Nympho

by Andrea Blackstone

  “Hi, Ma,” he said. “How come I never seen you here before or at the VIP lap dance parties Brian hosts?

  “What parties?” I asked. The rapper grinned.

  “Never mind. You’ll find out if you’re good with your hands and can work them hips right. So . . . wassup witcha?”

  At that moment, all of Brian’s I better be an intelligent woman talk went flying out of the window. Before I could greet him properly, he said, “Get up and turn around.” I did. “Yeah—you straight. Let’s go. Come take a little walk wit me.”

  Apparently, the rapper’s definition of “me” was more like “us,” and included his personal bodyguard. I questioned this at first, but then decided that despite his limited vocabulary, he must’ve had at least half a brain cell to want an extra pair of eyes along for the protection of his money. Smart thug. Correction: smart businessman. Obviously, he’d cracked the millionaire’s code and wanted to keep his money under his thumb.

  Once again, the girls sucked their teeth with envy when I followed the men. Since the competition tried to give me so much bad attitude, I added to the hate index by switching past them like a confident piece of ebony eye candy.

  When the three of us walked down a long hallway inside of the mansion, we passed between the same set of bodyguards I spotted upon my initial arrival. We then proceeded up a flight of steps that I logically concluded led to the VIP area. When we reached the top and turned left, another set of bodyguards were blocking the hallway. Upon spotting the rapper, their eyes shifted slightly, giving the approval for him and his small entourage to enter the door at the end of the hall. As we passed several doors I could hear sex sounds with a twist—several staggered moans and groans of various pitches escaping through the air at once.

  We moved a little further and then his personal bodyguard frisked me down, feeling me between my legs, then holding his finger to the rapper’s nose to sniff it. He inhaled my scent and I knew he obviously approved because he ordered the bodyguard to “get the merchandise ready for purchase.” The bodyguard began to slowly undress me, rubbing all over my body, then smacking my ass. As he did this, the vain rapper showed off his lyrical skills by singing about ghetto love. The little tune went something like this:

  Money is power—

  All those paid for hoes

  Wit da pedicured toes

  Jump on my dick

  And show me mo’ love

  ’Cause they know my paper thick

  Don’t need no credit cards on the bar

  My ice, my cars

  Hanging out wit movie stars

  I told ya I’m living da life

  Hell yeah, that’s right.

  Hell yeah, that’s right.

  East, South, North, West;

  they want me

  ’cause my shit tight

  and I rock the mike the best

  When he stopped, so did the bodyguard. Standing nude in my heels, we locked eyes. I was dripping wet because the star who was lusting over me was the same one I fussed at my students over for trying to mimic his disjointed hip hop dance, and singing his lyrics everywhere in school, even during class. If I had a quarter for every time I reminded the young people that men like him don’t know how to treat a lady, I’d be the only rich teacher in the world. And there I was the role model, mentor, and child advocate, watching him lick his lips over my ass, and listening to him refer to me as the best of the best eye candy. Suddenly, I was just as impressed by his cockiness, fame, tattoos, and the long platinum necklace that looked like Jacob The Jeweler had custom made it for him,. I was being a hypocrite, but the bad girl in me loved the fact that I’d been led to have the opportunity to be in this position. I felt like a star in my own right because I was getting ready to have sex with one.

  “Stop acting like a virgin. Fuck the bed—up against the wall. Show me all dat ass,” he said, correcting me when I got ready to assume the position.

  I turned around, pressing my breasts against the wall. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands until he said, “Play wit’ yourself a while.” He palmed both ass cheeks and then pressed his lips press against each one. He stopped touching me. “Make it dance,” he commanded.

  Instantly, I recalled some of the music videos I’d seen with women clapping their asses, particularly those with that popular video honey Buffie the Body. Since we were about the same size, her tricks became my tricks.

  “Shit, you’re a pretty little thing—that’s what Blaze is talking about. I bet that apple looks good in jeans,” he mumbled. “Come on sexy. Enough bullshitting wit dat foreplay. Let’s see if you got whip appeal.” He turned me around and looked me up and down. “What’s your name?”

