The Man Handler

“Yes, I know. And don’t forget to add ho to your list.”

“Check this—”

“Good night, Vinnie,” I say, cutting him off. “And while you’re at it, do us both a favor—lose my number. Oh, and by the way, thanks again for the nut.”

Before he can open his mouth to say anything else, I end the call. I turn off the light, then turn over on my side—sticky and exhausted—and drift back to sleep, chasing the remainder of my dream.

CHAPTER FOUR

You know, I’m sitting here thinking that I’d better make a few things clear so that we’re all on the same page before you start passing judgment on me or trying to label me as some wounded trollop. See, the reason I fuck the way I do has nothing to do with some deeply rooted, unresolved psychological and emotional bullshit. Please don’t get caught up in that textbook hype. My upbringing doesn’t have a damn thing to do with my hunger for dick. This is who I am, and this is who I choose to be. I refuse to live my life in a box constructed (and confined) by the thoughts, beliefs, or feelings of others. So if I choose to suck or fuck a dick every hour on the damn hour, that’s my business. Honestly, in the grand scheme of things, with the recession, the collapse of the stock and housing markets, and all the killings and crooked shit going on in the world, is my fucking really that big of a deal?

I mean, really. I don’t want or need anyone trying to psycho-analyze me. No, I was never sexually, physically, or emotionally abused by anyone. I was never neglected or deprived. Nor am I the product of a dysfunctional family. So there are no wounds to heal. My father didn’t beat up on my mother, run out on her, abuse substances, or abandon me. I come from a very loving, two-parent household. Both of my parents were hard workers who now live in San Diego. My mother is a retired elementary school teacher, and my father is a retired police officer. I am the youngest of seven, and the only girl. And none of us ever wanted for anything, especially me. So let’s be clear. There’s nothing wrong with my self-esteem, and I’m not scarred from some traumatic experience.

I fuck because it’s something that I enjoy doing. Some people find pleasure in reading a good book. Some people gamble. Some people shop. Some people drink and use drugs. Well, I take pleasure in the feel of a stiff dick. And ain’t a damn thing wrong with it. We all have our vices, and fucking is mine.

See, the difference between me and most chicks who randomly fuck and suck niggas: I know what I am. I don’t try to hide it, or make any excuses for it. I am what I am. I am a grown-ass woman. I am adventurous, uninhibited, spontaneous, and unrepressed. Hello. I am a nymph. I love dick! And I do what I wanna do because I can.

And make no mistake; there’s absolutely no shame in my game. I am my pussy, and my pussy is me. Sweet, juicy, tight, and finger-licking good! Intoxicating, addicting, mystifying. My pussy beats to its own pulse. And it craves dick. Hell, I crave dick! I love a man who can match me stroke for stroke, a man who can serve me the dick inch by inch, a man who can make my toes curl, my eyes roll up in the back of my head, and have me speaking in tongues. Oh, yes…that’s the kind of man I love. And that’s exactly the kind of man currently hovering over me, sliding his thick dick with its huge mushroom head deep into my slickness.

Face contorted, hips bucking and grinding, lips smacking, tongues licking and lapping and flicking against each other. Oh, he’s fucking me so damn good. His name is Garrett. Six-four, two hundred and thirty solid pounds of muscled man dipped in smooth, milk chocolate with a thick, eight-inch dick that points upward. He also has a beautiful smile and mesmerizing brown eyes that have a way of piercing deep into my soul. If this were a perfect world, if my heart was open and unhardened, I could probably fall in love with him.

However, I am at a point in my life where I’m living for the moment. I have no expectations of anyone (particularly men), and I don’t want anyone having any of me. Expectations open the door for disappointments and misunderstandings. And I’m not interested in either. So I like to keep it simple. Just fuck and go.

Oh, no, boo-boo. Please don’t ever think I’m some lonely, lost, confused woman. Never that! And, yes, I fuck without any emotional connection to these men. Not that I’m not capable of loving or afraid of loving ’cause I’ve been there, done that. But right now, love is the last thing on my mind. Most of the men I fuck are emotionally unavailable anyway, so why would I want anything more than a stiff dick and long tongue from ’em? So, yes, I am very detached when it comes to fucking and men. Some may call it empty, meaningless sex. That’s cool with me. As long as I’m keeping my pussy well fucked and wet, what the hell does love have to do with anything?

