And, she’d wasted no time reaching between him and his lover and grabbing him at the base of his wet, sheathed cock, fisting him, her hand hitting the back of Brown Skin’s stretched sex. Each time he thrust forward, then pulled back, her hand glided along his shaft.
She licked over his sweaty skin, then rasped close to his encased ear, “Come fuck me. My pussy wants you more.”
Finally aware of her presence, he’d turned his head toward her, still thrusting into his lover, and through the eye slits of his mask, she’d seen a flash of hot hunger. The mysteriousness of him wearing a latex hood had made him that more desirable. And she’d wanted him even more now that she was close enough to feel his raw, masculine heat.
Miss Brown Skin—her face flushed and jaws clenched—had glanced over her shoulder and shot Arabia a dirty look. Who is this cock-blocking bitch? All these men up in here, why can’t this thirsty bitch go find another dick to play with? She’d thrown her ass back harder at Mr. Masked Man, reminding him of whose pussy he was still in. But it hadn’t seemed to no longer matter as he slowly pulled out of her. Then, for good measure, he’d drawn back his hand and smacked her ass. Then, without another thought or second glance, was being snatched away by Arabia.
The nerve of that bitch!
Now here she was . . .
Naked.
On display.
Ass up, face down; the masked man’s fingers grazing the soft brown flesh surrounding her cunt. She shook her ass. Made it clap back. And he still hadn’t stuck his dick in and fucked her mercilessly. What the hell was he waiting for?
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Put your dick in me,” she urged impatiently.
In response, he cupped and caressed her ass, then slapped it. Hard. Ooh, yes. He slapped it again. Harder. The sting cracked fiercely through her body until her clitoris swelled, threatening to burst open with pleasure.
Oh, he wanted to fuck her sexy ass, but not yet. His balls ached, his dick was long and hard and so goddam ready to explode. He wanted to be buried deep inside her. But he fought it. He wanted her to beg. Wanted her to cry out for it.
Arabia wiggled and bucked, demanding he fill her. In spite of her surging frustration, she’d gone unbelievably wet from the waiting. And now she wanted action. She didn’t beg for dick, goddamn you; thank you very much. Not from any man.
Ever.
And she wouldn’t start now. Especially not with this masked man. He reached underneath her to stroke her engorged nub. “Your ass, your pussy, is so fucking beautiful,” he said huskily. “You want me to fuck you in it?”
She wasn’t sure which hole he wanted. But she’d gladly give him either, or both. The choice was his. Just fuck her already.
“Yes,” she hissed, lifting her head from the sofa, and glancing over her shoulder again. “Fuck me. Now.” She felt herself becoming agitated. This sweet torture wasn’t what she wanted. She hadn’t chosen him to toy with her cunt. She’d picked him to fuck her. Hard.
Yet this masked fucker wanted to tease her.
He pinched her clit again, and she gasped as wires of pleasure shot from her throbbing sex. “I’m gonna fuck you until your sweet pussy flutters and clenches around this big dick. Is that what you want, this dick to bust your guts up?”
Yes, yes, yes—Lord God, yes!
Promises, promises . . .
He slid his fingers through her wet folds, testing her arousal. She twisted restlessly, pushing back against his probing fingers, clutching them as he withdrew. Her patience was wearing thin. Her cunt was growing angrier by each finger stroke, his fingers grazing the back wall of her sex. Oh how she wished her pussy had teeth. She’d gnaw his fucking fingers off.
That would learn him.
And as she was ready to get up and dismiss him to seek out a more compliant, more willing, more aggressive lover, he was grasping his dick with one hand, rolling a condom down over the rigid column of flesh with the other hand, before spreading her, then positioning himself at the mouth of her pussy.
Then, then . . . mmm—thank God—she felt the thick head of his dick push against her, teasing her, testing her, then in one forceful thrust, he buried himself inside a burst of wetness, the plush walls of her vagina blanketing him, caressing his cock, wetting him.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “This pussy tight. And wet.” He pushed in deeper until his balls flattened between her ass and his thighs, and he felt her vibrating around him.
Arabia eagerly pumped her hips, fucking herself into him until he got with the program, wrapping an arm around her waist and pounding into her, opening her up. Moving faster and harder as she went slick around him; finally giving her what she’d come for, what she craved.
“Yes, yes, yes—fuck me! Give me that big black cock, motherfucker! Oh, yes, yes . . . mmm, yessss . . .”
She ran her tongue over her upper lip, ecstasy sweeping through her. She rhythmically rocked her hips in greed to get more of him inside of her, her juices dripping down her thighs. Yes, God, yes. This was what her pussy needed. A pounding.
“Mmm, harder . . . harder.” She reached in back of her and pulled her ass cheeks open wider. “Spit in my hole,” she rasped, “and stick a finger in my ass while you fuck me.”
