“My place is down this hill. Before I downshift, I want to make sure you want to be with me. If not, you can get out,” he said calmly. But I thought it was strange. It was total blackness outside. Why would I get out? Where would I go? And without him, would my legs go back to being paralyzed after his touch had caused them to feel alive and move properly?
“Nigga what!” I said, instead of telling him the thoughts in my mind. “When I ride with a nigga, I ride with a nigga,” I confirmed. He leaned my way, reached up and pulled down my seat belt, then locked it into place. His gesture got me feeling even more open.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, smiling some. “But it’s good to double-check. When the action starts, I don’t want you pretending that I forced you,” he said.
“I don’t let nobody force me,” I said. “That’s not the type of bitch I am.”
“So you ready to handle me?” he said, smiling again. He knew his teeth were perfect and his smile convincing.
“I don’t really know you like that, but I handle whatever comes to me,” I said in my first sexy tone.
“All you need to know about me,” he said, “is my stroke is strong and my dick is longer than my tail.”
The Jaguar dropped, angled, and then sped downhill like a rocket instead of a car. My heart was racing. It felt good. Reminded me of the drop on the Kingda Ka roller coaster at Great Adventure. When I was teen young I’d choose the fastest, steepest, wildest-drop roller coaster and ride it repeatedly the whole day. My cousins and them would be like, “Come on, let’s try something different.” I’d be like, “Nope, I already know how this ride makes me feel.” They’d leave. I’d stay. I was straight riding alone. Told them I’d meet them at six at the haunted house. In his Jaguar speeding down I was thrilled. Most drivers would be cautiously riding the brake downhill. He was all gas pedal. I was curious and turned on. I couldn’t wait, My dick is longer than my tail… kept repeating in my mind. I could feel my pussy pumping.
* * *
“You are probably hungry,” he said as he carried me over the threshold of his front door. It was not a palace or a mansion. It had more of a weird warehouse feeling. Or maybe more like an old fire station that he bought and redecorated. That was genius to me. Inside was as dark as outside of his building. Maybe that’s why he held me in his arms. He didn’t want me to trip or bump into walls in an unfamiliar location. I dig that. He put me down on my feet.
“Stay there,” he said. I didn’t reply, just waited. The area suddenly lit up. It was a flame, though. A torch on top of a metal pole that was cemented into his hard-top floor. That’s crazy. I laughed. Fuck the utility companies and power bill. And since this was an old fire station with high ceilings, no worries about an uncontrollable fire burning down the entire spot. Only thing is, with a flame, I could only see but so far. I hoped he didn’t want to do what we were about to do in the dark. I like to see my man’s muscles moving, the expression on his face and in his eyes, especially the desire as he admires me, my look, and my body.
“We’ll fuck first,” he said. “Fucking is better when both parties are thirsty and starving to death,” he chuckled.
He’s bold, I thought, a take-charge type of nigga. Usually I’m in charge. But I liked his rough style. He approached, removed my mink and dropped it right on the floor. He picked me up again, then sat me on the mink and began carefully removing my red python boots and sat them together to the side. He began massaging my legs. Ooh, that felt nice. He tore my Chanel dress right off of me as though it was made of silk and not the thick luxurious brocade. I like that his desire for me makes him too impatient to search for a zipper, a string, or a set of buttons. He got a Jaguar and a strong house so I’m telling myself to disregard that he ripped up my six-thousand-dollar custom Chanel made just for me.
“I should shower first.” I said softly like I was some shy bitch. Hovering over me, he ignored me for some seconds as he pressed his nose into my armpit and inhaled deeply. He moved to the next pit and inhaled deeply. He moved to my bare pussy and inhaled deeply, his nose creating an extra sensation when it grazed against my clitoris.
“Shower, but don’t get too clean. I get high off of the funk,” he said, exhaling.
“Oh yeah,” I said, sultry like. The reality was, though, I had never heard no line like that. “Well, you got some real get-high?” I asked him.
