Head Games

by Mary B. Morrison

  Picturing myself in the mix of the mayhem, if I could do all of the women getting loose, three days into the challenge, I’d be halfway to my 101. I decided I was definitely going to make wild child, officially, Gurl 6. Everything was big, but she was ridiculously well-proportioned.

  Pointing, I told my security, “Get her to my smash room.” That was what I’d renamed my office. “Then I want you and your guys to usher everybody, dead or alive, outta here, then lock up.”

  “No problem, boss, but what you want to do about that?” he said, redirecting my attention to the hookah lounge.

  Dicks were inside of every hole of every ho imaginable. Titties were in mouths. Females thighs were east and west. Some of them were in an upside down V, with their head buried in my sofa and their butts up.

  This was the first time a regular club night had turned orgy. Nobody was permitted to screw in my place, except me.

  “You know what to do,” I told security. “I’ll get my gurl. Put these fools along with their clothes out now”; then I ordered the DJ, “Cut the music off. They’re about to get me shut down indefinitely.”

  Gurl 6 was responsible for starting the madness and I was about to hold her gorgeous behind accountable. Holding on to the opposite end of her dress, I demanded, “Come with me.”

  “Hey! After the party there’s another party,” she sang, following my footsteps.

  I locked my door, bent her over in the middle of the floor. Pressing my hand against her lower back, I unfastened my buckle, unzipped my pants, and then I penetrated her deep.

  “Oh, daddy. Fuck the shit out of me.”

  “Back that ass up!” Smack! I slapped her hard.

  She pushed me onto my two-armed black leather chaise. I lost my balance, fell flat.

  Power positions had reversed. “Stay your pretty long-ponytail ass right there,” she commanded.

  Slobbering on my knob, she cleaned up her own saliva. Holding each side of the chair, she rested the hind side of her knees on my shoulders, then dropped all of her weight in my lap.

  “Oh, fuck!” My shaft snapped sideways. “Wait. Get up!” I yelled.

  “What’s my name?” she asked, hoisting, then lowering herself again like we were in some kind of wrestling match.

  My stuff bent in the opposite direction. I wanted to cry like a baby.

  “Fuck! For real. Stop!” I reached between her thighs to protect my shaft from another attack.

  “Oh, this is some good dick,” she said, wiggling. “You like my pussy?”

  I was getting extra credit for this. “You love my dick?”

  “Of course, I love it.”

  “What’s my name?” I asked her.

  “I love sex, Kash. You like the way I make you feel?” she asked, then said, “Let’s change positions.”

  Praise God. I pushed her off of me. She rolled on her shoulder, splattered facedown on the edge of the chaise. Her knees hit the floor. Gurl 6 stared up at me.

  Struggling to stand in those shoes, she said, “What the fuck you do that for? I oughta bust your ass.”

  Now that was how I felt about her snapping my dick, but I was no fool. “I apologize. Put your dress on,” I said, handing it to her. “I have to make sure everyone is gone. I’ll have security escort you to your car.”

  “I don’t need no escort. You lucky I like your ass,” she said, tugging at her hem.

  Was she threatening me? “Or?”

  “I’d own this bitch. Obviously, you don’t know who you just fucked. I’m a Harrison, son. Lema,” she said, then strutted out.

  Gurl 6 had to find another way to come up.

  Inspecting the damages, a lot required cleaning. A few broken lamps. Wasn’t as bad as I’d thought. I closed out my registers, locked the money in my safe. A smile spread across my face.

  I decided to have a little more fun with Gurl 6. Downloaded the footage. Blurring my face, I posted Gurl 6 on stage and in my smash box rolling onto the floor; then I hurried home to get ready for church.

  CHAPTER 23

  Kohl

  Day 3

  “Let the church say, ‘Amen.’” Pastor-father solicited praise from his faithful congregation.

  Dad stood behind the pulpit cloaked in his purple robe with three black doctoral bars on each side. Mom, addressed by the members as First Lady Paula, was on the front pew, inner aisle, in all peach. Dress. Heels. A small hat with an eye-length veil covered her forehead. I sat in in my reserved end seat, on the opposite side of the church from my mother, on the second row immediately behind the deacons.

