by Tiana Laveen
“Ahhh, Brent! Shit!” She moved her legs about, as if she didn’t know whether she was coming or going. “I’m going to cum…” she panted.
He lifted his chin, waiting and wanting it.
“Shower my mouth. I’m so thirsty for that pussy sweetness!”
He opened his mouth wide, his fingers still working her over until he popped them out and sucked her hole, drawing the tender flesh in. She shook and went crazy against his lips, but he stayed the course and pressed her to the shower wall—sucking, licking and devouring her sugary essence like the starving man that he was. “Mmmmmmm! Yes!” Finally, she slumped against him, her legs trembling.
Rising, he held her with one arm and turned off the shower. He gently placed her over his shoulder, grabbed a large towel and returned to the bedroom. He laid her down carefully across the bed, atop the towel and again, he settled between her thighs. Inserting his finger back inside of her, he moved it in a circular motion, hitting her walls, leaving no nerve ending untouched.
“Mmmmm!”
He stole a glance at her. Dark, wet strands of hair framed her face, a picture of ecstasy. He relished the sight, urged to work her up. Sliding the tip of his tongue against her clit, revving her excitement to the point that she came once again. Not wasting another moment, he turned her on her side. Their heavy breathing intermingled as he pushed his chest into her back, preparing her for what he had in store. Cradling close, he gently lifted her leg, but then she took over, doing the honors, holding her calf while he slid deep inside of her.
“Ohhhhhhh!” He felt his eyes roll back as he began to slowly thrust.
He glanced at the bedside nightstand drawer, suddenly recalling her statement about the condoms she’d purchased. He missed her so damn much, wanted to feel her, experience her. Hesitating, he mulled it over, then let it go…
“Ahhhhhh!” They sighed together when he pushed to the hilt, bottoming her out. Withdrawing, he administered shallow thrusts, timed and careful. He layered her neck with soft kisses, then her shoulders and upper back. Her wet hair rubbed against the side of his face. He gently brushed the tresses away from her forehead, and granted a tender kiss to it as his determined dick danced within her intoxicating walls.
“Mmmmm, I missed your pussy soooo much. My dick is so fucking happy, baby. Damn!”
She laughed lightly at his admission. He increased his pace. “Mmmm! Uh!” He drew back, then stuck into her, causing her entire body to tremble at the impact. Her damn arm shook and when he looked over her shoulder, he caught her widened eyes and parted lips, an expression of awe on her face.
“Brent, your cock…shit! … Big dick son of a bitch! Go easy on me, baby! You’re going to have to be careful with that thing!” She laughed, but he knew she was serious.
He reluctantly slowed down some and administered butterfly kisses to the side of her face. She then began to bump her ass into his groin as he fucked her soft and gentle—judiciously fucking him right back.
“Ahhhh, shit shit shit!” she hissed, working her hips more and more.
“You told me to slow the fuck down, but look what you’re doing!” He laughed. “Come on baby,” he said huskily. “For real…you excite me too much when you do that…gonna make me cum.” He wanted to plow into her so hard and deep, but he’d just been warned to slow his damn roll. Still, her soft ass cheeks continued bounce and bump against his thrusting crotch.
“I can’t!” she cried.
And then he felt it—her nectar streamed down his shaft and coated her damn inner thighs as she shook uncontrollably against his heated flesh. Gripping her hips, he pulled her into him and pumped, gently sinking his teeth into her shoulder blade. She reached behind and ran her hand roughly over his hair as he gained momentum, his pace increasing rapidly by the damn stroke.
“Uhhh! Uhhhh!”
“Mmmmm!”
“I’m your man!” He wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, forcing her into his rhythmic movements. His dick wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Yes, you’re my man, my one and only, baby!”
“A simp can make you cum, a motherfucking pimp like me will make you forget how to fuckin’ walk when I’m done! Uhhhh!”
“Shit, yeeeesssss! Take this pussy, baby! Take it!” she yelled, bumping her ass even harder into him. “You’re wrecking my pussy!”
“Tearin’ this fucking pussy up, baby! Uhhhh! It’s your own damn fault, it feels too damn good! Uhhhh!”