He smiled and said, “Why, of course. I’m the master of smoke.” He stood and went into a clothing closet and pulled out a bag from a coat pocket. He lit the blunt so swiftly I never saw him strike the match or click the lighter. I didn’t give a fuck. He got high off the funk. I get high off the blunt. He passed it to me. I’m puffing la… finally.
“The shower is down that hall to the left,” he said, pointing. “But don’t wash too long. Leave your pussy as is. I’ll clean it with my tongue,” he said.
I leaped up, the ripped mini offering him more than a glimpse of my juicy. But it was a glimpse that he would have had to catch through only the flicker of the flame. I ran straight. Knew he was watching. Let him see my booty bounce. Then I turned to the left, turned on like a motherfucker. In the warm downpour of the first water that I could actually feel while cleansing my body, my feelings towards this nigga began to multiply. He had brought feeling back to me after death. Said he preferred his woman to have a few scars. He made me able to walk when I had been stuck seated by the sewer inhaling something fouler than sewage. He fastened my seat belt, carried me into his home, gave me my first after-murder blunt, and now he had made it possible for me to shower and not be some strange invisible waterproof bitch.
When I finished showering, I couldn’t find no towel in his dark bathroom. So I stepped out cautiously, dripping wet and butt naked. When I did, there were now twelve flames up high each atop of a metal pole. I didn’t see him, though. However, I could see his fucktastic gymnastics bedroom, that was out of this world. It was not expensively designer decorated. It was not made of sterling silver, platinum, gold, or even pearls. It was made only of sturdy steel. What made it dope, though, was its uniqueness. This nigga had a huge bed covered by a black silk duvet, black silk sheets, and six black silk pillows that were not too fluffy. That was all high-end normal, but what made it ill was the bed was enclosed by a network of monkey bars! The same monkey bars we had in city parks, except his was much wider and taller and more intricate. The mattresses sat in the middle. The bars ran high up to the high ceiling overhead and to the left and right and front and back and side of his bed. It was elaborate. In big city parks, the monkey bars were made for a bunch of kids to go climbing and swinging all at once. But his bars were higher and stronger and apparently made for one man, him. I walked around amazed by his setting and slowly searching for him. I was turned on by his hide-and-seek. The heat from the flames soon dried off the droplets of water from my shower. My skin was warming. When I rounded the back of the bars I looked up. He was hanging up there naked. No, he was doing chin-ups on a metal chin-up bar and his dick was definitely longer than his tail. Now all I craved was to feel his strong stroke that he guaranteed he had.
He must’ve felt my feelings. “Grab hold of both my ankles,” he said as he lowered his body overhead where I was standing. I did. He restarted his pull-ups with me holding on like crazy beneath him. After six pull-ups, my fingers began to slip. He jerked his body sideways, which threw me down to his bed. I loved the feel of the fall. Beneath the silk duvet, his mattress was not soft. He leaped down swiftly and flipped me over facedown. It felt like under the silk bedding there were rubber thorns. Next thing I know, this nigga got his nose pressed deep into my ass. Both of his hands were pulling both of my butt cheeks open. He withdrew his nose and hands and then laid on top of my back.
“You overdid it,” he whispered in my ear. “The asshole is too clean.” I ignored him. I was concentrating on how good the weight of his body felt on my back and the rubber thorns felt pressing up against my front. He put his hands in my hair, m
assaging my scalp. All niggas do that with a bitch like me. They are each amazed that my silky long black hair is real and grown up from my scalp. Most chicks catch fever if a nigga even thinks about putting his hands in her hair upsetting her glued-in, stitched-in, laced-in, braided-in weave.
Massaging my shoulders, my feminine diamond-cut back, my tight waistline, and my rump, he eased off of my body. Without leaving his bed he slipped some kind of cloth around both of my ankles and my body jerked up feet first. I was in a dangling upside-down type of headstand. With both of his strong hands, he pulled my legs apart until I was stuck in an upside-down split. When he had me in the position he obviously planned to have me in, he buried his face in between my thighs and began “cleaning” my pussy with his tongue. I didn’t notice it when we was in his black Jag, but his tongue was unusually long. It was sweeping into each area of my most intimate space. I was trapped in the good feeling he was making me feel. Then he sucked where he had been cleaning and held the suck until my insides bursted in his mouth. It felt so incredible. He knew he was good at it. He pulled his face back and said, “I promised to clean it.”
