by Risqué
“Shut … the … fuck … up,” he said in a low, even, and sinister voice as he entered her again. “I get,” he said with every hard stroke, “so fuckin’ sick of you.” Lyfe pushed the tips of his fingers into Payton’s neck, the tips of each digit almost piercing her skin. His dick grew harder with each struggling gasp that she took.
Car engines and voices continued to sing in the background as Payton felt as if she were floating above her body. This was a high that most people only spoke about, but were too worried about the possibility of death to experience.
Payton wanted to scream and tell Lyfe to choke her harder as he pounded her pussy with unspeakable force, but she couldn’t—all her attempts were clouded by the small sips of air her body could take. Payton knew she was due to pass out at any moment and all she could do was sink her nails into Lyfe’s back and listen to him as he said, “The next time you talk shit like that to me, I’ma whup your fuckin’ ass. I’m not the fuckin’ one—”
Lyfe stopped himself midsentence, because their bodies were having their own conversation and it was taking precedence over the words coming from his mouth. It had only been a few seconds, but the relief he received from wrapping his football player hands around the base of her neck made him feel renewed, and refreshed, as if he’d done his civic duty and made her understand that she was not the man.
Payton’s cream overflowed and poured out in an arctic blast of putty that tangled into Lyfe’s pubic hairs while his cum lined her collapsed walls.
Once Lyfe released his grip on Payton her shoulders slumped, and for a brief moment, as the distant voices were now upon them, Lyfe thought Payton was dead. He looked into her face and whispered, “Payton.”
She opened her eyes slowly and smiled.
“Is everything okay?” floated from behind them.
Lyfe knew it was Quinton so he did his best to quickly fix his pants.
“Yes, everything is fine.” Payton’s voice was slightly groggy as Lyfe extended his hand and helped her slide off the hood of the SUV. She steadied herself on the ground and began to smooth the wrinkles out of her dress. “I was just a little light-headed.” She slyly kicked her panties lying below the driver’s-side door out of sight.
“Light-headed.” Quinton said, suspiciously, “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there are a few people upstairs looking for you two.” He looked Payton over. “A few bigwigs and potential clients.”
“Okay.” Payton caught a glance of her disheveled reflection in the neighboring car’s window. “I’ll be right there.”
“I’ll meet you upstairs,” Quinton said, turning around and walking away.
Payton turned to Lyfe, once Quinton was out of sight. “Are you coming?”
He didn’t respond and instead he slid into his Range, started the ignition, and left her standing there.
New York
“It’s a pity you already have a wife.” Tanya Stephens’s, “A Pity,” floated from Arri’s CD player, as she eased the blunt loaded with purple haze between her MAC-covered lips and flicked her Bic to light it. She leaned against the moist windowpane in her bedroom and spoke into the air, “Happy New Year.” She paused and took the pain that crept into her chest and released it with a hard toke of marijuana.
She felt slightly dizzy, being she hadn’t smoked a blunt in over a year, but tonight, especially tonight—at the dawning of a new year—she needed this. She needed to escape the ache of her life teetering on the edge and hanging on to old and ridiculous shit. She needed a new start, and the coolness of the purple haze lifted the weight off her shoulders and made her believe that anything was possible.
Arri took another toke and smiled as she remembered what it felt like to live without a care in the world and how it felt to be back to herself, Arrielle Askew, a Brooklyn mami with Trinidadian roots. An Island girl, who was scared to love, because she’d lost too many times to count …
New Year’s Eve, 2005. Sweat poured from Arri’s brow as she wined on Ian’s middle and he cupped her breasts and massaged her nipples with palms full of rose petals. They were in the tub, making love, splashing water over the sides and onto the floor. Ian ran his hands from Arri’s nipples down to her thighs.
The water splashed against his shaft, some of it hitting him in the chin, as Arri squeezed her sticky walls over him. “You know I’m addicted.”
Arri paused. “To what?”