  “When the saints go marching into heaven, uh-huh!” Reverend Lloyd Bartholomew alternated stomping his feet, swung his elbows back and forth. His belled sleeves with deep cuffs flapped like wings.

  “Will you be in that number? Can the work you’ve done speak for you?” Lowering his voice, he asked, “Or will it be a whisper?” He shouted, “God is merciful, but He’s also mighty. Just like no good deed goes unnoticed, uh-huh! You will be held accountable for your sins.” He pointed in a sweeping motion. “One way you express your love for God is through your tithes. You cannot outgive God. As you come to the altar, bless yourself by being a blessing to The House of the Lord.”

  My dad spread his arms, “Come. Give freely.”

  The organist began playing “Going Up Yonder,” by Walter Hawkins, and my dad started humming the tune.

  “Will you be there?” he asked. “Will First Lady Paula and I see you there?”

  Since I’d opened the strip club, Dad stopped mentioning me by name. He motioned for the choir to stand. The lead vocalist stepped forward and sang, “If anybody ask you . . .”

  “Will you enter the pearly gates? You cannot outgive God,” he repeated.

  Standing in line to give, I noticed the assistant pastor’s wife, Eleanor, fanning herself and checking me out. I dug into my pocket, dropped $5,000 cash into the collection plate at the altar. I’d done so well Friday and Saturday, I’d doubled my usual weekly contribution.

  Winking at Mrs. Lewis, I exited to the rear of the church. My dad’s sermon was next. Then the doors of the church and the assistant pastor’s wife’s legs would be open at the same time if she came back here.

  I unlocked, then left the door to my dad’s study cracked. Hid my phone between two books on the shelf, made sure the camera faced his desk. Eleanor did not disappoint. Locking the door, I started the video from my smartwatch.

  We knew what she came for. Raising her dress over her ass, I pulled her panties to the side. Damn! Her butt was firm, smooth. Tried to slide my head in her vagina. Wow! She was tight. Had to work my way in.

  “I’ve wanted you for almost twelve years,” she said. “What a blessing.”

  “No disrespect, but I’ve admired you for a long time,” I lied.

  “I’ve checked you out, too, Kash.” She yelped when I popped my head in deeper.

  I covered her mouth. Heard, “The doors of the church are now opened. Don’t live another day without giving your life to Christ.”

  “Lord forgive me. You know my heart,” Eleanor said. “But I’m a young woman in need.”

  More like in heat.

  Covering the assistant pastor’s wife’s mouth again, I pushed again. Paused. Her pussy pulsated, making my dick throb. Holding Eleanor around her waist. I leaned against her back, bent my knees, penetrated her all the way. When I started coming, I came hard. My body trembled. Knees weakened.

  Water ran down her legs, soaked my pants. Our shoes. I stepped back, looked down at the puddle, then whispered, “Oh, shit. Stay right there.”

  “I’m drenched,” she said, rubbing her vagina.

  Rummaging through my dad’s closet, I found the handkerchiefs he used to dry his sweat during his sermons, handed her a stack. I dried my shoes, but wasn’t a thing I could do about my pants.

  Someone jiggled the doorknob. We stared at each other. I placed my finger over her lips. Pushed her into my dad’s private restroom. Whispered,
“Stay quiet.”

  She started whimpering, fanning herself. I shook my head, sprayed air freshener onto the carpet. Grabbed a glass off of my dad’s desk. Filled the glass with water.

  “Anybody in there?” It was Sister Eleanor’s husband.

  He was supposed to be in the pulpit.

  Told her, “I got you.” Before I realized it, I’d kissed her, then said, “Lock the door, baby.”

  I retrieved my phone, powered off my video, swished the air, sat at my dad’s desk, tipped the water in the direction of my lap, then opened the door.

  “Assistant Pastor, I’m sorry. I spilled water all over my pants. Was trying to dry them, but let my dad know I have to leave service early. How much did we collect today?”

  “I appreciate your generosity, young man. I’d better check,” he said. “Sorry for the interruption. I was looking for Eleanor.”

  “God bless you, Assistant Pastor. If I see her, I’ll let her know,” I said, closing and then locking the door.

