by Zane
By the time the first song ended, I was lying on the couch, and Betty was pulling my jean shorts off with her teeth. She expertly repeated the task with my white satin panties. I massaged my own breasts while she started in on my clit, licking it up and down and then spreading my pussy lips open with her fingers so she could get to it better.
She was gentle with my pussy. Much more than any man had been. She moaned and oohed and aahed, telling me how sweet I tasted. All I could do was stare at the designer moldings on the ceiling and try to prevent my body from having spasms. Yes, her oral sex was that damn good!
In fact, it was so impetuous that I let her devour me for close to an hour. Rapheal still hadn’t reared his inconsiderate head, and frankly, I didn’t care if he ever did at that point in time.
Betty knew how to work magic with her fingers, too. Every time one of her acrylic nails would slide in and out of me, locating and causing friction against my G spot, my pussy walls would shudder and try to clamp onto her fingers like a vise—the same way I would contract my pussy muscles on a man’s dick. And every time I climaxed, my curiosity grew tenfold, imagining what it would be like to return the favor to her.
Whenever I asked one of my lovers what my pussy tasted like, he would reply, “like chicken,” or “like peaches,” or some other corny line. I never actually believed that, but suddenly I had a craving to find out for myself.
I finally worked up some chutzpah and went for it. “When do I get a turn?”
Betty suckled on my clit one last time, gently nibbling on it with her teeth, and then raised her head from between my legs. I could see my juices smothering her lips and trickling down out the sides of her mouth. That was such a massive turn-on.
“Do you really want to touch it?” she asked me.
I hesitated for a brief moment and replied, “I want to do more than that!”
That was all she wrote. We retired to Rapheal’s bedroom like we lived there. It was like a scene from an old, romantic black-and-white movie, walking off into the bedroom to finish the feelings. The only difference was, we both had innies instead of outies. And what a nice, delicious, scrumptious innie Betty had.
I helped her out of her dress and then sucked her breasts. It was such a strange and wicked feeling, but I loved it from jump street; having my mouth bursting at the seams with the meat of another woman.
Then I went down on her, ate her, found her G spot, and maneuvered my fingers inside her body until she came all over them. She didn’t taste like peaches or chicken exactly, but she did taste good.
So good that we continued our little afternoon escapade in the shower. Steam was rising all over our bodies, and we took turns washing each other’s private parts with vanilla bath gel and a huge sponge. Betty told me to prop my right leg up on the side of the tub, and I eagerly complied. There she took me to a height of passion I had never experienced before that day. That’s when I knew I had been missing out on something special.
Don’t get me wrong! I love dick! There’s nothing like deep-throating a big, juicy dick, but eating pussy is running a close second in my book these days.
Rapheal finally showed up around seven and caught us getting freaky in his shower. Neither Betty nor I was willing to stop what we were doing, so we asked him if he wanted to watch.
He shouted, “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
He sat down on the closed toilet seat and took it all in. After a few minutes of watching us suck all over each other, he couldn’t take it, whipped his dick out, and started jacking off.
I always thought Rapheal was fine. Seeing him there with his massive dick in his hand made me want him. So, while Betty was going to town on my pussy, I reached over and started rubbing my right hand up and down his shaft.
I swirled his precum around with my fingertip, and that made me explode. I came on Betty’s tongue and then climbed out of the shower so I could climb onto Rapheal’s dick. Betty followed me and I took turns between tonguing Rapheal and sucking on Betty’s titties while I rode up and down on his dick.
We ended up staying in that bathroom for another three to four hours, doing things to each other that are probably illegal in about thirty-nine states.
We finally got around to taking the pictures the next morning. They came out awesome, too, because we ended up taking them on his balcony with the sun coming up in the background.
As for me being shy about taking nude pictures—let’s just say I let all my inhibitions go that night, and they damn sure are not coming back. In fact, I’m doing the cover of two skin mags next month, and Betty and I are toying with the idea of doing some pornos together. I think it’s a great idea. I get to suck on all that good, juicy pussy and get paid, too. What more can a sistah ask for?
Off Da Damn Hook
* * *
The Headhunter
* * *
Let me tell you straight up that my situation will seem crazy to the average person. But, for me, sex is an incredible way to make a living. The simple version of the story is that I make money, a whole lot of money, doing what most women have been doing for free since the beginning of time. I have sex for money. No, I don’t mean that I’m a hooker. Hell, no. I don’t stand on anyone’s corner waiting for Lawd knows who to stop his car and offer to take me to an alley for some quick, cheesy sex. Nope, not me. In fact, while I sleep with only men, 100 percent of my income comes from women. Successful women.
It’s like this. A lot of women these days are extremely busy building their careers, making their dreams come true, etc. They don’t have the time or the patience to hang out in nightclubs, churches, or wherever else, trying to find a decent man. That’s where I come in. I locate and “test out” brothas for sistahs that want to get to the crème de la crème without all the hassle of trial and error.
