The Man Handler

like a wounded bear, he pulled out his pogo stick and started jerking it over me. I laid there, staring at him, racking my brain trying to figure out whether or not he had pulled his condom off. I knew I had seen him roll one on, remembered seeing him open the familiar wrapper. But there he was kneeling over me with his skinny dick in his thick hand and, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall if he had removed it—and, if he had, where the hell he had put the damn thing.

I think for minute. Do I ignore the bell and get myself ready for my sexual interlude with Wade, or do I curse his retarded-ass out? The answer comes when he presses down on my bell like he’s being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. I fling open the door, frowning. “Um, excuse me…What. Are. You. Doing here?” I ask through clenched teeth, glaring at him. My hand is defiantly planted on my hip.

“Damn, baby, I guess that means you’re happy to see me,” he says, grinning.

I suck my teeth, rolling my eyes up in my head. “Guess again. Now why are you here?”

“Damn,” he huffs, clearly disappointed that I am not welcoming him with open arms. “Can I at least get a hello, before you start snapping?”

I tap my foot. Count to ten. “Jarrod, I’m going to ask you one more time. Why the hell are you at my door without being invited here?”

He leans up against the frame of the door. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. It’s been a minute since we chilled so—”

“So you thought you would drop by for some pussy,” I say, cutting him off. “Humph, wrong answer, sweetie. I’m not running a whorehouse.”

“Oh, yeah.” He smirks. “Well, I can’t tell.”

“Nigga,” I snap. “Unless you’ve miraculously gotten some extra meat on your dick, I’m not interested.”

He twists his lip, scrunches his face up. “Say what?”

I repeat myself.

“Oh word? But you wasn’t saying all that when I had you twisted up like a pretzel, banging your guts out.”

I laugh. “Nigga, get a grip. The only thing you did was poke around in my pussy.”

“You a real bitch, you know that?”

“Yep, I sure am,” I say, smiling. “But I got some good pussy. And your silly ass will never feel the inside of it again. Now get the fuck away from my door before I call the cops on your delusional ass.” I slam the door in his face.

“Fucking bitch,” I hear him say before, punching my door with his fist.

I sigh, shaking my head. It never ceases to amaze me how some niggas act like bratty, little boys when they don’t get their way, pouting and stomping off, having oversized tantrums.

Now, I’m the last person who likes a bunch of mess in her personal space, and making a scene is an absolute no-no. But this fool has lost his damn mind. I snatch my house phone from off the coffee table, racing towards the door. I swing it open and rush outside, catching him before he gets into his Benz. “Nigga, bang on my motherfucking door like that again, and see what happens.”

“Or what?” he snaps, walking back towards me.

Oh shit, I think. The last thing I want is some nigga beating, no, change that— trying to beat—my ass out here, but I know—well, at least I think—he isn’t crazy enough to put his hands on me. The last thing he wants is to have his spot blown up when he has a woman at home. But a nigga with a bruised ego is likely to do almost anything.

“I know you are not trying to come at me,” I say, pressing the first number for 9-1-1. He stops in his tracks, putting his hands up in mock surrender.

“You know what, take your ass back inside,” he snaps, walking back to his car. “I ain’t beat for your dumb ass.”

I silently let out a relieved sigh. “Good. And make sure you don’t bring your pencil-dick ass around here again ’cause if you do, you’re going to find your ass locked the hell up.”

“Whatever,” he snaps, slamming his car door and starting his engine. “I should have never fucked with your ho-ass in the first place.” He starts backing out of my driveway, then screeches off down the street like a raving lunatic.

I don’t know what the hell is wrong with these niggas out here. I look up into the sky, searching for a full moon. And what do you know? There it is, as bright as day. I shoulda known, I think, heading back into the house. You always got motherfuckers tripping.

Wait a minute. I know what some of you are thinking. You think I could have handled that better; that I shouldn’t have come out of my face like that with him. And you’re right. I could have. But I didn’t. So what! Bottom line, every man I fuck knows from gate that if he ever comes to my house uninvited, he runs the risk of being cursed the hell out. So he had better proceed with caution.

Now before you open your mouth to say something sideways—like he should have punched my grill in; like someone is going to beat my ass; or some other crazy-shit like that. Let’s be clear: I don’t give a damn about any man who can’t follow instructions, especially a cheating-ass one. I’m not going to sugarcoat shit when it comes to my house rules. It’s my home, my pussy, and my damn way! And if a nigga doesn’t like it, he can carry his happy- go-lucky-creeping-ass back the fuck where he came from. And that’s what it is.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some dick to prepare for. I need to make sure the cat box is fresh for tonight’s suck-and-fuck festivities. So, toodles!

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Two hours later, a sweet, funky scent of hot, sticky, sweaty fucking fills the air. My hair is saturated and plastered around my face. Beads of sweat are rolling down my back, sliding into the crack of my ass. Wade and I have been fucking nonstop, like two wild beasts in heat. I am riding his thick pole, my pussy churning as I crash down onto his dick. I fuck him as if my life depends on it, as if his does. Ride him as if there is no tomorrow, as if there are no cares. And for the moment, there are none.

There are no words spoken between us. Just grunts and groans and moans of passion. I lean over, press my hardened nipples against his hard chest and allow him to slip his wet tongue into my hungry mouth. I suck on it as if it were his dick, feeling heat and ecstasy rising up within me. In unspoken words, we are both aware that this will be the last time we ever share in this sexual bliss.

I slowly, seductively, grind my pussy up, then down, the length of his dick. Then rotate my hips back up and down it again, milking him one inch at a time.

“Ah fuck! Goddamn, you know how to ride this dick!” he shouts. His eyes roll up in the back of his head as he grips my waist. A sly grin parts my lips. ’Cause I’m the Man Handler, baby. And I was born to slay the dick.

“Yeah, you like this pussy, don’t you?”

“Ah yes…oh, shit…”

“You like how I wet this big dick, don’t you?”

“Hell, yeah, baby…”

“Show me how much you want this pussy,” I demand.

I stop moving my hips, and allow him to rapidly thrust his hips upward, deep into my sopping hole, stretching the back of my pussy, smashing against the mouth of my womb. I gasp, choking back a scream.

I tighten my pussy around his dick, grasping and pulling him deeper into my honey-coated, cum-slick abyss.

“Oh, shit,” he moans. “Aaaah, fuck. This pussy’s good.”

“Sssh, no talking unless I speak to you,” I warn in between another moan.

“Fuck me…”—he continues slamming his dick up into my pussy—“Mmmm…that’s right…like that…fuck this pussy…”