“Ahhhhh, Baaaaabbbbbby!!!”
“Uhhh! Uhh! Uhhh!”
The bed shook violently as he claimed her, went deep and hard. The slapping noise of his balls against her soft, sticky, honey-coated pussy lips seemed amplified and he simply couldn’t get enough. His head felt clouded and clogged as the pressure in his ears grew. He was so close, and this time, it was going to take all of him…
“Uhhhhhh! Let your man cum inside of you, Pussycat! Let me explode inside of you, baby!”
“Yeeeessssss, baby! Cum in me!”
“Uhhhh!” He stuck hard. His cock shot within her, expelling his essence. The load flowed and more and more cum spurted; he had no clue as to when he’d be through. “Uhhhh! Shit!” He cursed between clenched teeth. Holding her arm, he forced her into his body to accept more of his jerky, hard thrusts. He trembled against her frame and his head throbbed as pleasure flowed from his damn toes to the top of his fucking skull. His heart filled with immeasurable adoration, and it felt so damn good to be home, deep inside her love.
“Uhhhhh, shiiiiit…” After dragging his lips lazily down her spine, he released her and rolled onto his back, his breaths erratic. His hands fell limp across his chest, the long fingers sprawled out, and he was certain an expression of pure elation had etched itself across his face.
“Mmmmm,” he groaned, briefly closing his eyes. He raised a leg and ran his hand over his damp hair. His buzz cut still felt foreign to him, but he enjoyed it all the same.
“Welcome home, baby,” she whispered as she turned to him, placing herself upon his chest.
My angel…
He grinned, tracing circles across her ass, the softness of her flesh sure to give him another hard on if she wasn’t careful. After a few minutes of quiet, she looked up into his half-sleepy eyes. Running her finger along his lips, drumming them, making them blubber he offered a half grin as he strained to widen his pupils further, but it was a fight all right.
“Are you hungry? I went grocery shopping and got all of your favorite things. I could pick something up if you want instead though.”
“You are so damn sweet,” he rasped as he looked down into her eyes. She delivered a sexy wink. “Yeah, I’m real hungry, baby. The food in that place was crap. I know I lost about ten pounds, maybe a bit more.” He yawned.
“Okay.” She slid off the bed and put on her cream robe. “I’m going in the kitchen to make my sweetie something to eat.”
“I didn’t know you were a chef.” Grinning, he sat up on his elbows, his eyebrow raised and face flushed. “You told me you could cook, but I’ve only seen you with carry-out. You gotta be pulling my leg.” He cackled. She put her hand on her hip, her lips twisted in annoyance.
“Well, I do and though I don’t do it often, I’d give myself a B. It’s decent.” She shrugged and waltzed away, her ass swaying like a pendulum. He leaned back onto the bed and placed his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling for a long while. He smiled when the smell of cooking food reached his nostrils. His stomach growled in anticipation as it wafted around him, titillating him so. If his nose wasn’t fooling him, the woman was baking fish and cooking string beans. Other scents of sautéed onions and peppers intermingled, causing a big stir within. He tried to hold onto the happy feelings, then dropped his head as the world closed in on him, the bars of a cell slamming shut and locking from behind. He’d become a creature, trapped against his will, and the justice system had failed him for a while, then turned around and tried to make it right—but the
damage had been done. He knew many men had had it much worse, spent the better part of their life incarcerated for a crime they never committed.
However, the almost nine months in that prison changed him. He’d survived the jungle, came out of there with his pride intact, but it left a burn upon his soul. Every day, he’d faced temptations to aid in one’s comfort and survival. The pressure became so great sometimes, especially with doubt looming over his head regarding his access to freedom—a way out. Drugs ran through the prison like a bout of diarrhea from the lower gut after a cup of spoiled cottage cheese. You could get any damn thing you wanted, as long as you had a little money or something worth having to trade. A time or two he’d considered it, simply to make the damn pain go away. He had dough hidden here and there, and other guys sniffed him out, suspicious of that fact. It was understood that a pimp like him wouldn’t shit his earnings down the toilet with reckless spending and no thought to the future. No, he’d saved for a rainy day. He’d squirreled that shit away, just like many of the black guys said ‘white folk’ do. Not a lot, but it was something, enough for him and Paris to have a decent go at it until they got on their feet.
