfucka,” Red Shorts says, sparking another blunt. “Just what I thought, nigga. That bitch’s neck game is da truth.”
The rest of the night these niggas take turns getting swabbed. Finally they decide they want to get creative and have me crawling around on the floor. Shouting out orders like: “Get on ya fuckin’ knees.” When I don’t move quick enough someone comes at me yelling, “I said get on ya gotdaamn knees, bitch!”
Someone else yells, “I’ma fuck that throat real good. Crawl, bitch.”
Then someone else demands, “Look at this dick, bitch! Look at how hard you got it. I’ma face-fuck the shit outta you. Open your motherfucking mouth. Say, ’Aaaaah’, bitch!”
“Where the fuck you think you going, bitch? You’re going the wrong way. Crawl ya ass over here …”
“Nah, fuck that,” another nigga says. “Bring ya ass over here. My dick needs to get wet, too…”
“You surrounded by a buncha dicks, bitch…suck ’em all…there you go…suck on all them fuckin’ cocks,” another nigga shouts.
“Open wide, bitch…Say aaaah.”
“Aaaah, shiiiiiiiiit. This is one deep-throat suckin’ bitch, yo…”
“Lick my fuckin’ balls, bitch. Yeah, teabag them shits.”
This shit goes on for what feels like forever. There’s a long glob of spit hanging from my chin. Cum dangles from my lashes, drips from my nose, is smeared all over my face. My knees are starting to burn; beginning to ache and bleed from crawling on the concrete. I’m gasping for air; gagging. Gulping in air.
Every last one of these masked niggas have made me feel cheap and dirty. But I suck them and make their knees buckle and their bodies shake, holding back my tears. I want to get out of here. Every so often I turn my eyes over toward Calm One. He watches me quietly, reassures me with his eyes that this shit’s almost over.
I continue sucking, continue slurping, continue teabagging until they all can barely stand. Calm One finally walks over and puts an end to the show. He tells them all it’s
a wrap. Tells them they need to get me out of here. He helps me up off my knees. Walks me back over to the chair, then handcuffs me. Everyone stands around bragging, gloating, and clowning those who nutted faster than the others. Then they all follow Calm One upstairs. It isn’t until the door closes that I keel over and throw my guts up.
When the door opens again, someone shuts the light off. It closes. And I am sitting here in pitch darkness. There are no sounds. No one is stirring around upstairs. I think I hear steps creaking. But I am not certain. I can’t say anything. Then out of nowhere there’s a dark shadow swiftly up on me. I can’t make out who it is. Everything is black. He is wearing all dark colors and a mask. A gloved hand quickly goes around my throat and, at any moment this nigga—whoever he is—will either beat me unconscious or kill me. The latter seems to be his intention.
THIRTY-THREE
I awake in excruciating pain. There’s a vicious throbbing in my head. I try to open my eyes to take in my surroundings. But… my left eye feels heavy as if someone has placed a weight on top of it from being punched in it. My right eyelid flutters. I attempt to open it against the bright white lights, but it is too goddamn painful. I can hear a machine beeping next to me.
Slowly, reality finally sinks in…He didn’t kill me. He left me for dead. But I am alive! Somehow, I am in the hospital. I am not sure if I should be thankful that those crazy motherfuckers didn’t murder me like they threatened, taunted, they would. Or if I should be pissed the fuck off that they didn’t.
My lips burn and feel cracked and sore. I attempt to swallow, but my throat is raw and dry. There’s a tube in my right arm. Probably an IV tube, I think, wincing at the thought of having been blindfolded and beaten and choked and forced to do sexually degrading things to a room full of unknown niggas who took turns having their way with me—fucking my throat, nutting in my mouth, my face, while slapping me around. OhmyGod, I hope none of them niggas gave me an STD, or infected me with HIV or Hepatitis. How the hell will I ever be able to look at Jasper? What do I tell him? That I was kidnapped? Raped? That I sucked a bunch of dicks and turned a few niggas out? What can I possibly tell him?
