Daddy Long Stroke

been a minute since I had some seasoned, old-school pussy. Shit, the last time I fucked some aged-pussy was like eight years ago when I fucked one of my man’s moms. Yeah, I know I shoulda felt bad for rockin’ his moms’ box. But, man, listen…that old-ass ho knew how to make that shit pop, word up.

At fifty-six, Ms. Carson was one sexy-ass woman with a juicy, apple-bottom ass and big double-D titties. My dick used to feel good as hell beween them two cock knockers, word up. She had a few jelly rolls around her waist and stomach area, but she had some bangin’ pussy. She’d hit me up late at night, like ’round two or three in the mornin’ for some of this dick. I’d park my car ’round the corner, then sneak through her backyard and meet her out in the shed. She’d suck and fuck this dick for ’bout an hour or so, then stumble her hot-ass back into her house and climb back into bed wit’ her husband. I ended up smashin’ her walls for three more months before I deaded it. That greedy bitch wanted to keep guzzlin’ this dick, but she wasn’t tryna come up offa no paper. So you already know she had to go.

Damn, I bet that pussy is better now at sixty-four. Okay, DrSweetPussy, I’ma give you exactly what that fat-ass pussy needs, I think, starin’ at her page and grabbin’ at my dick. I hit her up wit’ a note, leavin’ her my email addy to holla back.

I bring my attention back to this broad I got on the phone. “So how many other niggas’ tops you spinnin’?” Not that I gotta right to be askin’, but I know she’s gonna give me an answer, anyway—even if it’s some half-truth bullshit.

“What?”

“Yo, you heard me. I asked you how many other niggas’ dicks you washin’?”

“OhmyGod, I can’t believe you’d ask me some crazy shit like that. Don’t play me, nigga. I’m many things, but a ho ain’t one of ’em. I don’t go around sucking a bunch of dicks. The only nigga’s top I’m poppin’ is yours.”

Yeah, right. Tell me any-fuckin’-thing. This bitch musta forgot who she’s talkin’ to. I know her work. She’s the same cum-guzzlin’ slut who piped out my man’s ’n ’em two summers ago after a barbecue at Mountainside Park. And she’s the same nut-catchin’ ho who had some cat from Hillside stretchin’ her throat a few months back. But she don’t know I’m up on it. Not that it matters. She can slurp down as many babies as she wants. I ain’t tryna wife the bitch, feel me?

“Yo, whatever! Fuck all that ying-yang you talkin’. You tryna wet this dick up, or what?”

“You already know.”

“Aiight, that’s wassup. And I want that shit real nasty, too. A whole lotta slob and spit all over this dick. I want that shit drippin’ down my balls.”

“I got you. You know I know how to serve you up proper.”

Yeah, you just oughta know how! Cause you ain’t servin’ shit else wit’ that sandbox pussy. I feel my dick startin’ to brick thinkin’ ’bout her wrappin’ them big-ass dick suckas ’round my joint and me chokin’ the shit outta her wit’ it. On some real shit, I ain’t beat for no head tonight, I wanna fuck a wet hole. But, unless I snatch up some pussy in the next twenty minutes, a wet throat will tie me over ’til I do.

“Alley Cat, I don’t know why you be tryna play me. You already know what it is…” I text Lahney while this ho babbles on: Yo, what’s good? U fuckin’ 2 nite?

“…The only nigga I’m fuckin’ with is you.”

“Oh, word?”

“Word. I’m not interested in any other nigga.”

I shake my head. “Listen…I hope you keepin’ shit in perspective between us. Don’t start tryna padlock a nigga down like he’s ya man ’n shit ’cause I told you from dip what it is—”

“Nigga, please. Don’t trip. I already know.”

Lahney texts back: Not tonight. Unless you up for a bloody Mary.

Fuck, this bitch stays on her muthafuckin’ period, I think textin’ back: That’s aiight. I’m good. Hit me up when u ready 2 get that hole stretched.

Lol, nigga, u a trip! I will, she replies.

I decide to swab Shavron’s throat, then swing by Akina’s spot to have her ride down on this dick when I’m done. “Yo, I’m ready to come through wit’ this hard-ass dick.”

