Single Husbands
Page 23
I was in an air-conditioned ranch house, with my own room, servicing my johns for eleven years. I had no shame in what I had to do. Survive. Recession. Depression. Didn’t matter. Pussy was always in demand. I made lots of money prostituting. I earned more money after I quit to become a madam. Experience served and paid me fifty grand… a night.
Overseeing thirteen high-priced, drop-dead gorgeous escorts who earned us $10,000 an hour made me wealthy, and my boss, Valentino James, wealthier. I enjoyed my job. Most of the time. Until my top escort dropped dead after being shot in the head by my boss.
Men. They thought they ruled the fucking world, when, in fact, all they did was fuck up their world and everybody in it. Truth be told, women are wiser than men. I supposed… until I fell in love with Grant.
Illegally, I inherited $50 million from my ex-boss, and I unexpectedly experienced multiple heartaches caused by the man I loved. Perhaps I was better off by myself, but there was a part of me that wanted to get married. I wanted to love someone who loved me for me. Settle down. Have a few babies. Live a peaceful life. No matter how hard I tried, shit continued to happen.
My boss wanted his millions back. Fuck that. I thought I wanted my man back. Forget that. Neither one of them owned me. Unconditionally, this was my life. The fact that I had a pussy between my legs didn’t mean I was less than a man. A man wasn’t shit without a woman. I learned that prostituting. I learned a lot more about men when I was a madam. They wanted free pussy, but they were willing to pay for good pussy. Sexy pussy. Tight pussy. Experienced pussy. Hell, bad pussy could make a dime if it was attached to the right mind.
It was my prerogative to pamper my pussy any way I damn well pleased. Sometimes a woman had to be sweet. Sometimes she needed to be bittersweet. Then there were times a woman had to be a straight-up bitch. I’d mastered all three.
If I had to suck a dick or shoot a man in his damn head, I wouldn’t hesitate. A woman unsure of herself would miss out on opportunity after opportunity, lying in her grave, wondering, What if?
Curled in the fetal position, kidnapped, locked in the back of some motherfucker’s SUV, I had what my assailants didn’t know I possessed, but they would soon find out. I had my gun. They’d kidnapped the wrong bitch. The minute they opened the trunk, I opened fire.
What the fuck? Not these two fools! I should’ve known.
First, I fired at my ex-boss, Valentino, the one without the gun. He jumped in the wrong direction for him, right for me. One of the two bullets I fired at him hit his ass in the side. Then I shot Benito Bannister, my ex-man, the idiot with the gun. Valentino was stupid for letting Benito have the gun. Benito had never shot or killed anyone. They deserved to die. Both of them.
“Fuck!” I underestimated that idiot Benito.
We exchanged fire. Pow! I got his ass too. Right in his shoulder, although I aimed for his head, right between his eyes. Pow! My gun fell to the ground. I didn’t realize I’d been shot until blood soaked my red jacket. I couldn’t feel a thing.
“Let’s go, nigga!” Valentino yelled, getting in the driver’s seat. “Lock that bitch in the fucking trunk! I’ma personally kill her ass execution-style!”
Not if I kill you first, I thought.
Benito reached for my legs. I kicked this stupid ass in his face. What smart attacker would lean face-first into his subject? My stiletto punctured his chin.
“Nigga, let’s roll. The fucking cops are coming!” Valentino yelled.
“Damn, Lace. You gon’ pay for that shit,” Benito said, gripping the trunk.
I’d stopped answering to Lace when my sister died. I’d buried myself and assumed her name, Honey. Exhaling, I heard the sirens. For the first time, I was happy to hear police sirens. Jumping out of the trunk, I picked up my gun, then yelled, “Punk!” firing at the SUV, shattering the back window. I looked down at my shoes surrounded by a puddle of blood. My blood. I wanted to throw up but couldn’t. Frisking my body, I couldn’t feel where I’d been shot.
“Drop the gun!” were the last words I’d heard before my body collapsed to the ground. I figured, if the police thought I was dead, they wouldn’t shoot me.
My Pussy—My Prerogative
by Mary B. Morrison
My pussy
My prerogative
The last time I’d checked
My pussy was attached to me
Not some wannabe lover
Claiming my pussy
Was his pussy
And reciting the same line
To the other
Pussy in his face
After I cum
He’s gone without a trace
You see this pussy
That’s between my legs
Is attached to a head
With brains
That can drive a man insane
My pussy
My prerogative
To give
Or to keep
To remain celibate
To sell a bit
Or to creep
Or to freak
To snap
Or to wrap
Around a man’s head
In and out of bed
Unconditionally
My pussy is
My prerogative
Wanna taste
Wanna slide into first base
Second? Seconds?
Third? Thirds?
My pussy has the first and final words
On whether your dick’s worthy
Not
If your dick is dirty
Your pockets are dry
You’re a selfish lover
Your back hurts
You cum before my pussy gets wet
You leave right after your cum is dry
Don’t ask me why
I refuse to let you fuck me
Just take your dick
And let my pussy be
Free to choose
The right stroke
The right man
The right lover
The right dick
Unconditionally
For as long as I live
It’s my clit
My pearl
My pussy
My world
My prerogative
Cum correct
Or don’t cum at all