The masked man groaned as he eased back and eyed her clenching asshole. Fuck a finger. He wanted to put his dick in it. But he obliged her, spitting down into her ass—once, twice, then shoving his middle finger in. Greeted by tight heat, his finger retreated, then sunk back in. In and out. In and out. His finger stirred her ass juices as his dick pumped into her pussy.
She gasped, and her cunt gripped him wildly. She couldn’t deny it. His dick felt good inside her, real good. But it wasn’t the kind of toe-curling, spine-tingling cock she’d hoped for. She needed a sex beast whose dick could make her whole body pulse nonstop, long after he’d been inside her with his tongue, fingers and dick, ravishing her cunt, fucking her to shreds.
She needed to feel herself swirling outside of herself, crying out in pleasure, the world blurring around her, lost in the white heat of passion.
Yes, Lord.
What she needed was a reformed thug-daddy who knew when to slam her up against a wall, rip her panties off, then choke the everlasting life out of her while he seesawed his roguish cock in and out of her, pillaging through her core, fucking her raw and swollen.
Dear God . . .
That was exactly what she wanted, no, needed. A man who’d pound her walls and fuck her guts inside out.
So far, she hadn’t found him. No, no. On second thought, he hadn’t found her.
All that had found her over the last two years were lazy, uninspiring lovers whose cocks teased her pussy, and left her starved and aching for something more the moment they’d flopped out of her.
Lazy fucks.
And now this masked man was in back of her . . .fucking her, but not really fucking her. Fucking him wasn’t hot enough, wasn’t dirty enough. It wasn’t rough enough, rugged enough.
It was just enough.
Enough to stroke the ache in her cunt, enough to feed her craving, enough until the next time, until dirty need pierced her core.
He groaned. “Aaah, shit, yeah . . . mmm . . . I’ma tear this pussy up, baby. Uhhh, fuck . . .”
“Then tear it up,” she urged huskily over her shoulder. “Stop all this silly shit and bang my pussy up.” She lunged back against him, prodding him with more nasty talk, taking everything he had to give and, yet, craving more. “Feed my pussy that big dick. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuuuck. Meeeee!” She grunted, and fiercely pumped her pelvis. Her walls squeezed him tightly, her orgasm coming around the width of him.
“Ah, shit, baby,” he groaned as her asshole pulsed around his still probing finger. “Unh. Mmm. You about to make me nut.”
“Pull your finger out of my ass,” she demanded, “and stick it in my
mouth. Then I want you to lick inside my asshole, then fuck me in it.”
Damn, this bitch’s nasty, he mused as he pulled his middle finger out and brought it to her lips, but I ain’t licking no ass. She flicked her tongue over the tip of his finger, then parted her lips and slowly sucked it into her mouth—until she was knuckles deep, tasting her ass on it, then groaning as if she were sucking on a dick. The sensation made Masked Man’s dick twitch inside of her.
She leaned forward more, stretching her arms so that she could clutch the side of the plush leather sofa. “Harder,” she demanded. With raised hand, she reached behind her and smacked her own ass. “I watched you fucking that other bitch. Now give me the dick like you gave it to her. Fuck me like you hate me.”
Masked Man didn’t answer in words, but his hands dug into her hips, and he finally pounded her in rhythmic thrusts that made her nipples tighten.
“Yes. Mmm. Yes, yes . . . that’s it. Get this pussy . . .” She rocked her hips, wanting more of him. Her pussy clutched his cock, tighter, wetter. “Give me that nut.” His hips smacked against her ass, jostling her entire body. The pleasure escalated and she felt herself panting.
With each stroke, Masked Man relished in the magnificence of her cunt, its depths, its wetness, its silky walls; she was a good, freaky piece of ass, and he wanted to fuck her again.
“This . . . pussy . . .unh . . . so fucking hot,” he muttered, teeth clenched.
Deeper, deeper.
Faster, harder.
His vision blurred. He could feel his release low in his balls, roiling through his belly, coiling through his body and then exploding from his cock, loud and hard. He began coming in endless streams, the semen flooding his condom. He closed his eyes and leaned over her, his heated body heaving. He thrust and grunted one last time as her walls clutched around him again, over and over and over.
She closed her eyes, pussy churning, hot need still clawing at her.
And came.
Four
Cruze couldn’t get used to waking up in the morning to the sound of birds singing. Back in Brooklyn, his alarm clock had been the wail of fire trucks and police sirens, the rumble of trash trucks and city buses, and loud, indistinct voices.
And now . . .
He was surrounded by tranquility and deafening silence. But it had been what he thought he needed—at first. Trying to stay off the grid, Cruze had bought a sprawling home in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The gated mansion was surrounded by a vast wooded area. He had sought privacy, but the endless peace and solitude had turned out to be too much of a good thing.