  “Innocence.”

  “I likes that. So take me to heaven, Innocence. Do whatever ya do that will blow my mind. Prove that you ain’t got nothing but love for me.”

  Knowing that all men love oral sex, I sucked on his dollar sign necklace to give him a hint that I was good at licking and sucking it like a lollipop, then I yanked at his belt buckle. Blaze’s bodyguard walked over to pull down the star’s pants. When the bodyguard moved out of the way Blaze’s jeans fell to his ankles. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the room and stared up into his eyes while running my tongue around the rim of his swollen knob. Then I wrapped my lips around the largest, thickest penis I’d ever encountered. When he began to moan, I wrapped both hands around his tool, bobbing my head faster, and mesmerizing him as Innocence began to defy logic. Blaze grabbed my head by my hair and pushed it toward his dick until I could barely manage to breathe. My lips felt as if they were stretched as far as they would go as I sucked what I hoped would soon be inside my pussy. Although I was thinking he was nearly too big for my mouth, I wasn’t about to complain. The harder and larger he grew, the more I felt as if I was nearly gagging . . . but I loved being his cock sucker.

  “Damn! That’s one bad ass, freaky bitch right der! She sucks a mean dick!” his guard said.

  The sound of the bodyguard’s voice reminded me of his presence, and the thought of being watched turned me on. I’d always wanted to give Trey head while someone watched, but I knew I could never recommend such a thing. My fantasies were off limits although he’d probably lived each and every one of his.

  Blaze let go of my hair and without speaking, I rose from my knees with saliva and pre cum swimming in my mouth. I began to moan and pinch my breasts while walking back toward the wall. I stood about two inches from the wall and bent straight over, preparing to show off my flexibility from when I was active in creative dance and gymnastics back in my college days. When I made my breasts touch my chin, the rapper snapped his fingers and his bodyguard presented a condom, tore it open, and handed it to him. He rolled it down on himself.

  “Gimme dat. This bad boy’s gonna tear your ass up,” he stated. The next thing I knew, my back was completely touching the wall and I could feel the vibration from Blaze’s intense pounding. I screamed as the pictures on the wall rattled and my legs began to spread wider apart like an upside down V. After a few minutes passed, I stood up and pulled off the condom. Like a professional head doctor who sucked dick for a living, I dropped to my knees again. This time I moved my head around wildly, sucking on him until my own saliva streamed down my chest. I opened wide and deep throated his juicy penis once more, and then we made our way to the bed. He clicked his fingers once and before I knew it a fresh condom was covering his penis.

  “Let me stick this up that big phat ass,” he said, holding himself.

  “Oh no, honey. The back door is closed. Translation: my booty hole is off limits. You’ll have to stick to the front opening,” I told him, switching gears.

  Instantly it was as if a needle on a record had slid off and ruined the flow, mid-groove.

  “Now ma, stop trying to hassle me and rip me off! I thought you knew—I’m paying $5,000 to tap this. Not five grand per hole; just five grand—period. Show some respect. You know what I’m sayin’? I got da hott
est single out here. If a superstar like Blaze wants to open the back door, you’re supposed to turn that ass up with a smile. Some women would pay to fuck me, not the other way around, so get your head right,” he said, sounding frustrated.

  “Brian said everything I do is my choice, and I’m choosing to reserve my asshole for my husband, so enough of the yang popping,” I insisted.

  “No one wants to hear all dat shit. Show me some love before I lose my hard on. C’mon, bitch, back that thang up and cooperate like you know your place,” he growled.

  “Well this bitch is engaged, and I meant what I said.”

  “No one gives a fuck about whatever nigga you got at home,” Blaze said, grabbing his balls, shaking his penis in my direction.