Garrett slowly pulls his dick out, then plunges it back in. “Mmmph…” He pulls out again, plunges back in, then pulls out again, leaving the head in. He tip drills me, tickling the opening of my pussy, teasing it. “Mmmph…Put your dick in…put your dick in…put your dick in…” I chant, reaching for him, trying to pull him into me. He grabs me by the wrists and slams them back onto the bed up over my head, pinning them down. I buck my hips, desperate to feed all of my pussy with his thickness. “Stop teasing me, Garrett,” I warn, practically begging.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, slamming his dick back into me, then going into a nice, slow grind before picking up his pace.

“Uh,” I moan. My lust-swollen clit flutters as the thickness of Garrett’s eight-inch dick strokes against it while he pumps it in and out of me, stretching and smashing against my pussy walls.

“You like that dick?” he asks, letting my wrists go, then reaching up under me and palming my ass.

“Ummph,” I moan again, grabbing him by his firm ass, digging my nails into him, and pulling him deeper into me. I have my left leg wrapped around his waist and my right leg up over his shoulder. “Oh, yes…fuck me. Oh, shit, the dick is so good.”

Now, between you and me, what I like about fucking Garrett is, I don’t have to pretend that the dick is good. It is good. No scratch that, this nigga’s dick is the closest thing to heaven. It’s fucking D- I-V-I-N-E. Anytime he comes through and serves me, it’s always on point and I’m guaranteed a fantabulous fuck session. Lord knows I can’t stand a lazy-dick man. And there’s nothing worse than a can’t-heat-the-pussy-up-right-clumsy-fuck nigga, poking and stabbing at nothing. Ugh! What a bore, and a damn waste! And trust me, I have had my share of men who can’t fuck the pussy, can’t eat the pussy, and can’t make the pussy do what it do. That shit burns me the hell up. Those are the ones who never get invited back between my legs. So this is probably one of the reasons I keep Garrett around. Okay, besides the fact that he’s also extremely fine.

He grunts and lifts up on his hands in push-up position as he pounds in and out of me, beating my pussy like it stole something from him. “Aaah, shit, this pussy’s good,” he says, bringing me back to the reason why I’m lying on my back with my legs wrapped around his body.

A slight smile spreads across my face as I watch Garrett toss back his head, closing his eyes and biting down on his bottom lip. Sweat drips from his face, rolls down the center of his chest, and drips down on me. I reach up and roll his nipples between my fingers, then lightly pinch them. My pussy sloshes a bucket of sweet, creamy cum all over his dick.

“Oh, fuck. Damn, baby,” he moans.

“You like this pussy?” I ask, pulling him into me by the back of his neck, then slipping my tongue deep into his mouth. We kiss for about twenty tongue-probing seconds before he pulls back for air, trying to steady his balance. Without much effort, I clench and unclench my pussy, gripping and releasing his dick, causing a popping sound every time he rams it in and out of me.

“Hell yeah,” he moans, gripping my hips tighter. “Damn, I love this pussy.” He says what I already know. But I ask because I like hearing the obvious. Truth be told, I haven’t fucked a man yet who hasn’t loved the feel of this sweet valley, who hasn’t craved to have his dick wet by its cream, or who hasn’t begged for more. And usually, I give them exactly what it is they desire.

“Yeah, daddy, just like that. Oh, yes…hit that pussy,” I urge, arching my back and digging the back of my head into my goose-filled pillow. I feel an orgasm building inside of me, pushing against the walls of my uterus. I love the way his dick stretches me open. “Oooh, uh…”

You want to know one of the things I love about men: their balls. My mouth starts to water thinking about ’em. If a man’s hanging low, that’s always a plus. I love a man with big, heavy balls that hang. I call ’em nut clackers. Mmmm. There’s something about seeing his balls swinging and smacking between his legs while he’s