I have an ad that I run in the local weekly paper. I haven’t changed a word of my ad for the past five years, because it works like a charm. Like they always say, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” My ad reads:
Looking for a good man?
Let Vixen Headhunters, Inc.
Find the perfect man for you
Whether you like them big and tall
Or short and small
We will locate your perfect mate
Call 301-555-HEAD
For a confidential interview
Vixen Headhunters is my brainchild. I started out running this gig alone, but now I have six full-time employees. My name is Gypsy, and hell no, that’s not my real name, but it is the name I go by. In case the law ever comes sniffing around, I am not about to have my real name mixed up in jack shit. In fact, that is a requirement for all of my employees. They can’t give out their real names to people because in the end, that’s only asking for trouble—especially if one of the brothas we “test out” becomes overly infatuated with the sex or even worse, pussy-whipped. None of us want to be bothered with that bullshit. Our work is all about the benjamins. Dick is dick. There is nothing special about any one in particular.
Now there have been a few men who stood out from the rest. Not because of their actual dicks but because of their other amenities. For instance, there was this chick named Linda, a stockbroker from a rich background that had afforded her a lot of financial opportunities, but not a single freaky one. She wanted to meet a man who was successful enough for her to take home to her parents. She was desperate enough to look over the fact that she was butt-ass ugly, though heavily endowed.
This was a tough assignment for the team, because none of us are even close to butt-ass ugly. We’re all fine as shit. But Linda was paying me a grip, so I told the other girls I would handle it. I went to see an image consultant—not to look better, but rather to look worse. I asked Harold, a transsexual—who looked more like a woman than half the women I’d seen—to transform me into something hideous. I wanted him to make me look fucked da hell up, and that’s exactly what he did.
He put some kind of gook on my long, ebony hair t
hat made it mat up something crazy. Then he removed my fake nails and trimmed my real ones down so low that they looked like I had been biting them daily since childhood. He gave me these drops that made my eyes turn red and some fake teeth that protruded about an inch from my regular ones, giving an entire new meaning to being bucktoothed. He also gave me this pencil to use to make these nasty-ass blackheads all over my face.
Then came the hardest part of all: wearing off-the-rack clothing. That was the most traumatic experience of my entire life. I can’t understand how sistahs can play themselves by stepping out the house in any outfit that costs less than three bills. I’m designer all the way. I mean, come on, we only live once.
I made sure that no one I knew saw me walking into a department store, one of those ones where you can purchase everything from laundry detergent to screwdrivers to toilet tissue to clothing. Cheap-ass clothing. I found this little cotton dress that wasn’t even twenty bucks and a pair of ten-dollar shoes. Yuck!
I tested the waters that night at this club where all the big ballers supposedly hung out. Not! It was a teeny-bopper club, and none of the men in there could have been making more than thirty grand a year, unless they were slanging dope. Linda wouldn’t be able to present a drug dealer to the family, so they were out. A lot of the men and women snickered at me, and I don’t blame them. I did look busted. However, there was this one chick gritting on me that I almost had to set straight. I started to tell her that I pull down more ends in one night than she probably made in a damn year.
I tried again the next night but scoped out a jazz club instead. Now we were talking. Most of the men in there were coupled off, but there were a few lingering around the bar who were obviously flowing alone. One in particular stood out from the rest; he looked like money, and he was fine.
I made my way over to the bar and asked if the seat next to him was taken. He assured me that it wasn’t, and I sat down. It was time to go to work. His name was Kincaid, he’d never been married, wasn’t seriously involved, and made about half a million a year. Yes, he would do.
Kincaid did seem a bit apprehensive about talking to me at first, but after a while, I guess he figured that any attention from a woman was better than none. I told him my name was Sheila, not that I consider Sheilas to be busted, because I know a few fly-ass chicks with the name—it was just the luck of the draw and the first name that came to mind. We chatted throughout the evening, and then I came on with it. He was obviously qualified in the basic departments and had not cringed at my face, so the only thing left to find out was if he could fuck.
The club had last call and people were getting up to beat the bum rush to the door. I leaned in to him, caressed his wrists, and asked, “So, you want to go someplace and do me?”
“Do you?” he asked with a raised brow, playing dumb.
“Yes, do me. You know, fuck me. Cum inside me. Hit it from the front and the back. Make my toes curl. All that.” I flicked my tongue over his outer ear. “I bet I can make your toes curl.”
He grinned and searched the room, probably to see if anyone was looking at my ugly ass pressed all up on him. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had my toes curl.”
“Then you’ve been missing out.”
He took my hand and got up. “Where do you want to go?”
I did not hesitate. “Your place.”
Going to his place was a must. I had to make sure his ass was not lying about his financials. More importantly, I needed to assure that his ass was indeed single in every sense of the word. Men tend to have various definitions of single, and I wanted to find out if Kincaid’s was the right one.