And that was the other thing. He’d worried about her a hell of a lot while he sat behind those bars, trapped. What if someone thought she had his money and tried to hurt her? A second coming of Royal reincarnated? What the fuck could he do to protect her behind bars? What if Carla hadn’t gotten her fill, and came back with another scheme to get more people wrapped up in a ring of revenge-tainted terror? What if Felicia flipped the fuck out, got back on that shit and decided Paris needed to pay for some perceived disrespect? He knew Felicia better than the whore who knew her damn self. She was loyal all right, but she also was known to fuck someone up in a nanosecond if her temper got revved. Her nickname wasn’t ‘Ferocious’ for no damn reason… He let go of that notion after Paris let him know that they’d had a nice lunch, and the woman had cried up a storm within a storm once she received her grandmother’s necklace back…
That made him feel good, made him proud. He only wanted the best for her. Right before he’d met Paris, he had to admit something to himself. It hurt him that he didn’t love Felicia at any point in time, and that was something she’d never know… She could never understand the why or how, he barely did himself. No one could replace Paris. She was his beginning, the first beat of his heart and the middle, where the story can change lanes in a blink. She was his conclusion, the ending to a long dream that left him feeling soft and loved as she enveloped him in her delicate arms.
A lot of things changed, and many things stayed the same. He glanced back up at the ceiling and thought about how fly it would be if it were painted like the open outdoors, chock full of blueness and fluffy white clouds. He could escape each and every time he went to sleep, and he could pretend he’d just landed and returned home for the evening. His daydreams piled on top of more daydreams, until he built a staircase of them, moving and shifting like puzzle pieces. It felt good to slip away like this; he hadn’t done it in so long. He could feel the peace returning, one tiny shred at a time, building his esteem, his confidence. He had a strong support system from a woman who never turned her back on him, would let him lean on her, and she on him. But he had a bit of complex. He didn’t want the shit to be equal. He surmised that was one of the things that had made him so successful in the pimp game. Smoke wanted to the run the whole damn show, be the man of the house, not just in name. He wanted to earn that shit, for her to look at him with respect, admiration, and know she was safe and taken care of. Paris deserved to be a first lady, to have the opportunity to run her damn shop like the maestro that she was. He wanted her to put her name across it, her foot in it, and her fist in the face of anyone and anything that dared to try and stop her.
But he needed that fist to be soft when it landed against his hard body, and he needed her to smell like life, look like love, taste like lust, sound like soul, and feel like sex. And that’s what he had. He’d do anything necessary and then some to ensure it stayed that way, that she looked up to him, respected him, believed in him. She had to know he’d never let her fend for herself, that she wouldn’t suffer for another day, that she could depend on him to be there and make the bad shit good and the good shit better. Paris had never had a hero. It was time; it was long overdue. Standing, he walked to her vanity mirror and took a good, hard look at himself. He never wanted to study his physique at the prison; he detested looking at himself while in there, growing more and more animalistic as the days passed. But now that he was free and his heart was emancipated, too, he wanted to take inventory.
He hunkered down, leaning forward, and checked out the scene.
Yeah, I have lost weight…
He ran his hand against the side of his angular face, noting his cheekbones looked more prominent, either due to the weight loss or the smattering of Native American blood in him that his father claimed to have… Either way, he was certain the ten pounds he’d lost, once regained, would take care of it right away.
He stood erect, turning from side to side. His six-pack kept top notch status, though the lack of sunlight made him paler, and his naturally slightly tanned skin was struggling to keep the bit of melanin that it had.
This is not a good look, man…got to get back to my outdoor activities. Gotta hit the gym and go running in the mornings. Most importantly, gotta get a job, contribute. I have a lot to take care of…and I’ll do it. I will definitely put in the time. I’ve never been afraid of hard work…you get nothing in this world without effort.
“What are you doing out of bed?” She smiled as she bumped the door the rest of the way open with her hip, and brought in beverages and two plates of food on a silver tray.
“Just looking at myself is all.”