  “You can shake that thing until 2007 but it’s not going to make one iota of a difference. I know you think you’ve got all the power in the world, but I’m not letting you drive this Benz down the Hershey highway. Five grand or not, it’s not going to happen. In fact, I’m as kinky as the next bitch, but that’s not enough to even get me to start up the car,” I said, jumping up from the bed.

  “What seems to be the problem?” Brian asked, suddenly appearing. I guess he got a glimpse of things not going so well on the monitor and decided to come survey the situation.

  “Anal sex—that’s the problem,” I complained.

  “Well, give the man what he wants.”

  “That’s not how you explained it,” I shot back.

  “I thought you would fill in the blanks, you learn fast—never argue with a client. You’re always to deliver an unforgettable experience.”

  “I tell you what. Why don’t you take the five grand and let him stick you up the ass with that tree trunk looking thing he’s slinging? After you do, I guarantee you won’t be able to shit for an entire week—let’s see how you like delivering an unforgettable experience then. Why don’t you drop your pants and your drawers and put your hands on your knees? Go on . . . ass up, Brian,” I said.

  “Do you know how many black girls are selling themselves for fifty bucks a pop? Asian girls, easy sell. All American blondes, easy sell. You’re lucky you can get top dollar. My clients pay for discretion and cooperation, and here you come treating one like a crack head with no money. You’re far more stupid than I thought. Get out!” Brian screamed, pointing at the door.

  I left my clothes behind and even the bikini that I borrowed when I first changed. Feeling angry and insulted, I began storming out butt naked in my heels.

  On my way out of the room, I heard Blaze cuss and request two white girls and one Asian one, I said, “As the kids would say…get on your A game. Your rapping sucks. You probably can’t even get your music played on the air. Hottest single out here my ass! By the way, you look like something crawled out of the swamp and bit you in the face. The only reason paid for hoes with the pedicured toes jump on your dick is because money is power, just like you said. I don’t do it for the money, I do it for the excitement, so you can keep your five grand, Blaze.”

  I don’t know what came over to me, but exerting my power made me hornier than ever. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I exited by the pool area longing to pull every man in sight by the arm and take them all to bed at the same time. Their eyes glazed over as I proceeded to sashay to my car like a confident exhibitionist. When I reached my vehicle, I unlocked it and masturbated until I began screaming and shaking, my legs waving back and forth. I knew I ran the risk of being watched publicly, but I didn’t care. My body found relief. Holding my head upright, I saw two of the guards pointing at me, confirming that I’d just put on a show for them. I pulled a blanket that I’d washed at the Laundromat around myself, started the car, and squealed tires as I left the premises.

  This was the first time I realized I was officially out of control. Although I knew I was playing with fire by ignoring logical personal boundaries, I just couldn’t stop living out my sexual fantasies. I promised myself I would try my hardest to simmer down before the consequences crept up on me and ruined my life. Whether my effort would work was wholly a question of a different nature.

  5

  Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?

  Sunday morning rolled around and it was time to switch gears and revert back to my original persona, even if I felt like dragging my feet to get it done. While I sat in the house of the Lord, I kept nodding off, tired from my adventure with Blaze in my new secret life. Despite the fact that I could barely focus or stay awake, when Trey nudged me, I sprang to my feet and managed to sing This Little Light of Mine on key as if I’d been awake the entire time.

  Needless to say, my mind wasn’t on the sermon. Instead, I was reminiscing over me having the guts to sex a man who couldn’t have been shaving long and who still dressed the part of a free, young spirit. I kept thinking about being banged by the young buck with the exceptionally large tool. Just thinking about what I’d done made me reach over and grab Trey’s hand for a moment—not because of guilt, but because opening my legs for someone so different than him turned me on and allowed me to pretend I was content.

  Luckily, I didn’t attend my church, so Tanya couldn’t start any static regarding what had transpired earlier in the week—a cooling off period was a good thing. After I finished sitting in a church pew in Leslie mode, I was stuck having to spend time with Trey’s family for the second time since we’ve been engaged. I made sure to slick my hair back in a neatly done bun and wear a skirt that touched my knees this morning. Boring Leslie had returned to the building. I was most comfortable looking boring when I sought to make a good impression on others—especially those over fifty years of age.