He reached up, released my ankles, and I fell to the mattress again in the midst of multiple orgasms. It created such a thrill in me. I was out of control of my impulses. He leaped down beside me on the mattress and looked into my eyes. I wanted him to tongue-kiss me. He didn’t. He plunged into me with that hard, strong and thick, long flesh pipe. It was the strongest stroke. He was right. It was the best feeling. Each pump created such intense pleasure it felt like even my eyes would pop out of their sockets. Cumming continuously, I ran out of breath and energy even though he was doing all of the work. He flipped me around. Next thing I know he pushed into my asshole before I could say “No! I don’t get down like that.” It was either before I could say no, or was I really with it? Was I so overstimulated that I just let it happen? Wanted it to continue?
Several strokes later, the twelve flames went out all at once. I couldn’t feel him pumping anymore or the weight of his body pressing down against my back. I was in complete blackness once again. Shocked, I couldn’t feel my arms, my legs, or my own pussy anymore. The feeling was not even numbness. Even numbness would have been a feeling. It was as though my arms and legs no longer existed. My body felt like it was just one long flowing thing without a sturdy spine. I need to get to a mirror, was my instant thought. Then I remembered that a dead bitch doesn’t have a reflection.
But hadn’t he made me come back to life though? Didn’t he give me limbs that feel and a pussy that pulsated? Didn’t he say he saw me clearly and even described what I looked like accurately? So maybe I will see my reflection this time. But how will I find a mirror in the dark? And even if I find one, I still won’t be able to see. How could my body move forward without legs and arms? Before I could formulate the answers to my own questions, I was crawling without legs or arms, fingers or toes. But clearly I was moving forward searching for a mirror. I smelled something I had not noticed before. I lifted my head a little and felt light-headed. I was realizing that now I was hungry. I had never been hungry since I was shot dead. My mouth involuntarily opened widely, then snapped shut solidly. I was chewing meat, soft bones and blood. I was swallowing, satisfying my hunger on the floor, in a corner, in the dark.
* * *
A doorbell or a ringtone, I couldn’t tell the difference. But I heard his voice answering. He wasn’t on the floor where I was. He wasn’t even on the bed where he and I had been seemed like seconds ago. His voice was coming from way up high. He must have been sitting at the tip-top of his monkey bars or maybe he decided to do a few more chin-ups. How could he do more exercise after that thorough sexual workout?
“UBS, what’s up?” I heard him say rough but gently, affectionately. His tone caused me to feel pissy because he wasn’t speaking to me.
“You’ll never know what’s up, you filthy bottom-feeder,” a female voice answered back. Seemed like he had her on speakerphone and I swiftly figured it was his ex.
“I know you love me. You’re always prowling around my territory,” he said coolly.
“The devil is a liar every time,” she said, passionately but calmly at the same time.
“What did you call me for? I know not just to disrespect my father,” he said strangely.
“Your father can go straight to hell,” she said hatefully.
“That’s funny,” he laughed genuinely.
“What did you do with my mother?” she asked oddly. I thought it was bizarre. Ex-lovers heated over their parents! “You and I need to make a deal this time,” she said desperately.
“Too late. It’s over. If you don’t want to come to my playpen, talk face-to-face in my bedroom, you and I will never have any deal to make, or anything to discuss,” he warned and invited her at the same time.
Next I heard the sound of fireworks, like on the Fourth of July. I suddenly saw explosions of sparkles. That bitch must’ve been real mad. But if she wasn’t here in his bedroom and she was on the phone, how did the fireworks happen?
“You sent your bullshit army of UBS to my crib?” I heard him ask her.
“Why don’t you step outside and check? Maybe I’m right here at your front door,” she said. Next I heard him swinging down on his bars. Was he that excited to see and welcome her in, when me and him just finished fucking and I’m still here? I crawled till I bumped into one of the metal bars. I wrapped myself around it and crawled upwards. I paused to listen for where he had swung to. But I never heard his feet land or him walking across the floor towards his front door.