“You.” Ian wrapped his lips around Arri’s chocolate nipples as she cupped water in her hands and cascaded it over his head and into his dreads. The water ran over his face, over his lips, and onto her nipples, where his soft, sensual tugs sent her to the moon and left her there. “Tell me you love me,” Ian whispered.
“I love you.”
“Tell me why you’re marrying me.”
“Because there’s no one else for me.” She flexed her inner walls repeatedly and their pelvises contracted uncontrollably until they were both short of breath.
“Happy New Year, baby.”
A few hours later they were dressed for their intimate wedding ceremony with a small gathering of close friends, when the bell rang. Ian answered the door and an unknown woman stood there.
“Who is that, Ian?” Arri asked, looking the woman over.
“Oh, you don’t know me,” the woman pulled a .22 from her purse, “but he knows me.”
“What are you doing?” Ian blinked, as Arri stood frozen.
“Tell her who I am,” the woman spat at Ian. “Tell her!”
“Who is she?” Arri screamed, too scared to move and too scared not to.
“I’m his fuckin’ wife!” the woman screamed as she pulled the trigger and everything Arri had ever known or trusted about love was left in a bleeding puddle on the floor …
•••
Arri’s cell phone alarm jolted her out of her flashback and into the present. She looked at her computer and remembered that she had a client scheduled for tonight. Quickly she mashed the blunt in the ashtray and wiped the tears pouring down her face. She could deal with life’s bullshit later.
She quickly showered and dressed in sparkling body oil and her vintage Mardi Gras mask. It was easier to handle her blue business like this, undercover, without anyone knowing exactly who she was. She took one last look at herself before she turned the computer on, and for the first time she wondered when she knew her body was her greatest asset.
Was it after her mother abandoned her at fifteen and she had to war with the world to survive? Whatever it was, Arri knew she wasn’t born with any extraordinary talents and she damn sure wasn’t born with a silver spoon, so she had to do what she had to do.
From the time she was sixteen and up until last year, she’d been a stripper, dancing for dollars and clapping her ass before perverted men and down-low women who groped her titties and slid their fingers through her slit without her permission. But Arri didn’t care, because she had a mission—to get the fuck out of Brooklyn—and she was almost there … almost, until her drug-addicted sister, Samara, pounded on her door, and when Arri opened it, she ran, leaving a hungry, badly bruised, and snotty-nose little boy behind. Soon after that, Arri stopped dancing.
There was no way she could raise her five-year-old nephew, Zion, be home with him at night, and make money on the sex stage to take care of them. And she couldn’t take the chance that Zion would go back to wetting the bed and having nightmares when he was finally blossoming into a normal little boy. He’d been through enough, being dragged around in the streets by Samara.
But Arri had to survive, so she made the best of it: got her a nine-to-five during the day, and for the night she bought her a Webcam, set up a website, and the rest was today’s history.
She turned the computer on and lay across her leopard chaise. “A Smooth Operator,” she said seductively. “What’s your fantasy?”
“I wanna see your pussy drip” was the client’s request.
“Oh, you wanna see that pretty pi
nk pussy make milk?” she purred, as she looked into the Webcam and smiled. She hit the computer’s remote and allowed the Webcam to zoom in.
“Yeah,” the client moaned, “I would like that.”
“Well, how about this?” She reached for the silver ice bucket she had on her nightstand and pulled an ice dildo from it. The dildo dripped with water as Arri slowly worked it over her breasts, circling her nipples, and down toward her navel ring. The dildo left streaks of water behind like a cascade of shower beads. “You like that too?” She took the head of the ice dildo and licked it as if she were tongue-stroking a lollipop.
The client didn’t answer, instead he unzipped his pants.
Arri gave him a seductive smile, opened her pussy lips and revealed the milk easing from the inside. She centered the dildo between her lower lips, lifted her hips, and twirled them. “You like this, Daddy?” She worked the dildo as if she were riding a dick.
Arri could see her client licking his lips and flicking his tongue as if he could taste her cunt, so she rotated the speed of her hips and the twirling of the dildo, until she felt her belly tightening.
