by Cairo
Thirty-Six
Ten minutes later, I’m steppin’ outta the ladies room with a fresh coat of lip paint and gloss on my lips, swingin’ my hips when Big Grizzly steps outta the men’s bathroom. Our eyes meet. I grin at ’im.
“Yo, ma, what’s good wit’ you? You sexy as fuck.” I stop. “I was watchin’ how you bounce that ass up ’n down on the dance floor. You was poppin’ that shit like a champ. That shit is real right.”
I grin. “Glad you liked the show, boo.”
“Oh, no doubt, ma. You had my dick goin’ thru it. You definitely gotta niggah feelin’ like gettin’ into sumthin’ nice ’n wet tonight. Fuck what ya heard. You mad sexy wit’ it, too. What’s ya name?”
I eye his ass real easy-like, takin’ him all in. Oooh, he’s uglier than dog shit. But he’s over six-feet tall and smellin’ like expensive cologne and loads of dollars; just how Big Booty likes ’em. But that waist is a bit too extra for me. And judgin’ by the the lump in the front of his Gucci sweats, it looks like the gorilla’s hung like a beach whale. Is he fuckable? Yes, sugah-boo, if the price is right and with the lights out. I glance at the diamond pinky ring, the encrusted diamond watch, and the iced out chain around his thick neck. Oh, it’s definitely possible. Shit, I’ve fucked worse when I was tryna keep a roof over my head.
“It’s Cassandra.”
Oooga Bear licks his lips. “Oh, aiight. That’s wassup.”
“And you are?”
“Kashmir, but niggahs call me Cash with a Cee, for short.”
“And why’s that?”
“ ’Cause they know I’m about makin’ that paper. And I dig makin’ it rain on sexy-ass broads, like you.”
I grin. “Then tonight’s ya lucky night, big daddy. ’Cause I love trickin’ niggahs like you up off them dollars.”
He laughs. “Yo, that’s what it is. So how ’bout we go back on over to my booth over there in VIP, let’s toss back a few drinks and get better acquainted. You cool with that?”
The niggah doesn’t have to say shit else. I swing my ass over toward VIP while he follows behind watchin’ it shake, bounce, ’n pop. When we get over to his booth, the tall sexy tar-black niggah I had my eye on earlier is sittin’ in the booth with three other niggahs. All dipped in jewels. There are four three-hundred-dollar bottles of Krug, a bottle of Crown Royal, and a bottle of Rémy XO on the table. Oooga Bear doesn’t introduce us. Rude ass! Instead, he grabs the bottle of Rémy and a bottle of Krug, then tells me to follow him to another booth. I walk in back of him, glancin’ over my shoulder at Tar Baby. I quickly flick my tongue out on the sly. Oooga Bear waits for me to slide into the booth, then slides in beside me. I frown.
“Ummm, why is you tryna pin me up in this booth, niggah?”
He chuckles. “No harm, ma. I’m only tryna sit close to ya sexy ass and have a few drinks wit’ you. But if you want a muhfucka to sit across from you instead, then I will.”
I cut my eyes at him. “Pour me some of that Rémy, niggah. But if you try any funny business I’ma stab you in ya balls.”
He cracks up laughin’ as he pours two glasses of Rémy. “Yo, you real feisty, ma.” He slides my glass over. “You really know how’ta make a niggah’s dick hard.”
“And I know how to ride one, too.”
“Is that so?” He raises his glass. “So here’s to my hard dick. And you knowin’ how’ta ride it.”
Our glasses clink.
“So you fuckin’?”
I slide my lips over my glass, then sip my drink real ladylike ’cause I’m tryna keep it real classy tonight ’til some coon sets me off. Then you know I’ll have to turn up the flames to hood-ho and set it off. My pussy lips clap, imaginin’ givin’ this niggah a facial.
I take a few more sips of my drink, but I wanna toss it back like I would a dingaling. Gulp, gulp, goddammit!
“Boo, that depends,” I finally say, settin’ my glass down. The dark liquid goes down like fire.
“Oh, word? On what?”
“One, on how much paper you tryna drop; two, on how much dingdong you got hangin’; and, three on whether or not I feel like fuckin’.”
He laughs. “Oh, shit ‘dingdong’, that shit’s funny as hell. But check this out, ma. One, money ain’t never sumthin’ I gotta worry about. And, two, I gotta big, thick dick that most bitches can’t handle. So the question is, can you handle the dingdong as you call it?”