  I tapped on the bathroom door. “He’s gone.”

  Eleanor unfastened my pants. “I want some more of that good lovin’,” she demanded, kneeling before me, holding my shaft in her hands as though it was her Communion. This portion would not be on film, but it would be etched in my mind forever.

  She was gentle. I was grateful.

  Holding the back of her head, I looked up and whispered, “Forgive us.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Kohl

  Day 9

  Blitz sat alone on the terrace at a table for four, talking on his phone, saw me, ended his call, then said, “What’s up, Kohl?”

  “It’s all good.” I asked, “You ordered?”

  “Not yet, my brother.”

  I was thirsty. Right away I told the waitress, “Let us have two flights.”

  Sitting across from him, I was glad the rest of the crewe hadn’t arrived. “How long you been following Ramona, bruh? Y’all friends? I mean off social.”

  The sun was blazing. I had on my red polo, khaki slacks, shoes hard enough to put a dent in his shin, if he said the wrong thing. The waitress placed our flights on the table, then left.

  “With your joint, why you not on social?” he asked, then downed his first of five beer samples, a lager.

  Kash In & Out was a spot where customers socialized old-school—face-to-face. Word of mouth spread like wildfire when I opened. I didn’t require television or print ads. I was at the top of every search engine. Type in strip clubs or hookah in New Orleans and I was at the top. Plus, I had a website with lots of photos on my home page.

  Time was money. Social media was free, but the amount of time people wasted on it, they could’ve been getting paid doing something constructive. The only reason I established pages was for the challenge, and each one was being deactivated soon as I was announced the winner.

  “Doing one another’s exes is forbidden.” Tension crept up in my neck and shoulders. I prepared to knock Blitz upside his head.

  He tossed back his ale. I caught up. Followed my ale with an IPA.

  “Too late for add-ons, Kohl. Keep it real. What nigga you know wouldn’t hit that? I mean, six, seven months ago, hell to the no. Ramona was big as a whale. Now, shitz. I check her page three times a day.” He stared at me, waited for my next move.

  “You can only eat so much coochie before you throw up, my brother. Considering what you working with, you might as well strap on a fake one if you’re serious about doing Ramona.” I went there. He deserved it.

  Blitz laughed. Swallowed number three, a porter this time.

  His opting not to comment wasn’t what I expected. “Ha-ha, my behind. Once upon a time Ramona and I were in love.”

  How did I expect him to respect my request when Blitz had never kept a woman for more than ninety days? My dick wasn’t huge like Trymm’s, but I had enough to keep Ramona satisfied.

  “Drink and listen up, potna,” he said, placing his elbow on the table. “One, according to you, Billy boy ain’t your son. Two—”

  I pounded the hardwood; beer splashed on my pants. I didn’t care. I told him, “I don’t know that for a fact!”

  Blitz gave me that tight smile that barely showed his teeth. “Take the damn test then, nigga!”

  “I, don’t, want, to.”

  “Then shut your broke ass the fuck up. You don’t own Ramona’s pussy. Ramona can cash any check you give her.”

  Ramona didn’t have money; she was marrying money. I finished my wheat beer. The tension in my neck moved to my temples. My darn head was throbbing. “Stay away from Ramona.” I was two seconds from picking up my flight plank and busting Blitz in his light-skinned face. See whose bruise would be blacker.

  “You won’t take it, because Billy boy looks exactly like your ass,” he taunted.

  “Let it go” was all I said.

  “I’m just fucking with you, my brother. I don’t blame you for disowning him if Ramona stepped out like you said. . . .” Sucking up number four, he added, “You think she got her vagina rejuvenated? I heard that’s the in thing for females nowadays. If I find out, I’ll let you know.” He tugged on his collar, held up his last, then smiled at me. “Cheers, my brother.”

  “Where’s your watch?” I asked, changing the subject.

  Ramona couldn’t afford to get her hair done when I was with her, now she was marrying my idol? Something wasn’t right. Harold must have not known she was a prostitute.

  “On second thought . . . cheers. If you hit that in your count, get proof, post it to your social, and tag her. If I win, I’ll give you back your quarter of a mil.” Seeing Ramona and bad-butt Billy go back on welfare would have her chasing me.

