The Man Handler

My clit jumps.

“Yeah,” he says. “I want all that good pussy. And I want to serve you this dick anyway you want it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

My eyes snap open. Jolting up, I scan the room. It takes me a minute to get my bearings as my eyes adjust to my surroundings in the darkness. I am naked. My hair is disheveled, pussy is aching and Garrett is sleeping beside me, lightly snoring. I glance quickly at the digital clock. 3:21 a.m.

Fuck!

I inhale, exhale. Plop back on my pillow. I think about last night. How Garrett snatched me up and practically turned the tables—and manhandled me. Literally ripping my panties at the seams—the silk remnants of fabric still hanging around my waist—and sliding his dick in me full force. He took my pussy. Fucked it like he owned it; fucked my pussy, my ass, my throat to shreds. Let me tell you! I don’t know what the hell Garrett was on last night, but he dicked me down so damn good that he had me yelping and howling and sounding like a damn hyena. Had me moaning, and saying shit I know I had no damn business saying. Yes, he fucked me deliciously silly.

And right now, I am hoping he was too caught up in trying to knock this pussy out the frame and busting his nut to remember half the stuff that came out of my mouth. ’Cause, baaaaby, last night, I was in rare form.

I replay the scene in my head. “You gonna let me have this pussy, baby?”

“Uh, mmm…oh…yes,” I moaned.

He dug deeper, snapping his hips up against mine, hitting my spot.

“Oh, Garrett, I’ll never get tired of this big dick…oh, yes… I’ve been missing this good dick…Oh, damn, Daddy, no one fucks my pussy like you…Harder! Harder!”

“Yeah, you love this dick, don’t you?”

“Yes, Garrett, you’re making my pussy cum…I love this big dick, baby.”

“You want this big dick?” he asked, slamming it in and out of me, pounding the inside of my walls mercilessly. “You wanna make love to this dick?”

“Mmmph. Oh…fuck!”

He slowed his pace, pulled his dick out to the head, tip-drilled my slit, then slammed himself back in me with hard, deep, thrusts.

“Yesssssss…Oh, yesssssssssss…I want this dick in me every night…fuck your pussy, baby…oooooh, yes…just like that…I don’t want you giving this big dick to anyone else, but me…”

Ugh! And there you have it. Last night, I was saying mess like that and a whole bunch of other shit that has no damn value or purpose in the grand scheme of things. I mean, he didn’t say anything about it afterwards, but I know he damn sure was acting like he had hit the jackpot. Damn me! And damn him, for fucking me out of my damn mind!

I glance over at Garrett’s naked body, shaking my head. What the fuck am I doing? I close my eyes. Try to make sense out of what transpired. But I can not. There’s no logical, rational explanation as to why I have this man still lying in my bed. And most, importantly, there’s no sensible reason as to why my pussy still feels sopping wet.

I snap up in bed again.

Realization hits me like a lightning bolt.

“Oh my God!” I scream, feeling between my legs. I am struck by panic. Feel myself starting to hyperventilate. “GARRETT!” I yell, frantically shaking him.

He stirs, but does not open his eyes. He moans something inaudible.

I flip on the lamp.

I shake him again. “Garrett!”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, finally turning towards me, opening his eyes. He squints, trying to adjust to the brightness of the light. It is on him like a spotlight. “What’s the matter?”

“You fucked me without a condom!” I shriek. “And you fucking came in me.”

He stretches, and yawns. Scratches the side of his head, then sits up in bed. He is seemingly unfazed by what I’ve said. “I think we both got caught up in the moment,” he offers, nonchalantly.

I jump out of bed, pacing the floor. “Caught up? Caught up? Are you fucking serious? What were you thinking? I never, ever, fuck without a condom. How could you?”

“It’s not like you tried to stop me,” he snaps back, sitting up with his back up against the headboard. He watches me pace the room like a wounded lioness. “You are just as much at fault, and just as much responsible as I am.”

In my head, I know what he says is true. I am totally responsible for what I allow to happen. I could have stopped him. But, I didn’t. I allowed myself to get caught up in the heat of the moment. Still, I want to blame him. Want to lash out at him. This kind of shit never happens to me.

He blinks, the weight of his actions—our actions—finally hitting him. “Oh, shit. You don’t have anything, do you?”

I stop in my tracks. In that moment, flashbacks of the first time I really took notice of my pussy runs through my head. I was twelve, sitting on the toilet with my legs spread open, and a mirror in my hand staring at it. It was then that flashes of those moments down in the basement watching my brother and his girlfriend took on a new meaning for me. Replaying their nasty deeds in my head caused an unexplainable yearning to sweep through me. And for the first time, I touched (I mean really touched) and rubbed my pussy, pulling open my thick, hairy lips until my insides got hot and wet, and started to tingle. I watched my finger slide in and out of my slit, wet and slick. I was so amazed and turned on by how it wrapped around my finger that I started to shake. I pressed on my clit, and almost fell off the toilet when a rush of sensations swept through me. In that one moment, I had experienced the joy of masturbation. After that, I spent every day after school locked in the bathroom, exploring new things about the furry little thing between my legs.

Then I think back on my first taste of six, thick inches of cut Indian dick. And let me tell you. Once I got past the smell of curry seeping out of his pores while he sweated, it wasn’t a bad fuck. Actually, he was exceptionally long-winded, and a real greedy fuck. Exactly how I like ’em. He’d bust one nut, change the condom and be ready for more. And he ate pussy which got him extra bonus points. Besides, at five-eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, he was fine as hell with a rich, deep, cocoa-brown complexion, smooth skin, big, brown doe-like eyes with amazingly long lashes, and a beautiful set of teeth. And I kept fucking him, serving him this good American grade-A pussy for about two months, until he propositioned me to marry his ass for five thousand dollars so he could obtain his citizenship, then turn around and send for his family. Wrong answer!

I shake the thought, replacing it with a smorgasbord of cum-spurting dick, a kaleidoscope of images of men I have randomly fucked and sucked; assorted faces of men who have sucked and fucked and licked me every which way imaginable. I have had my pussy juices smeared all over so many faces, and wrapped around so many cocks, that I’ve lost count.

“It’s a little too late to be asking that, don’t you think?” I ask, indignantly. “But, no, I don’t have anything.” The nerve of him! “I get checked out every three months. Do you have something?”

I hold my breath. Wait for his response.

He frowns, pausing. And this causes a wave of concern to wash over me, pulling me under and tossing me around. I wasn’t only worried about contracting HIV or AIDS, the Herpes virus was also rampant, as well as venereal warts. And I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any of them.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, waiting.

“Well?” I impatiently push, slicing into the deafening silence that has entered the room.

“Hell no!” he finally snaps. “I get regular physicals, and blood work done. Hell, you’ve seen the results for yourself.”

I silently exhale, relieved. He was right. I have seen his recent tests results, and he has seen mine. However, it was still a question that needed to be asked. And it is still a worry, one that doesn’t simply go away on words