The Man Handler

then spread open my pussy lips and allow the water to beat against my clit. I let out a soft moan as my pussy opens and closes in its attempt to catch beads of water.

I think about my encounter with Garrett, rub the space that held his dick moments ago, and find myself asking the question: If a man had to use one word to describe a woman’s pussy, what would it be? I toy with the question for a moment. I mean, honestly. Every woman wants to believe she has a tighter, wetter, sweeter pussy than any other. She wants to believe her pussy can out-fuck the next chick’s. But at the end of the day, what does the man fucking her really think about what’s between her legs?

Hmmm…I wonder if any woman has ever given thought to that. I mean, would his one-word description of her pussy be smelly, like rancid meat or sweet, rotting fruit? Would it be cavernous, because it’s huge, dark, and damp? How about deep like an ocean? Would it be addictive like crack? Would it be worn like the heel of an old shoe? Would it be juicy like a ripened peach? Would it be dry like the Sahara desert, or gritty like sandpaper? Maybe tight like a Venus fly trap. Or aged like fermented grapes or blue cheese. Perhaps sweet like cotton candy. What about sour like curdled milk? Or maybe it would it be sticky like molasses. Would it be wet like a gushing waterfall? Would it be hot like an inferno? Maybe rank like it’s covered with sweat and crusty pussy and cum juices. Humph. Or perhaps straight rotten like the back of a garbage truck?

The numerous descriptions cause me to chuckle to myself. Humph, can you imagine? I think. Then, for some reason, I find myself wondering how many women actually look at their pussies. I mean really look at them. Lie back, spread open their legs, pull open their lips and use a mirror to look up into their treasures. I don’t know about anyone else, but I look at my pussy regularly, at least once a week. Hell, I have a pretty snatch, if I do say so myself. Every man who has ever seen it always tells me how pretty (and tasty) it is. It’s all one color on the outside, a golden brown, and a deep shade of pink in the center. And my lips are puffy and don’t flap over like elephant ears, which are not a good look, in my opinion. Anyway, although I don’t make it a habit to look at another woman’s twat, I have seen a few that weren’t too appetizing or appealing and I have been told by men that some chicks have the ugliest holes imaginable. Humph. Well, I’m glad I don’t have that issue. ’Cause not only does it look good, it tastes good, and feels even better. There you have it!

Bottom line: No matter what her hole looks like, I believe all women should love their pussies. Admire their pussies. Be proud of their pussies. Never forsake their pussies. Never be afraid to look at their pussies. And most importantly, be in control of their pussies. No one should ever rob a woman of her freedom (of her right) to deny someone access to her pussy. Yes, dammit! Women from all walks of life should unite in their femininity, celebrate their womanhood, and behold the essence of their pussies. We are women. We are one. We are good pussy.

I am so deep in my musings over pussy that I don’t even hear Garrett step into the shower until his voice slices into my thoughts. I return the shower head to its resting place.

“You know I enjoy spending time with you,” he says, taking his strong hands and massaging my shoulders, then replacing his hands with kisses. I hand him my washcloth and the bar of soap so that he can wash my back.

I take a deep breath, hold it in, then slowly release it under the stream of warm water beating against my face. I turn to face him and begin washing the front of his body without saying a word—starting with his chiseled chest, massaging his nipples, before trailing down to his smooth abs lined by fine hair around his navel. He stands in front of me, allowing my hands to explore his body. He licks his lips as I make my way down to his semi-hard dick. I take it in my soapy hands and lather it up, stroking it until he hardens and thickens. When it swells to its capacity, I rub it between the palms of both of my hands as if I’m rubbing two sticks together, then slide my slippery hands up and down the length of it, twisting and turning my hand over the head of his dick like I’m turning a doorknob.

He moans. “Damn, baby…oh, shit…”

I keep my eyes locked on his, giving him a variety of hand-work. From stroking his dick from the top to the bottom with one hand, then releasing, bringing my other hand to the top, then repeating, alternating with both hands; to grabbing his balls with one hand and lightly pulling as I stroke him with the other. This gets him off all the time.