“Cum all on my face,” her client said, his face plastered in the Webcam. “Smear that fat pussy all over my mouth, my eyes, everywhere! Damn, I can taste it,” he moaned.
Arri’s hardened clit peeked through like snake eyes as the sweating water dripped from the iced member and slicked down the Mohawk of pubic hair she had, forcing her now frozen cherry to pop and explode.
Arri sat up and looked into the Webcam. Her client couldn’t stop smiling as the cum, from him choking his dick, inched over his fingertips. Arri rose from the bed and checked her account to be sure he had been charged his fee, and before he could even say “thank you,” she shut her computer down.
“I want my fuckin’ baby!” jolted Arri out of her sleep. She looked around her bedroom. Other than her furniture all she could see was the blinding sun rays easing through her miniblinds.
Arri grabbed her goose-down comforter and raised it over her head, until she heard it again, “I want my fuckin’ baby!” This time it was followed by pounding on the apartment door.
Before Arri could get up, Zion bolted into her room and into a spot on the corner of the floor where he tried to hide by folding his arms over his head.
Arri rose from the bed and looked down at Zion, who was the color of pecans, with almond-shaped eyes and a low-cut Caesar with two parts on the side. “What I tell you about hiding? Get up!”
Arri snatched her white terry cloth robe from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her body like a cyclone. She looked back at Zion, who was slowly easing out of the corner, and said, “Come on.”
Once Zion was behind her she sucked her teeth and dragged herself to the door. “This is bullshit,” Arri said as she slid her bare feet across the cold floor. Standing in front of her door, she didn’t even look through the peephole, she simply snatched it open. Her sister, Samara, who was five years her senior, stood there looking and smelling as if she hadn’t bathed in days. She had a third-degree burn, from a butane lighter explosion, that covered her neck. She stood about five foot five, was frail, and wore a grease-spotted, black nylon jacket with the name of a bowling league on the front breast pocket, a stretched blue T-shirt that fell off her shoulders, exposing her protruding collarbone, too-big skinny jeans, and an unknown brand of high-top sneakers. Slobber was caked in the corners of her mouth as she looked Arri over. “I want my baby back.” As she said that, Zion took cover and hid under the coffee table.
“Well, obviously he doesn’t want you back,” Arri spat.
“What?” Samara frowned; her sunken lips appeared as if they’d run into the tight and scorched plastic-looking skin on her neck. “He don’t have no fuckin’ say. And you don’t either. I’m his goddamn mother, so ain’t no need for you to try and hold on to him no longer than I asked you to—”
“You never asked me, and furthermore, this isn’t about you—”
“Yeah, you’re right. This is about my fuckin’ money. Now welfare is threatening to cut off my shit if I don’t have this ma’fucker with me today when I go down there.” She arched her eyebrows. “Get me? Now, I’m gettin’ him.” Samara pushed her way inside but Arri shoved her back into the hallway.
“You want me to fuck you up?” Arri pointed her right hand like a gun toward her sister’s bloodshot eyes. “Huh? Is that it? Now, you try some shit like that again and see I don’t whup your fuckin’ ass for the old and the new. Now, get the fuck away from my door! Don’t try me.”
“That’s my goddamn baby!” Samara screamed at the top of her lungs, causing a few of Arri’s neighbors to peer through their peepholes and those passing through the hallway to quickly look before continuing about their business.
“Is everything all right?” Arri’s neighbor and friend, Khris, stood in her doorway and yelled across the hall. She could see Arri’s face and Samara’s back in full view. “You need me?”
“I’m fine,” Arri said to Khris, while looking her sister over.
“And what you gon’ do, bitch?” Samara spat toward Khris, “this between me and my sister.”
“What-the-fuck-ever,” Khris snapped in her strong Brooklyn accent. “You try and run up in there again and it’s gon’ be between all of us.” She placed her hands on her size-eighteen hips and twisted her lips. The freckles sprinkled across her nose and high cheekbones wrinkled as she tilted her head to the side for emphasis.
