Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang

“Oh, so you think you got me all figured out, hunh?”

“Nah, not really; but I know what I know.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you like givin’ muhfuckas a hard time.”

“That’s not true,” I say defensively. “I’ma cool-ass chick; I’m just not beat to be sweatin’ a nigga’s balls.”

He laughs. “You wanna see a muhfucka beg, that’s all. But, check this. I ain’t one for beggin’, but I’ve been makin’ you an exception, for now.”

I raise my brow. “Oh, puhleeeze. And then what?”

“And then I’ma have you beggin’. See you at six.” The muhfucka disconnects the call before I can open my mouth to say sumthin’ slick. I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve never had a nigga hang up on me! And here this muthafucka comes disconnectin’ me not once, but twice, in one damn day! The crazy shit is I feel like the nigga done struck a match on my clit and set my pussy on fire. My insides have gone up in flames, and the nigga got me wantin’ some’a that dick!

AT EXACTLY SIX O’CLOCK, MY DOORBELL RINGS. I PURPOSEFULLY take my time gettin’ to the door, not wantin’ to come off lookin’ all thirsty ’n anxious ’n whatnot. On some real shit, inside I am a nervous fuckin’ mess. The last muhfucka who came to my spot to pick me up ’n take me out on a date was Grant. I close my eyes. Picture him standin’ at the door. Remember how fine ’n sexy the nigga was; how I straddled up on that muhfucka, foggin’ up the windows of his whip, and let ’im slide his thick fingas deep in my pussy ’n fuck me ’til he had me feelin’ like I was bein’ dug out wit’ a dick.

Therrrssp! Therrrsp! Those thoughts become replaced wit’ the nigga’s skull leakin’; blood splatterin’ up against the wall. The sound of the doorbell ringin’, followed by bangin’, snaps me back to the present. I catch myself starin’ at my reflection in the full-length wall mirror. I blink, blink again, shakin’ the shit off. I take a deep breath, peepin’ my wears; pleased wit’ my look. I decided to keep it cute in a red knee-grazin’ wrap dress and’a pair of black Manolo Blahnik six-inch, lace-up, cut-out boots. My titties pop just enough to let the nigga know what’s what. But, I ain’t pressed to be givin’ his ass too much sexiness, not all at once; only a taste.

I head downstairs. Take another deep breath, tellin’ myself to relax, to keep it cute. Bitch, get ya mind right, the nigga ain’t no-good; all he is is a hot meal and— maybe, a good fuck! I swing open the door. He’s leanin’ up on the doorframe wit’ a huge smile plastered ’cross his face. His fitted hat is dropped down low, coverin’ his eyes. This muhfucka,” I think, steppin’ back and invitin’ ’im in, wit’ his sexy ass.

“Damn, yo,” he says, removin’ his fitted and lettin’ his eyes roam my body. “You lookin’ good as hell, baby.” I give ’im the evil eye. He throws his hands up, grinnin’. “I know, I know. Quit callin’ you baby. For once, cut a cat some slack. You sexy, ma.”

I don’t know why bein’ alone wit’ this nigga has my nerves so rattled. I need a blunt and a shot’a sum nigga juice—Remy, Henny; sumthin’ dark and hard! And a taste of this chocolate nigga’s dick milk, I think, pressin’ a grin on my face. “Of course I am; I’m that bitch, thought you knew.”

He laughs. “Yeah, aiight.” His eyes wander ’round the living room. “Nice spot.”

“Thanks. Have a seat. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

I catch the nigga lickin’ his lips. “You look ready now,” he says wit’ sex drippin’ from his tone.

“Whaaaaat eva,” I say, poppin’ my hips outta the room goin’ into my powder room to put on a coat of lipstick—sumthin’ I rarely wear, followed by a coat of lipgloss to give my lips that juicy, I’ll- suck-a-dick-all-night-long look.