We went back to his place, and it was exquisite. He had mad taste. It was actually a town house, but shit, the thing had to run about eight hundred grand, and the property in that particular neighborhood was appreciating with lightning speed.
As soon as we got inside, I started taking off my clothes. His chin almost dropped to the floor. While I looked busted in the face and had skanky hair, there was nothing I could possibly do to mask my bomb-ass body. He was impressed.
“Um, would you like something to drink, Sheila?” he asked after composing himself.
“Yes, I want some dick milk.” I went over to him and stood before him naked. “So take off your clothes.”
“You don’t want to talk first?”
“We talked at the club. I want to fuck.”
Kincaid took his time undressing, and it was all I could do not to yawn. Once I finally saw what he was working with, I was a little disappointed. He wasn’t tiny, but he wasn’t a Mandingo either. That wasn’t my problem though, because I was getting paid to check out the dick, not marry it.
I pushed him down on the sofa and climbed on it by straddling my feet beside his thighs. I lowered my pussy onto his face and demanded, “Taste me.”
At first, I thought he was going to punk out and push me away. Most men can’t handle aggressive women, but Kincaid fooled me. He lapped at my pussy like it was a bowl of milk and then pulled me down harder onto his face. His tongue slipped inside my pussy walls, and it was nice and warm and thick.
I put my knees up on the back of the sofa so I could balance myself better. I moved my pussy back and forth on his tongue and palmed my breasts with my hands. Kincaid grabbed a handful of ass with each hand and started nibbling on my clit.
I sat on his face for a good thirty minutes and came to the conclusion that Kincaid was definitely a prize catch. This was before I had actually experienced the dick. Any man that could eat pussy like that was worth coming home to every night. There are some men who do it just to satisfy the woman, and then there are those who do it because they love the way it tastes. Kincaid undoubtedly loved it.
Once I climbed off his face, I fell back on the sofa in exhaustion. That didn’t last long because Kincaid got on his knees between my legs and lifted my ass up until it was elevated to his dick. He entered me and worked it like a pro. My shoulders and head were the only things touching the sofa. Everything else was elevated. This was definitely a new position for me. I was used to being multiorgasmic, but damn, I came so many times that I lost count.
Kincaid and I went at it for at least four hours before falling asleep on the dining room table, another place where he had made me cum half a dozen times. I crept out of his place before he woke up, walked down to the corner, and caught a cab back to the club to get my car.
I reported to the client the next day that I had found the perfect mate for her, and she had a courier bring my final payment over in cash. Cash is always the way to go in this business.
Less than six months later, I saw their wedding announcement in the paper. I couldn’t help but yell out, “You go, girl!”
Linda was a lucky sister. I knew that firsthand. There have been a few others like Kincaid, but they are few and far between. Business is booming these days now that the word has really gotten out. I am considering taking on some more girls, but there is such a thing as growing a business too fast, and the more girls, the more the risk that someone will run their mouths and end up getting us all locked up.
For now, I’m going to continue to do this business, because there is nothing like searching for “good head.”
Bottom-Line Bitch
* * *
I’m a bitch, and that’s the bottom line. I wasn’t born this way, but people I’ve crossed paths with throughout my life made me this way. There used to be a time when I would bite my tongue, but then I realized that no one else was biting theirs with me. My mother laid into me just about every day while I was growing up. The truly fucked-up thing was that none of her issues and hang-ups had anything to do with me. I was just the object of her vengeance.
If something went wrong at her job, she would come home and cuss me out. If something went wrong with one of the numerous relationships she became involved in, she would come home and cuss me out. If she got a nail in her tire or a parking ticket, she would come home and—guess what—cuss me out.
My grandfather was just as bad. He would cuss me out because my mother couldn’t trap a man into marrying her. He would cuss me out because my real father ran away. He would cuss me out because he was going bald. Everybody felt like they could just run over Beatriz for the hell of it.
I caught on quick, and by my freshman year in high school, I was taking no prisoners. My English teacher tried to play me in front of the room. We had to do book reports on a stupid-ass book—a so-called classic—that no one felt like reading. I took a shortcut and watched the movie. Back then, I had no idea that movies are often way different than the book. So my report had a ton of inconsistencies, which Mr. Richards took much pride in pointing out. When I revealed the fact that I had spotted him more than a dozen times coming out of the gay club down the street from my house, he didn’t have shit else to say. The rumor spread so fast through the school that the fool was forced to resign in shame less than a month later. That taught him not to fuck with me.
People still try to play me. Just the other day, I was headed into the supermarket. I grabbed the first spot I saw, which happened to be one of those reserved for expectant women or those with small infants. I got out of my car, and some ninety-nine-year-old skeezer asked me if I had noticed the sign. I looked at her like she was crazy.
“Yes, I noticed the sign,” I responded in disgust. “And?”
“And are you preg-a-nant?”
Now there I was minding my own damn business, and she had to go there. She was loading her groceries in the car and about to roll out, so it wasn’t like I was preventing her old ass from getting a space.