“Oh, so you really tryna get it wet?”

Duh, didn’t I just say that shit? What the fuck else this dumb bitch think I’m tryna do wit’ a stiff damn dick? Sit and watch movies wit’ her simple-ass. “No doubt, baby. I only want a drop ’n go, though. No extras tonight, feel me?”

She sucks her teeth. “Yeah, I got you. But be clear. Just because you coming through tonight doesn’t mean I don’t wanna still see you on your birthday. This is just a little pre-birthday treat.”

This bitch. “Don’t worry, ma. We still gonna chill. And I’ma rock the snot outta ya.”

“Mmmm,” she moans. “And you gotta stay the night.”

I smile, knowin’ her thirsty ass is gonna be tryna gobble up these nuts all night. And, lucky for her, a nigga like me comes fully loaded wit’ a full sack of cream. “You got that. But, in the meantime, get that dick washer ready for round one ’cause big daddy’s comin’ to dump a double load in it.”

“I’ll be ready,” she says, laughin’.

“Bet.” After we hang up, I jump up and run upstairs to take a quick shower, throw on a sweat shirt and pair of Polo sweats wit’out any drawers. My dick ’n balls can bounce freely, and give this ho quick access. So when I walk up in her spot, all she gotta do is drop down on her knees, yank these sweats down ’round my ankles, then let it do what it do.

I hop in my other hoopty—a blue four-door Chevy Impala, drive up Ocean Avenue, and make a left onto Broadway to get to the parkway. Livin’ down here by the shore is cool ’n all, but it’s nights like this when I wish I had some local broads to kick it wit’ instead of havin’ to drive all the way up to North Jersey for some throat ’n pussy action. I spark the half blunt in my ashtray, call Akina and tell her what time I’ma come through. Then I call Cherry in L.A., but leave a message when she doesn’t pick up.

My cell rings. It’s Maleeka hittin’ me back. “Yo, what’s good, ma?”

“Shit,” she says. “I got your message.”

“So, what’s good, then? You feel like fuckin’, or what?”

“When you tryna come through?”

“Now,” I tell her.

She laughs. “Damn, nigga, you sound real pressed for some of this gushy shit.”

Bitch, don’t get it twisted, I think, laughin’, a muhfucka like me ain’t never gonna be pressed for one bitch’s pussy. “Pressed? Nah, baby… never that. But a muhfucka’s horny as hell.”

“Nigga, you stay horny.”

“You already know. So what’s good? Can I come through and fuck, or what?” She pauses. I’m sure to think ’bout how I deep stroked that pussy the last time we were together. Nonstop, for two hours, I pumped her insides. By the time I finished, this dick had her ass shakin’ and beggin’ for some more. And, after the second round, a muhfucka walked up outta there wit’ a quick four hunnid.

“Hell yeah, you can come through,” she finally says. “But not right now. I got three heads to braid, and I probably won’t get done ’til about eight, or nine o’clock.”

“Nah, baby, that’s too late. Can’t you push those shits back and let me come through now?”

“Nigga, please, not today. Your stroke game is tight, but a bitch ain’t about to let a nigga and his dick get in the way of me makin’ my paper. You know how I am about getting that money.”

On some real shit, I had to respect her hustle. With all of her regulars, chick pulls in anywhere from one-to- two thousand a week braidin’ hair—straight cash. This bitch be rapin’ the shit outta the IRS. I laugh to myself. That’s right, baby, get them snake-ass muhfuckas before they try ’n get you.

“Yo, I can dig it, baby; can’t knock a muhfucka for tryin’, though. Make ya ends,” I say bearin’ off toward exit 145. I pay the thirty-five-cent toll, then drive toward South Orange Avenue. “I’m on my way to get my dick sucked, anyway. So it’s all good.”

She laughs. “Nigga, you’re funny as hell. You comin’ at me for some pussy and you already got some throat lined up. You stay tryna keep ya dick stuck in somethin’ wet.”

I burst out laughin’. “Yo, ma, why you think they call me Alley Cat?”