Deep Throat Diva

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