“Why you always doing this shit to me?” Samara spat.
“Doing what to you?” Arri looked confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You always turning motherfuckers against me and shit! I don’t give a damn about that fat bitch,” she tossed over her shoulder toward Khris, “but my son? My child? First Mommy and now him?”
“Listen,” Arri said, fighting back the tears she felt filling her eyes. She hated to see her sister like this, especially when all they had was each other. “It takes more than for you to squat down in some fuckin’ dingy-ass alley and drop a baby from your pussy for you to be considered a mother. You clearly don’t give a fuck about him! What you are is a dope fiend, a crackhead, a godddamn junkie! And as far as our mother, I really can’t understand why you haven’t run into her ass yet, being that you ended up in the streets just like her!”
“Who the hell are you talking to like that?”
“Yo’ ass,” Arri said matter-of-factly. “No need to be confused about who I’m talking to, ’cause I’m talking to you!”
“You don’t talk to me like that!” Samara pointed into Arri’s face.
“Bitch, are you demanding respect?” Arri said, taken aback, chuckling in disbelief. “And from me? Did you forget that you left me here in this apartment when I was only sixteen—alone, long after Mommy had been gone—so that you could go and be with some niggah that turned you the fuck out? Respect? When I was out there dancing for money to eat? When I had to finish high school between giving lap dances because you were too busy sucking on and getting burned up by a glass dick. And you want respect?” Arri could no longer hold her tears back and they streaked down her cheeks. “When are you going to have some respect for me?” She pressed her index finger into Samara’s chest. “When the hell will I get to be the baby of the family? When do I get the luxury to be irresponsible and not give a fuck? You ain’t shit, you know that? You’re supposed to be my big sister, Zion’s mother, not some fucked-up and fucked-over nothing. Respect? Bitch, please, kiss both of our asses, and after you do that get the fuck away from my door!”
Samara’s face was wet with tears and red with rage. She walked up close to Arri and spat, “You gon’ give me my baby!” She pushed her way into the apartment and Arri slapped her so hard that she fell back into the hall against Khris, who had taken up a spot directly outside Arri’s door.
Samara struggled to stand up. “You put your hands on me?” She raced toward Arri, who picked up her steel crowbar—which
served as her burglar alarm—and said, “Come on.” She held the bar in the air, halting Samara in her spot. “Please, bring it, so that I can show you just what the fuck I’ve been threatening you with!”
“That’s my child!” Samara shouted, and pointed to a visibly shaking Zion, who was still hiding under the coffee table.
“And you left him here!”
“I just wanted you to babysit!”
“For a year? Bitch, please. Be clear, as long as you are like this, you will never get him back. Ever. Zion,” Arri yelled over her shoulder, “come here!”
“No,” Zion said, long enough to uncover his eyes and then shield them again. “I don’t want her to see me.”
Arri looked at Khris. “Make sure she doesn’t bring her ass in here.” Arri turned around, stormed over to Zion, and pried him from under the coffee table. Once she was able to get him to stand up, pee ran from the bottom of his pajama pants. Arri looked at the puddle of pee on the floor. “Oh, my baby,” she said as she hugged him. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m not going to let her take you.”
Zion’s eyes lit up as he grabbed on to Arri’s waist and she turned back toward Samara. “Until you have yourself together, do not come back here or I will be calling the police on you. This is my child now; I take care of him and I will not let you come into his home and have him hiding all over the damn place. Now, get … the … fuck … on!”
“Yeah,” Zion said, peeking his head from beneath Arri’s housecoat, “move on before we see you at three o’clock.” He balled his fist and held it before his eyes.
Arri looked down at Zion, and though tears wet her face, her lips curled into a smile. She snorted, and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hands. She almost fell out laughing, but she contained herself. “Be quiet,” she said.
She looked at Samara and started to say something else, but figured Zion had pretty much said it all, so instead she slammed the door in her sister’s face.