I laugh. “Boo-boo, you better check my credentials. I gotta pussy like a horse, niggah. It’s real juicy and knows how to milk the nut outta a dingaling.”
He laughs again. “Yo, you a real live wit’ ya shit, ma. You just don’t give a fuck, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Yo, I like that shit, ma.”
I toot my lips. “Mmmhmm. And what you like to do, niggah, since we talkin’ about what you like?”
“Real shit, ma. I’ma freaky ass muhfucka. It’s whatever wit’ me when it comes to pleasin’ a sexy bitch as long as she’s willin’ to return the favor. But I can show you better than I can tell you. But on some real shit, ma, we ain’t gotta do a buncha nothin’. Shit watchin’ how you had that big-ass bouncin’ gotta niggah’s dick still rocked. You got me wantin’ to fuck ya ass on this table, real shit.”
My pussy lips clap again. “Niggah, I’m only that kinda ho for my baby daddies. You fuck me, it’s gonna be with my ass up, face down, stretched out in the middle of a hotel bed.”
He leans into my ear. “Yo, check this out. I got five grand to blow tonight on whatever. So tell me. What can a niggah get for that kinda paper?”
I raise a brow. “Niggah-boo, for that kinda paper, I might let you get the works.”
He licks his thick lips. “Oh word? And what’s that?”
“Pussy, ass, and throat.”
He grins, pullin’ out a thick knot of money. I count in my head as he starts peelin’ off money. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred . . .
“Yo, check this out. You got on panties?”
I raise a brow. “Yeah, why?”
Four hundred, five hundred, six hundred . . .
“What kind?”
“Some purple lace thongs, why?”
Seven hundred, eight hundred, nine hundred, a thousand!
“I want ’em. Here’s a gee. Take them shits off and let me sniff ’em real quick. If that pussy smells sweet, then I’ma slide you the rest of this paper I got on me and we gonna go somewhere and get it in real heavy tonight.”
“I wanna feel how big that dick is,” I say, slidin’ my hand in his lap and feelin’ the inside of his thighs.
“Yo, do ya thang, ma. It’s on the left side of my leg.”
I let my right hand roam, then stroke him on the sly. I immediately start gettin’ wet. It’s about as thick as a baseball bat and about as long as a billyclub. Now I wanna see it, taste it, and feel it. Oooh, yessss, goddammit! This niggah got me real juicy. And now Big Booty wanna fuck!
“You like what you feelin’?”
I keep rubbin’ it.
“So we fuckin’ tonight?”
“Maybe.”
He opens and closes his legs. “Nah, I ain’t tryna hear no maybe, ma. I wanna fuck you. I wanna run this dick all up in ya back, real shit. Now let me get them panties.”
Shit, Big Booty’s pussy always smells sweet. This niggah don’t know. I laugh to myself. Fuckin’ this niggah for his change is gonna be like snatchin’ crack from a blind dope fiend. This motherfucka must not have gotten the memo on me. I’m always lookin’ for the next come up. I smile, liftin’ up in my seat, hikin’ up my skirt, then slidin’ my panties off.
I look around the club, then slide ’em to him on the sly. He slides me the grand, then puts them up to his nose and takes a deep whiff. “Yeah, that shit smells right, ma. Mmmhmm . . . ” I watch as the niggah sticks out his long tongue and licks the crotch area. Oooh, he’s some kinda nasty. But the shit makes my pussy wink. “Yeah, ma, real shit . . . we fuckin’. And you betta be able to handl
e all this dick.”
I stuff the money down in my bag, then grip his dick and squeeze it as hard as I can. “Niggah, not to worry. I ain’t never been . . . ” My voice trails off when I spot Knutz mushin’ Dickalina in the head, then yankin’ her by the arm and snatchin’ her off the barstool. I take a deep breath. Decide to not let that bitch disrupt me gettin’ this niggah’s money. If Knutz drags her ass outside and beats her face in, so be it. ’Cause tonight, the only thing I’m tryna get beat down is this pussy.
“You ain’t never been what?”
I bring my attention back to this big-dicked niggah with the permanent Gorilla mask on. The niggah stay ready for Halloween with that face.
“Scared to fuck,” I finally say, starin’ him in his dark eyes. He grins, licks his lips, then tells me he wants to finger my pussy. “Niggah, you better go wash ya hands, first. I don’t let no niggah run his fingers up in me without him washin’ them shits first. You must be used to them nasty, bird bitches.”