Setting the tray in the middle of the bed, she gracefully climbed under the sheets. He followed suit, licking his lips, rubbing his hands together, and almost lost it when he took in the delicious sight.
“Looks great, baby!” He reached for one of the plates, made himself comfortable on the bed and grabbed a forkful of yellow rice.
“I hope you like it.”
“I bet I will…” He winked at her and popped the fork in his mouth. “Damn, this is some good shit!” he mumbled, his mouth full.
“You’re just sayin’ that because your last meal was tasteless, state provided and dry,” she teased.
“No, I’m serious, baby. Now I could get used to this.” He crossed his ankles, wiggled his toes as he happily chomped.
“Don’t. I did this because you needed it, not because it’s my calling.” She laughed.
“Awwww! Come on, baby!” He chewed noisily then swallowed. “You said you bought groceries! What do I have to do to get you to cook for me more then?” He helped himself to another dollop before setting his sights on a baked piece of tilapia with his name all over it.
“Hmmmm,” she smirked deviously. “I’ll have to think about that.” She took a sip of iced tea, chasing it with a forkful of string beans. He drew closer to her, nibbled her ear a bit, making her squirm. She giggled like a little kid, slid against him just so, and it didn’t take long before his dick let him know it was once again ready for battle.
Wait a minute, man. Let’s eat first, give her a chance to breathe before jumping back on her…
“Here, let me turn on some T.V.” She reached for the remote and channel surfed, then handed it over. “You should be able to find something.” Then, she went back to her plate. He took the remote and landed on a live comedy show. Setting it down between them, he spent the next hour looking at the woman slowly eat her food, and laugh her sexy ass off. This was their new life—what life was all about. Laughing through the rough pain, crying with joy from the breaks one caught, and embracing the moment, trying to dissect the lesson within. If one looked for clues, teachings and patterns, one could possibly assume a higher power in fact did exist.
He began to take issue with his own beli
efs over the past few weeks. In Paris’ letters, she’d always say she was praying all the time, praying to God that he was released, praying that things would be okay. He never paid it much attention until he began to see that maybe someone up there really was listening to her. They were lucky to even be alive, let alone be together, a couple in love. He always thought it was silly how people believed in God, as if someone out there really gave a damn about them, but…stranger things than the concept of a higher power had already occurred.
For he had grown up a poor, Midwestern boy of divorced parents that barely knew or understood one another. One was sick in the head, the other fled. He’d jumped from one frying pan into the other, and neither knew that they were popping with 700-degree grease, burning him up from the inside out. He’d gone from shunning intimacy, to swimming knee deep in it, screwing professional escorts from the age of sixteen and beyond. He entered in the lion’s den, fallen in the dragon’s mouth, slid under the tiger’s paw and got in the bear’s way. And yet…he survived to tell the story. He was alive.
Did he do it on his own? He doubted it. His mother’s fancy ‘one-size-fits-all’ religion proved a haven for hypocrites, and she was the damn ring leader, but maybe faith was the key, and not all the other dogma that rode close to it, trying to be a part of the celebrity status of its mere simplicity. Had someone had faith enough to trust their gut and call him while he sliced a razor blade across his wrist? If it weren’t for that call, he’d have been dead a long time ago. How could he forget?
The woman of his dreams showed up at a pivotal moment, when he was open and ready to receive her. At no other time after Cheryl, had he contemplated pursuing a woman for more than turning her out, having sex with her, or both.
Could something bigger and better be working in his favor? Night after night, he would watch this woman he’d give his life for bow her head over her food and ask God to bless it, just as she did moments ago. She believed in God, despite the fucked up childhood she’d been dealt. Paris believed in God, despite having to sell her own ass out of fear, and intimidation. The woman he worshipped believed wholeheartedly in God, despite being beaten, raped, abused, neglected, and abandoned and the final straw, seeing her man murder another in her damn front yard. She kept that faith after being forced to spend up a bulk of their money on legal counsel and then to wait for him, not knowing if that wait would take a few months, or the length of a life sentence! She was devoted to the notion of faith, of believing in the unseen, in what she felt deeply within. Smoke shook the thoughts out of his head, but placed a bookmark there, determined to revisit this God business in the near future.