The Man Handler

I pull in a deep breath, slowly blowing out my frustration. “Garrett,” I say evenly. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, so now you’re ready to listen?”

I tilt my head.

He runs his hands over his face. “What are you afraid of?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I want to know why you are so afraid.”

“What makes you think that I’m afraid?”

“C’mon, don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Answer me with a question,” he says.

“Well, I wanna know what makes you ask that.”

“You act like you’re afraid of letting me—hell anyone, get close to you. I’m not interested in hurting you. I want to spend time with you. What’s so wrong with that?”

“What’s so wrong with keeping things the way they’ve been?”

“It’s not enough,” he says, pausing. He pulls in his lips. Takes a deep breath, then continues, “Listen, I knew going into this what you wanted, and didn’t want. You made that very clear. But, damn, after almost three years, you still act like you’re okay with only fucking.”

“I am okay with it. And you should be too.”

“Well, I’m not. Don’t you ever get tired of not having someone special in your life; a man of your own? Someone who’s gonna love you, and appreciate you for all that you are instead of bouncing from nigga to nigga?”

“Honestly,” I say, “I don’t give it much thought. I am very much happy with the way things are in my life. I’m not looking for love.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

“A stiff dick from a man who isn’t going to stress me out about trying to give him something more than what I am capable of giving him.”

“And what’s that, Bianca?”

“Me,” I state.

“And why not?”

I take a deep breath, prepare for the moment of truth. And the reality is, if I could draw a pension, I’d be on my knees sucking and/or fucking a good dick around the damn clock. There is nothing better than watching a man’s toes open and close tight, and him biting his bottom lip as you’re giving him that bomb ass head, or while you’re galloping up and down on his dick, squeezing your pussy around it, and wetting it with your juices.

“Because I love dick,” I finally say, facing him. “And I love fucking different dick. And, honestly, I really don’t think one man can satisfy me. Not for long. Hell, I know he can’t. I like variety too much for him to be able to.”

For a split second, my mind drifts. I hear the deep, piercing voice of a faceless man, “Hey, baby, I’m looking for a horny, cock-loving, cum-hungry ho who wants to drain this big-ass dick.”

“Sorry big daddy, I’m not fucking tonight.”

“I don’t want to fuck you,” he says, slowly stroking his dick, “just want you on your knees with your hot, wet mouth between my legs until I shoot my thick cum down your throat.”

“Is that so?” I hear myself saying as I drop down on my knees, and slowly slide his dick down into my neck, lapping at his balls as I swab his dick in my throat. He moans.

Another faceless man comes behind me, pulls up my skirt, then yanks my cum-soaked panties down. He slaps my ass with his dick. “Yeah, you horny, freaky bitch, suck that dick. I’m gonna eat your ass, then ram this long dick up in your back.” I hear myself moan, as he spreads open my ass cheeks. I can feel his breath approaching the center of my hole, can feel it pucker up in anticipation of his wet tongue gliding around its edges. He moistens my asshole, darts his tongue in and out until it opens—ready and eager, for his cock. He braces himself, grabs either side of my hips, then presses the tip of his dick into my hole. Slowly pushes in. I moan. He pushes further. I moan again. Take in more of his dick in my ass as I swallow and gulp down the other dick. My neck stretches; my asshole widens. Pulsating and gripping. Spasms of illicit pleasure shoot through me. And my body begins to shudder. I am being fucked at both ends. More stroking, more gulping, more moaning until we explode and I take all of their cum, making sure I don’t miss a drip, a drop, or a spurting ounce of their creamy loads. I swish one nut around in my mouth, feel and taste its sweet and tangy milk. Then I swallow. Leave some in my mouth, on my tongue, and paint my lips with it. I pull in the other nut, hold it deep in my asshole, then slowly push it out, allow it to slowly ooze out, and trickle along the back of my burning pussy. A moan catches in the back of my throat.

I blink, blink again. Bring my attention back to Garrett.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head, “so how many niggas you fucking? Tell me, Bianca, baby. How many dicks does it take to satisfy a woman like you?”

A lot, I think in my head. Hell, countless. This is the first time Garrett is actually calling me out. It’s the first time he inquires about my sexual proclivities. For some reason, I think he wants me to say it—that I’m a ho, so that he doesn’t have to. Hell, I never tried to hide that fact. But I know he’s thinking it. Know he’s wondering it—if my sexual appetite, and love for dick, is the makings of a full-blown sex addict or a nymphomaniac. I’ve dissected its meaning. As an adjective: Nymphomania is an excessive sexual desire in (and behavior by) a woman. As a noun: it’s a woman with abnormal sexual desires. I am neither. And still the question remains: What’s so abnormal with loving the way my pussy gets wet and creamy when a dick is being pumped deep inside of me?

“Garrett, I know you’ve heard the saying, ‘you can’t turn a ho into a housewife.’ So why are you even wasting your time trying?”

He studies me. “Because, as crazy as this may sound, I have feelings for you. And I’d like to get to know you outside of the bed, and eventually, I want you to be my lady in the streets, and my freaky ho in the sheets. I know you’re a good woman who’s decided to guard her heart, making it hard for anyone to get close to her. I’m not looking to hurt you. I want to be the only man you ever need, or want.

“I know how much you love to fuck. Hell, I love fucking too. But I love fucking you more. The way your pussy feels around my dick; the way it tastes on my tongue; the way it smells when I press my nose up in it. I got it bad for you, baby. And, yeah, I might be playing myself. But there’s no way that after three years of fucking me that you are going to sit here and make me believe that you don’t feel some kind of way towards me.

“We have sexual chemistry that you can’t deny. When we kiss, when I am inside of you, there’s something that connects us. I know you feel what I feel. So why are you trying to ignore it?”

My love for dick, his love for pussy, is what connects us—nothing more, nothing less.

I blink, blink again.

Garrett stands up, pulls off his V-neck pullover sweater, kicks off his shoes, strips off his jeans, then steps out of his black knit boxer briefs. He stands before me in all of his naked glory. Beautiful, mesmerizing, sculpted pleasure. I will my pussy to be still; will my eyes from taking in the bulbous head of his semi-hard dick; the massiveness of his running back thighs. Force myself not to stare at his rippled stomach or the curly patch of hair that rests in the center of his defined chest. I can feel my heart beating. My hands are becoming sweaty. This is not how it is supposed to go down. He is not supposed to be in my home taunting me. Not supposed to be standing in front of me with his dick in his hand, slowly stroking it into a thick, throbbing erection.

I swallow hard.

Damn him, for being so fine!

Damn me, for being so horny!

I open my robe. Just that quickly, I forget that a few minutes ago I was fuming at him. Forget that he is trying to make me into something I am not able to be. Forget that I have to stop fucking him before things spiral out of control. I allow myself to forget every one of my rules, all for the sake of riding his dick, one last time.

I spread open my legs, pull open my steamy, wet pussy lips.

“You want this sweet pussy?” I ask in a sultry whisper. I can feel myself shaking from the inside out as he walks up on me.

He pulls me up from out of my seat, presses his thick dick up against me.