He laughs. “Yo, ma. Real shit. You thorough as hell. A niggah like me needs a sexy-ass honey wit’ that fire on his team. I’ma tell you what. I ain’t gonna take you nowhere and fuck ya brains out tonight. But we gonna fuck. And when we do, I’ma tear ya shit up. I put that on my life, ma . . . ”
I press my legs together. Oooh this niggah’s talkin’ my talk. Mmmph. My asshole clenches around the mini-butt plug I have in. I squirm in my seat, feelin’ a nut risin’ in me.
“But right now, I wanna wine and dine ya fine-ass. Get all up in ya head, then bust them guts open. You done felt all this hard dick a muhfucka got between his legs, so you already know what it is . . . ”
I lift my glass to my lips, eyein’ him over the rim. Truth is, I don’t feel like fuckin’ him tonight. But I wanna feel his dick in my hand and get up in that wallet. I lean into him, inhale in his scent. The niggah smells like money; lots and lots of it. And I wanna help the niggah spend it. I whisper in his ear, “Pull ya big dick out, Daddy, and let me stroke it under the table. I wanna feel you bust ya hot nut in my hand.”
He grins. “Yeah, you a real freaky bitch, ma; just how I like ’em. I tell you what. If you can make me nut in ya hand, I’ma hit you wit’ da rest of this paper I got on me.”
I tell him to pull out his Mandingaling. I watch as he slips his hand down into his designer sweats, lifts up and fishes out his dingdong. My pussy starts juicin’ as I open my bag and pull out my tube of Platinum Wet, then discreetly squirt some into my hand and start strokin’ his snake. It’s long and thick. Ooooh, yes, goddammit! This ain’t no dick, it’s a motherfuckin’ arm! He tells me the shit’s twelve-inches long and six-inches thick. I press my legs shut, imaginin’ this Anaconda goin’ in deep, drillin’ the oil from outta my pussy ’n ass.
My pussy twitches. My asshole clenches.
Lupe Fiasco’s “Bitch Bad” starts playin’ and I slowly stroke him, my rhythm matchin’ the beat, swirlin’ my hand over the head of his dick. It’s the size of a plum and I wanna slide down under the booth table and bite into it. Feel its juices squirt into my mouth and all over my face. But I ain’t slutty with it so I don’t.
I lean into his ear and moan. “Mmmm, you a ugly motherfucka but you gotta big-ass dick, daddy . . . mmmm . . . long, black horse-cock, niggah . . . you wanna stuff my pussy ’n ass with it . . . ?”
“Yeah, ma . . . aaah, shit yeah . . . I wanna bust ya shit up . . . ”
He puts my thong up to his nose.
“Sniff my pussy, niggah . . . ”
I quickly glide my slippery hand up ’n down and around the head. “Lick the crotch, niggah . . . you wanna taste my wet pussy?”
“Yeah, ma . . . you’se a sexy-ass bitch . . . ”
“Lick my panties, motherfucka . . . . ”
I eye the niggah as he runs his tongue all through my panties. This nasty niggah done got my pussy on my fire. I keep strokin’ him, imaginin’ his lappin’ tongue is all over my pussy. I squirt my lube into my hand, then twist my body so that I can work the niggah over with both hands, grindin’ my pussy down into the leather seats.
His voice dips to a husky whisper. “Aaah, shit, ma . . . jack that muhfuckin’ dick . . . mmmph . . . ”
I take one hand off his dick, then reach in back of me and pull out my butt plug. I place it up to his lips. Tell him to lick it. He gives me a crazy look.
“Yo, what da fuck is this?”
“It’s an ass plug. I just pulled it outta my fat ass.”
He takes it from me, glances around the club, then sniffs it.
“Lick it, niggah . . . let me see how nasty you are, motherfucka.” Reluctantly, the niggah finally licks it, then slides the shit into his greedy mouth like it’s a deep fried chicken-finger battered in ass juice. Oooh, this niggah is nasty. And I love it goddammit!
His dingaling seems to get harder—if that’s even possible. “C’mon, niggah . . . give me that dingaling juice . . . bust this dick for me, Daddy . . . ”
His head rolls back. “Fuck,” he groans over the music. The niggah don’t give a damn if someone hears him or not. But the music is on blast, so it don’t matter. I hand fuck him through three songs ’til the niggah finally shoots his cock cream all over my hands. I keep strokin’ every goddamn drop out, then let go. My hands are coated with his nut. I lick two fingers, tastin’ his cream. I lick my lips, scoopin’ some nut off my other hand, then slippin’ my fingers into his mouth. He sucks on ’em. The niggah’s warm mouth and wet tongue feels good. I pull my fingers out, then grab napkins from off the table and wipe my hands clean.