  “Bet. Text that to me, my brother.”

  The waitress cleared the table.

  Dallas walked up, claimed the spot next to me. Blitz was across the table facing us.

  First thing he asked Blitz, “Where your Rolex, dude?”

  “Banging this poli-sci major this morning. Forgot to put it on,” he said, feeling his wrist.

  “I don’t know about y’all, but this dick-and-dump shit is hard as hell,” Dallas confessed. “Plus, it doesn’t seem right. I think we should take out the social-posting requirement.”

  “Sexing the assistant pastor’s wife in my dad’s study during Sunday service wasn’t right, but it’s the highlight on my reel. I should get two points if I included her in my count.”

  “You going straight to hell for that one, Kohl.” Dallas shook his head for a long time.

  Blitz stared at me from the corners of his eyes. “That’s low. Like snake-belly low. Dallas is right.”

  “How the hell y’all gon’ judge me?” Between Gurls 1 through 27, I had to admit, “I’m having fun.”

  “Talking a chick into giving it up is a cinch. Throwing them outta my bed, I hate doing that shit. Plus, one of ’em . . . ,” Dallas paused, bit his bottom lip, then continued, “I can’t do her like that.”

  We ordered a round of beer samplers with Dallas.

  “Don’t tell me your ass met somebody you like,” I said, then started laughing. “Put her on hold for the next three weeks, or you might as well sit this challenge out.” I wasn’t interested in smashing whoever she was, the way Blitz was bone-hard over Ramona.

  “Nah, the deal is, the brother is having difficulty keeping it up.” Blitz balled his fist, bent his elbow, flexed his bicep.

  On occasion I’d said some messed-up stuff to D, but today I wasn’t hitting him below the waist. The side effects of his medication could make him homicidal.

  Dallas leaned back, squeezed his dick. “That’s the least of my concerns. Round-the-clock breaking him out, I’m willing to admit, my dick hurts and that nigga is tired.”

  A flashback of Gurl 6 almost breaking me in two, I understood. Smashing three times a day, I’d dropped back to hand and blow jobs. Big gurls were great at both, and a lot of them rode better than the skinny girls.

  “You not getting your
money back,” Blitz insisted. “Dick. Date. Dump. Proof. No exceptions. Winner takes all.”

  Blitz tapped the table. “I’ll give you a side challenge. Whoever that bitch is, the one you like, do something publicly outrageous to embarrass her ass and . . . if I win, I’ll give you back your two hundred and fifty.”

  I smiled at Blitz. Shook my head. Told Dallas, “I’ll make you the same proposition that Blitz just made.”

  “Whoa!” Dallas covered his mouth. “Hashtag Clydesdale2930 on social.” His eyes were fixated on his screen.

  “Whoa.” I’d seen a horse’s dick and Clydesdale2930 was in the running. I’d forgotten how outrageously big Trymm was. It was a wonder he ever got pussy. Francine’s vagina must’ve been hollow.

  I frowned. “She’s seriously trying to cut off her air supply?” If she made him disappear, she deserved the million. Covering my mouth, I kept watching. Nah, she was lightweight, but she did usher a noticeable rise out of Dallas.

  Trymm walked up. His count had to be really high or super-low.

  Blitz greeted him with, “Nigga, you cold-blooded, my brother.”

  “His ass always been the most scandalous,” Dallas said. “I got something for y’all tomorrow.”

  Trymm rubbed his iPad like it was a lantern and a genie was about to pop out and grant him three wishes any second. “If I told you my official smashdown that’s right here, you’d think I was lying.”

  Dallas said, “Man, this challenge opened my eyes to how small this city is. Even during the festival all I met was local randoms. My face is starting to become too familiar.”

  Trymm gave Dallas a condescending look. “New faces require new places, D. Upgrade your locations. What’s up with you, Kohl?”

  Blitz frowned, focusing on Trymm.

  Bobbing my head, I answered, “Ain’t never a shortage of big gurls in the South. They come to me. I feed ’em, then fuck ’em, and if they let me fuck ’em first, I might not give ’em a po’boy or a daiquiri.”

  A text registered from Lema: wtf, you blast me on social media, bitch!