“Aaah, fuck…oh, shiiiiit,” he moans again.

His eyes open and close, then roll in the back of his head.

“That’s right, daddy, give me that dick milk,” I coo. “Bust that big nut in my hand.”

He leans in and brushes his lips against mine, then kisses me softly on them. “Why you fucking with me?” he asks, dipping at the knees.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” The way he is looking at me is making my temperature rise. I can feel my boiling juices trickling down my inner thighs.

“You know what you’re doing, girl,” he says.

I smile, knowing if there was a condom in here with us, he would have ripped it open, rolled it over his dick, then turned me around, slammed me up against the wet tile, and relentlessly fucked me from the back. Garrett is the type of man who can’t stand having his dick hard and not being able to bury it inside of me. Stroking and sucking his dick is good, but he’s the kind of man who will eventually want the pussy. It’s sweet, hot, and tasty, and he’s gonna want it to wet his dick. But he knows there’s a line that doesn’t ever get crossed, and that’s him fucking me without a condom. Since there are no condoms around us, he will settle for a soapy hand job. Although I enjoy living on the edge, I will not compromise my health by playing Russian roulette with him or any other man. Now, some may say that that’s what I’m already doing with the number of men I fuck. They’re entitled to their opinions. But I consider it doing what I enjoy doing responsibly. So we can agree to disagree.

Anyway, I suppose if I ever did decide to have a man (of my own) in my life, the one advantage would be not having to use a condom. ’Cause, honestly, I don’t like using them. But like I said, I refuse to jeopardize my health by fucking without one. So if he ain’t strapped with a Durex, then there’s no sex. That’s the only condom that feels like he’s using nothing. I will say, it sure would be nice to get fucked in the ass the way I like. Straight up raw. I love to feel a man nut in my asshole. There’s something about feeling his dick throbbing inside of me as his cum is spurting out and into my tight hole, filling it up with his thick, hot cream, then it starts oozing out as I use my muscles to push it back out. Mmm. I can almost feel it running down the crack of my ass as I speak. Oooh, baby, and to be able to swallow a man’s gooey nut would be a delicious treat. Yep. It sure would. The thought of a nigga’s hot love custard hitting the back of my throat has my mouth drooling.

However, the way so many men are out here creeping on their wives and girls, it’d be my luck that my man would end up being one of those cheating-ass niggas like the ones I already fuck. And the risk of him getting sloppy and bringing me something home…oh, hell no! I’d rather be fucking who I want, and know I have to protect myself, than have a man I think I can trust, who I believe is respecting our relationship, and he’s out behind my back sticking his dick in the next chick.

So tell me. Who’s the one really at risk, them or me?

Garrett kisses me again, bringing me back to the reason I’m holding his dick in my hand. “I love this big dick,” I tell him, stroking his dick—and his ego—faster, and harder, kneading it and twisting my hands over the head of it. “It feels so good in my hands.”

“Oh yeah, you love that dick, baby?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I moan. “Bust that nut for me.”

“Yeah, you want this nut…you want this nut, huh? Huh?” I spread open my legs as he reaches over and slides his hand between my thighs. His fingers find their way to my treasure chest and toy with its opening, causing my pussy to clamp around each finger. I increase my strokes on his dick as he increases his strokes against my clit and inside of me. Within a matter of moments we are each shuddering and exploding into the other’s hands.

“What you trying to do to me?” he asks, kissing me on the lips again.

Now between you and me, this kissing between us has really gotten out of hand. And I am still trying to figure out how in the hell what Garrett and I share—umm, let me see—how it has evolved from strictly fucking to fucking and kissing. But it has. That wasn’t supposed to be a part of the equation, but somehow over the last year it has found its way into it; probably because of him being in my bed as many times as he has over the last three years. It seemed to happen all of a sudden. Come to think about it, I allow Maurice to kiss me as well, most likely