“Aaah, shit . . . you mad nasty, ma . . . ”
Of course I am, niggah!
He wipes himself off, stuffs his dingaling back down into his sweats, then pulls out a knot of green. “Yo, real shit, ma. You a bad bitch. I’m tryna see what’s good with ya sexy-ass. How can a niggah get at you, again?” He slides me the roll.
I grab the knot, tossin’ it into my bag as he slides outta the booth to let me out.
I glance around the club. Niggahs and bitches still dancin’ hard, poppin’ bottles and talkin’ shit. I don’t know if Knutz done dragged Dickalina’s ass outta the club and whooped the shit outta her or not. But what I do know is, I just nutted this niggah up outta five grand. I grin, bringin’ my attention back to him. “If you wanna get at me, you’ll find me, niggah.”
With that said, I step, leavin’ the niggah’s eyes locked on my ass as I make my way through the sea of drunk-ass niggahs and ho-ass bitches.
Yeah, ass right, pussy right, titties right . . . I’ma bad bitch!
Thirty-Seven
I’m in my bedroom with the stereo playin’, listenin’ to Adele’s CD Adele 21. “Turning Tables” is playin’ and I’m smokin’ a blunt and drinkin’ a bottle of Barefoot Moscato, mindin’ my business when my cell rings. I reach over on the bed for it, glancin’ at the screen. It’s Day’Asia’s ass. I press IGNORE, tossin’ the phone back on the bed. A few seconds later, it beeps, alertin’ me she done left a message. I close my eyes, inhalin’ smoke, then slowly blowin’ it out.
Nooo, lil’ bitch. You ain’t disruptin’ my vibe. You tried to turn the tables and do me, boo. Daughter or not, I ain’t got no convo for a bitch like you.
I hum to the melody. Oooh, this white ho knows she can sing her drawers off. I toss back my drink, then reach for the bottle and fill my glass to the rim. The kids are gone ’til tomorrow night. Well, all of ’em except Isaiah and Tyquan. Neither of ’em wanted to go with their fahvers. And the one thing I don’t ever do is force my kids to go, especially Isaiah, since I don’t like the walrus-lookin’ bitch he’s married to. It’s early in the evein’ and I’m feelin’ good. I’m gonna use the quiet to just sit and chill for a minute. No dingaling, no buncha kids, and no damn drama.
When “Lovesong” starts playin’, I sway to the music. “Siiiing, goddammit! Do me right, Adele!” The song is calmin’. I smoke down my blunt, then spark another. My cell rings. It’s Day’Asia again. And
she gets igged, again.
Four glasses of wine and two blunts, later, I finally decide to listen to my messages.
“Ma, can I please come home, pllllllllllease . . . ” she’s whisperin’ into the phone.
“They crazy here. Mister Knutz done beat up Aunt Lina last night and she been locked in her room, cryin’. I wanna come home, ma.” I delete. The next message starts playin’.
“Mommy, puhhhhllleeeeeze call me when you get this message. Puhhhhhllllleeze. I’m sorry for what I did. Puhhhhlllllleeeeeze call me back.”
I roll my eyes, pressin’ the delete prompt. Five minutes later, my cell rings again. This time it’s Darius. “Hey?”
“Yo, Ma, you talk to Asia?”
“No, I haven’t; why?”
“Yo, you need to get her outta that spot over there wit’ Miss Lina and ’em. They over there wildin’ hard; for real.”
“Not my problem,” I say, pourin’ myself another drink.
He sighs heavily. I imagine him frownin’ his face, or rollin’ his goddamn eyes in his head. “Yo, Ma. Real shit, you effen buggin’. How you sound talkin’ ’bout that’s not ya problem? Asia is ya problem. And she’s your responsibility. She ain’t got no business bein’ over there in da projects when she gotta home right there with you.”
“No, she had a home. Now she’s on her own. I’m not havin’ no grown-ass disrespectful bitch layin’ up in here tryna do whatever the fuck they want. I’m not playin’ them kinda games. So if you so concerned about where she’s at, then you go get her and let her stay with you. Like I told them DYFS bitches, she ain’t comin’ back up in here. Now don’t call me no more with this shit.”
“Yo, you buggin’. I’ll holla at you later.”
“Then holla.” I disconnect.
An hour later, Dickalina is callin’ me. I sigh. Now what the fuck she want? If she’s callin’ here ’bout Day’Asia’s ass I’ma scream on her.