  Although I didn’t know his family well, I got my daily scoop on the conservative Southern Christians through updates from my beau. Every day there was new piece of something that made me despise those strangers for almost everything, beginning with how Trey was reared. It was insane for a young person to be prohibited from dancing, watching movies, television, and doing the normal things any teenager would want to enjoy. I guess all of this explained why Trey wasn’t wrapped up into dishing up ghetto fabulous loving. After we got engaged, he always held back and even appeared to feel guilty when we made love.

  Since Trey believed we should be serving the Lord together, I joined his church and occasionally went there with him. In Trey’s eyes, I was a Christian girl with old-school beliefs. But in actuality, I was a Christian with worldly habits, hence my desire to get my freak on. In my mind’s eye, there were worse sins I could be committing than lusting over the man I planned to marry.

  What I perceived as ambivalence frustrated me and quelled my desire to experience my first orgasm with Trey. It was screwed up that thanks to his family’s puritanical outlook the first man I experienced an orgasm with was our best man. Thanks to Trey’s cock blocking family, smiles on my face caused by hot, passionate lovemaking were few and far in between. This was new for me because I was used to fighting men off, not begging them to jump on the bandwagon.

  Speaking of puritanical outlooks, all Trey’s immediate family seemed to do was judge people, and I was not looking forward to a second inspection. I’d have to tolerate seeing them at wedding rehearsal soon enough anyway. Trey’s mother had her dress altered four times. Maybe if she would’ve stopped sampling different types of menus for the wedding plate, she would’ve kept a stable size. I sensed that before long, the total amount paid for her alterations would surpass the cost of my wedding dress. It seemed as though she was the one walking down the aisle instead of me. She and her mother seemed rather comfortable planning how many friends and family would be attending, and how the seating for parents and relatives would be arranged. She was also intent on dictating that grape juice toasts be made since champagne was off limits, and explained that the vows would be read right out of the Bible, even though I made it clear that Trey and I had agreed to compose our own commitment of marriage. Arrangements for the honeymoon and moving in together also came up, but I tuned
the suckers out hours prior, reminding myself that the person footing the bill should have the final say so—me.

  Since I was estranged from my family and they wouldn’t be involved, I was responsible for coughing up the money by the contract due date. Our modest wedding would cost around fifteen thousand dollars. I planned to use my savings to pay for most of it. The remaining tab was small stuff, which I wasn’t going to sweat, although it did cut into my reserve stash. My reasoning was that Trey was worth it, and he meant enough for me to part with my rainy day fund.

  Hopefully, Trey would take time off from his job and walk down the aisle with me. It sounded like a basic premise, being available for your wedding and honeymoon, but who could tell, especially since he still gave his mother and grandmother spending money every week. Perhaps he wouldn’t have had to be a workaholic if he took them off of his payroll account.

  “There’s my son,” Trey’s mother said, hugging him tightly. “Leslie,” she grunted as I walked through the door behind him.

  Mabel inspected me from head to toe. I could tell she didn’t approve of my outfit although it was conservative. Even so, I didn’t give a damn.

  “Mrs. Williams, it’s always a pleasure,” I lied in the same unpleasant tone.

  Her ass was looking more and more like a train caboose every day. I’m not sure if she ever thought about gastric bypass surgery, but the option should’ve been considered. Tyler Perry’s get ups had nothing on hers except that hers wasn’t a get up—it was something she wore in real life.

  As we passed through the living room, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear that I was being suffocated by plastic. I noticed that everything was coated in plastic—transparent plastic on the furniture, yellow plastic runners covering the carpet, fake plastic fruit on the dining room table, plastic figurines tucked inside of nooks . . . plastic, plastic, plastic! When I noticed a painting depicting a cowboy scene and cellophane on a lampshade below it, I stopped myself from laughing at the thought that she and Fred Sanford would have been great friends.