When I step back into the room, he stands up, smilin’. I scan his wears, peep the ice drippin’ from his lobes and the rose gold Brera watch strapped to his wrist. He’s rockin’ faded True Religion jeans, a thin brown True Religion thermal-type shirt, and a pair of brown Prada lace-ups.

“Why you smilin’?” I ask, grabbin’ my Bottega Veneta. I let it drop in the crook of my arm.

He shakes his head. “Same reason you are.”

I suck my teeth, grabbin’ my keys. “Nigga, I ain’t smilin’.” I tell ’im to keep still while I set my alarm, then usher ’im out the door.

“Yeah, aiight,” he says, openin’ the door. He waits for me, then shuts it. “That’s what ya mouth says.” I roll my eyes, lockin’ the top lock.

“Whateva,” I say, followin’ him to his whip. Truth is the muhfucka’s right. A bitch was smilin’.

CHAPTER TEN

Puff, puff, pass…Blazin’ wit’ a sexy nigga…Gotta bitch feelin’ right…got ’er shiftin’ in ’er seat… pressin’ dem thighs… roamin’ ’er eyes…thinkin’ ’bout givin’ up da ass…fuckin’ ’im all night…then doin’ ’im dirty…like a real bitch should…toss da nigga out…’cause a bitch know he ain’t no fuckin’ good…

“So, where we goin’?” I ask, slidin’ into the passenger seat of his Range, then fastenin’ my seatbelt.

“You’ll see when we get there,” he says, flippin’ through his CD collection. “Tonight, I’m in charge.”

I laugh. “Nigga, trust, you only in charge ’cause I’m lettin’ you think you are.”

He turns his head in my direction, raisin’ his brow. “Like I said, tonight, I’m in charge. So sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, baby.”

I turn my head, lookin’ outta the window, actin’ like I ain’t beat for that shit he’s talkin’.

He laughs. “Oh, what? You poutin’ now?” He backs outta my driveway, then heads for the highway.

“Nope. I’m chillin’.”

“Oh, aiiight. That’s more like it, baby. Daddy got you.”

I cut my eyes at ’im, sittin’ back and foldin’ my arms ’cross my chest. “Oh, nigga, puhleeeze. Don’t even start. I told you ’bout that baby shit.”

He laughs. “Yo, chill. I’m tryna make you my baby, but you ain’t tryna act right.”

“Oh, trust. You can’t make me nuthin’ I ain’t tryna be,” I state, shootin’ ’im a look.

He grins. Damn, this sexy muhfucka kinda reminds me of Grant, I think, shiftin’ in my seat. True, he’s more aggressive and ’xtra cocky wit’ his, still the nigga’s swagger is right. “Yeah, aiight. You love talkin’ slick ’n shit, but it’s all good. I know what you need to get ya mind right, ma.”

Yeah, a stiff, thick dick. “Ohhh realllllly? Do tell,” I say, shiftin’ in my seat to face ’im.

He pulls out a fat blunt, then sparks it. “Some’a this,” he takes two pulls, then passes it off. I take it straight to the head, leanin’ my head back on the headrest. I hold the weed smoke in my lungs, then slowly blow it out. “And this,” he adds, slidin’ a CD into the dashboard CD changer. He cracks the windows and sunroof.

A few seconds later, I hear Erykah Badu’s voice comin’ through the speakers. “20 Feet Tall” plays.

I turn my head toward ’im, grinnin’ as I pass ’im back the blunt. “Oh, shit, let me find out. What you know ’bout Erykah?”

“Don’t sleep, ma,” he says, glancin’ over at me. “I ain’t ya average type cat.”

“Mmmm, if you say so.”

“Nah, it’s what I know.”

“Well, since you know so much, is there anything else I need?”

He laughs, glancin’ over at me. “Yeah, but you ain’t gettin’ any of it ’til you start actin’ right.”

I laugh, chokin’ back weed smoke. “Keep it, nigga.”

“Yeah, aiight,” he says, laughin’. “Lucky for you, I’m tryna be a gentleman tonight.”

“No, lucky you,” I say back.