“You must be scared of my little bullshit army,” she said, after having not said anything for what I guess was some seconds. Now she was baiting him to open up his firehouse door. I was glad he didn’t. “Or is it that you’re in there staring in one of your six mirrors, worshipping yourself?” she asked. She sounded bitter and a little bit crazy. Her words were followed up by a piercing, whistling sound and then a loud boom shook the firehouse fortress that seemed unshakable. It was like a bomb had been thrown through the roof and had exploded in the air.
Instead of causing the firehouse to collapse into nothing but rubble, like how places on the TV news reports looked totally destroyed after a bombing, it lit up the entire inside with sun-bright light, much brighter than when the flickering torch flames were the only way to see. When it did, I could see everything that I could not see before. He was squatted on the bottom rung of his monkey bars, still nude and his feet perfectly balancing his powerful body on the bar even as the house shook. And in an instant, I could see his reflection through the wall-to-wall mirrors, which I had not noticed framed his large warehouse “playpen.” Strange thing was, I could see another reflection as I crawled his way. I was on my belly. When I moved, it moved. When I lifted my head, it lifted its head. When I stopped to stare at it, it stopped and stared back at me. Unexpectedly, because it was not something anyone would ever imagine is desirable or even possible, I, fully awake and with my same Winter Santiaga mind and thoughts, had turned into a red python.
7.
Another wind war, I could feel it coming before it hit. I’m super sensitive to the ground, could always hear the vibration of feet or anything that impacted the earth that I crawl on. I could hear the howling and his house shaking and things being tossed and slung and flung around. I could hear chains rattling and fireworks going off. I could hear the clash, not of fists but of forces of the wind.
After a nasty breakup of any couple, the war begins. I knew bitches who keyed their ex’s ride, or punctured his tires, or banged in his rims with a hammer. I knew bitches who beat the new bitch’s ass, who her man had replaced her with. Or even stalked her, then choked her, stabbed her, shot her, or mercked her. I knew even live-er bitches who, instead of killing his new bitch, killed him. I knew bitches who ran up his credit cards, crashed his car, cut up his clothes, pawned his jewels, and even burned down his house. But when a man or woman who used to be lover
s, living together, working together, eating together, showering and fucking together, and one betrays the other, betrayal makes the matter more meaner than murder. ’Cause you can just kill someone if you want to, no matter who you are. No matter who they are or where they hide. They bound to resurface eventually. Let down their guard eventually, and that’s precisely when they can get got. But ex-lovers, who more than just creeping and fucking other niggas or bitches, where one betrayed the other, told a life-changing secret tat he or she had confided with, sold him or her out to his or her sworn enemy, called the cops on him or her for any damn reason, flipped on ’em in a court of law or was way-worser, like working as an undercover police, a bitch-ass informant, spying and telling on his or her lover, murder ain’t enough get-back. A betrayed nigga or bitch wants to be the one who delivers the hurt over an extended period of time. Not a quick stabbing or gunning down. A betrayed lover wants to witness his or her traitor in severe loss of either: wealth, status, or something or someone he cherished. A betrayed lover wants to see the traitor in actual excruciating pain. He or she wants to taunt and torture first and then deliver the last blow that leads to the traitor’s complete and final downfall.
I know. Bullet was the main one who betrayed me. He’s at the top of my payback list. He was my nigga for many months before I got arrested. Yeah, he was a hustler. I fucking loved that. His fuck game was strong. I loved that too. Once he and I first hooked up, I never fucked around with no other nigga but him. I’m a loyal bitch. Loyalty runs through the Santiaga blood. But he never fully acknowledged my loyalty to him. He never gave his loyalty to me. It wasn’t about me thinking, expecting, or believing that he was out fucking some random bitches while we was together. He didn’t cause me to feel or think that he was. It was that he… I don’t know. He loved me with his mind and body but never gave me his heart. He treated me like a suspect, who was bound to turn on him or turn him in. I wasn’t. I’m the one bitch that wouldn’t… ever, Santiagas are born snitch-free.
Life After Death Page 8