you do.”
His cell phone rings. He lets it go into voice mail.
I roll my eyes. Men are so fucking stupid. I have told him over and over again, when he’s with me and his woman calls, answer the damn phone. Continue doing what you do when you’re not creeping with me. Don’t change up your routine. But, this mofo disregards what I say every time.
“Why didn’t you answer?” I ask. But at this point I could really care less.
His phone rings again.
He ignores the question and the call, taking me by the hand and leading the way upstairs. When we finally get up to the bedroom, he sits down on the edge of the bed with his legs spread apart. He rests his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together, and sighs. I sit next to him, reach for his semi-hard dick and begin stroking it until it thickens.
“Why can’t I get this shit at home?” he asks, turning his gaze on me. “Instead of a bunch of bullshit,” he blurts out.
I stare at him, let go of his dick. “If you’re not happy with her, why do you stay?”
He looks at me as if what I’ve asked is incredulous. As if the answer should be obvious. “I love her.”
I blink, blink again. If that isn’t the weakest, lamest, most overused excuse in the world.
“But you’re sitting here.”
“What does me loving her have to do with that?”
“Yeah, okay, if you say so. If cheating on your woman is love, then do you, boo. But obviously, you’re not happy.”
He scowls. “I never said I wasn’t happy. I simply can’t stand her mood swings and shit, and her being stingy with the sex. Other than that, I’m good.”
“So then why are you sitting here again?”
“For some pussy.”
“And why is that?”
He sucks his teeth, leaning back on his forearms. “What’s this? Twenty fucking questions?” He huffs, looking down at his dick resting on the left side of his stomach. “You gonna take care of this dick or what?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking his cock back in my hand. I flick my tongue over the head, plant slow, wet kisses along the back of its shaft, then abruptly stop, letting go of it again, “after you answer my question.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. If you want your dick wet, you’ll answer the question.”
“I’m here tryna get some pussy, because I ain’t getting it at home.”
“Hmm…very interesting,” I say, getting up from the edge of the bed. I walk over to one of my walk-in closets and pull a satin robe off one of the brass hooks. I slip it on, then tie it tight across my body.
He frowns. “What you put that on for?”
Now, before I go off on his ass, let me vent for a minute. I already know that, in life, you get what you get, when you do what you do. But, dammit, please tell me what in the hell I ever do to have to listen to a damn man whine and complain about what it is his woman doesn’t do. Okay, okay…usually, I’m all ears. But, tonight, at this very instant, I am not in the mood to hear shit except his balls slapping up against the back of my pussy. But he wants to bitch about shit that makes me no never mind, and it has fucked up my mood. It’s bad enough I really wasn’t up to seeing his ass tonight anyway. But, because I let my pussy talk me into letting him come through, I got to listen to this shit. Sorry, baby…not tonight.
“Because,” I say, facing him with my hands on my hips, “obviously you need a relationship therapist; not pussy.”
And before he can open his mouth to say anything else, I put him out. Tell him to get his shoes on, stuff his dick back into his boxers, and to get the hell out of my house; and to never,
CHAPTER THIRTY
Okay, another question for you—and let’s see how many of you can get it right. What is the one thing that a man cherishes, and will die trying to protect; the one thing that will bring him the most drama if he isn’t able to be in control of it; the thing that will disrupt his life if not used wisely? Answer: His DICK!
Yes, his most prized possession. The thing he nurtures, and adores, and defines and measures his manhood by. The thing he takes pride in. The cock, the dick, the penis, the pipe, the wood, the schlong, the ding-dong, the ding-a-ling, the Jimmie, the Big Boy, the snake, the bamboo, the bozack, and a slew of other pet names assigned to describe his appendage. Hell, I remember having a man in my bed lying on his back with his legs spread wide, begging me to make his “hotdog” spit. Ugh! That was it for me. Dude had to go. Then there was one who had the nerve to tell me to suck the cream out of his “Twinkie.” Maybe it’s me, but a grown-ass man referring to his dick as a damn Twinkie has some serious issues, as far as I’m concerned. And I’m not sucking or fucking anything being likened to a damn sponge-cake filled with a bunch of white cream.
Anyway, dick (or whatever cute, little descriptive term used), is made to be sucked, to be fucked, to be pleased. And I have no problem doing what is necessary to take it on the most enjoyably wet, toe-curling ride of its life. I have no problem teasing it, tormenting it, or taming it.
And like I said before, when I’m fucking a man, my mission is to give him a total out-of-body experience. I want to take his breath away, then give it back. Make his damn toes curl, his nipples harden, his balls rattle, and his eyes roll all the way in the back of his head. Then when he’s about ready to bust that nut, make his body ripple with an electrical energy that shakes his soul. When I roll off of him, I know the mission is complete when he’s looking dazed and confused, then starts drooling and slurring his words, lying there paralyzed. Yep, I’ve fucked his ass into a stroke.
My phone rings. I am not familiar with the number, but I answer anyway. “Hello?”
“Hey, Beautiful,” the smooth, velvety voice says on the other end. “I’m in town for a few days and was hoping you had some time for me.”
It’s Maurice. He’s a cross country truck driver I met three years ago at a party in Brooklyn. He’s six-two, two hundred forty pounds of thick, dark-chocolate man meat who calls me whenever he’s in the area. The last time we fucked was about six months ago, so I’m down for another round of his nine and three-quarter inch dick with the thick vein running along the shaft. Mmmm. And of course he calls me, wanting to dip his dick into my sweetness. And,
I smile. “Of course I do,” I say, imagining his pillow-soft lips on my nipples and clit. Mmmph. The thought of his dick up in my love basket sends chills down my spine. I’m telling you, there’s nothing like straddling a man’s face and cock, and riding his ass down into the mattress. Mmmm. And with Maurice, I can position his dick in me to hit every angle of my pussy and grind my clit against his pelvis to really get off. Oh, yes! The thought of shoving my panties in his mouth while I slam my wet, hot pussy down on his dick has me tingling. In my head, I hear myself telling him to lie back, and enjoy the damn ride. “What time you coming?”
“I’m on my way,” he says. “And I’m horny as hell, too.”
“Just how I like it,” I say, sliding my hands between my legs, then pulling open my lips. “Ooh, daddy,” I whisper. “I can’t wait to feel your dick in this pussy.”
“And this dick can’t wait to feel you,” he says. “I’ll be there in ’bout half an hour.”
I glance at the clock. 8:17 p.m.
Twenty minutes later, I am showered, and relaxed, and horny as hell. The thought of fucking Maurice has me on fire. I crave body contact, body heat. Humping and grinding. Mmm, I smell temptation in the air. Or is that sex? No, it’s Maurice ringing my doorbell.
I rub almond body butter into my smooth skin, then hurriedly pull out the bobbie pins that keep my wrap in place, and comb it out, allowing my hair to form around my face. I shake my hair, admiring its shine and bounce, then add a splash of cherry wine lipstick onto my lips. I slip on my red-lace robe and slide my feet into my black