Many a night, after being jarred awake by the rustling sound of someone skulking around on his property, he’d grabbed his piece from the nightstand. Believing his enemies had finally located him, Cruze would rush down the stairs, gun in hand, prepared to blow a muthafucka’s brains out.
Pulling back the drapes and squinting into the darkness, he sometimes found it comical that his “enemy” was nothing other than a deer munching on foliage or a family of raccoons scampering around the grounds of his palatial estate. Other times, when his sense of humor had abandoned him, he felt like shooting the shit out of the pesky creatures for fucking with his mindset.
It was the peacefulness of his location that had become bothersome and fueled his desire to buy a condo in downtown Philadelphia where he could fall asleep to the soundtrack of bustling activity and wake up to the ruckus of delivery vans, horn-honking taxis, screeching tires, and other familiar noises. The mansion, he decided, was too big for one person, and he now only spent time in that lavish environment when he wanted to remind himself how far a young cat from the streets had come.
• • •
Two maintenance workers from the Huntingdon Young People’s Enrichment Center (HYPE) came out to Cruze’s SUV with dollies and began unloading the trunk that was crammed with boxes of items that he was donating to the center.
HYPE was the vision of former NBA player, Bret Hollis, who used to play for the New York Nets. Through an online article, Cruze learned that Bret had been using his own capital to run the state-of-the-arts center that opened in North Philadelphia in 2012 with the goal of providing a safe haven for inner-city children. But after four years, money was running low, and Hollis was actively seeking outside funding. Looking for a way to give back, Cruze had hopped on the opportunity to do something good. Initially, he’d donated seven thousand dollars, and wanted to do even more, but couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself by making huge donations. However, for the past few months, he had been doing whatever he could to help out and in the process had struck up a friendship with Bret Hollis.
After the trunk was cleared, Cruze strode into the building and passed a room where a group of teenage girls wearing leotards and Kente cloth headbands were dancing African-style to the beat of conga drums.
He hoped he didn’t seem like a pervert by standing there and gawking at the dancers through the large window, but they were killing it, and Cruze was mesmerized. The rhythmical foot stomps, clapping, drumming, and shouting were all part of the powerful dance that felt like an unstoppable force was vibrating the floor beneath his feet.
When one of the girls caught his attention by winking and then plumping her lips together in a pouty kiss, he instantly backed away. Unwilling to participate in any inappropriate interactions with teenage jailbait, he quickly moved along.
He strolled to the gymnasium where the youth basketball team that consisted of seven- and eight-year-old boys was hard at practice. Cruze couldn’t hold back a smile as he watched the little guys play. His mind wandered to a time when he used to shoot basketball from morning until night at a broken-glass-littered court where the hoop was nothing more than a rusted metal rim. He had dreamed of being another Bret Hollis or Marquan Naylor, but those dreams ended after he’d earned his first few stacks slinging drugs.
Shaking the memory, Cruze returned his attention to the practice area and couldn’t take his eyes off a youngster named Barack, who consistently shot three-pointers. Neither Barack nor his teammates were aware that when they graced the court at their upcoming game on Friday, they’d all be rocking new uniforms with personalized jerseys, and also new pairs of Nikes—courtesy of Cruze.
He watched the boys for a while and then made his way along the corridor and quietly observed a group of kids who were in a classroom setting, diligently studying. Every child was using an iPad that Cruze had donated. It felt damn good to give back to the community, and he wanted to do even more to help steer the kids in the right direction. Hopefully, none of them would end up trying to commit a robbery using a metal pipe as a weapon like the punk whose kneecaps he’d shattered the other night. If his money could keep these young innocents away from the lure of the streets, then it was money well spent.
As Cruze turned away from the study center, he saw Bret Hollis approaching. Bret had been one of his basketball idols while growing up, and he still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that they were kicking it now like equals.
“Hey, man,” Bret said, giving Cruze dap. “The kids love those tablets so much, my staff has to search their backpacks every day to make sure they don’t sneak them out of here.”
“Why can’t they take them home?” Cruze inquired. In addition to schoolwork, he had assumed the children would also be able to use the tablets for fun activities.
“You know how it goes, man. If an iPad leaves here, it won’t come back. Big bro’ will take over ownership and use it to watch porn. Big sis will snatch it up for her social media activities, and thieving Uncle Teddy will slip it out the crib and sell it for fifty bucks.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Cruze acknowledged. “By the way, I was checking out the youth basketball team, and they’re good. That lil’ dude Barack can handle a basketball—he has mad skills.”
“Oh, yeah, Barack’s the commander-in-chief,” Bret said with laug
hter, and then his expression turned serious. “Barack won’t be with us after Friday. Poor kid’s mom has been sick. She’s doing better now, but during her illness, she lost her job and now they’re getting evicted. I believe they’re moving in with her sister, or some family member who lives way out in East Jabip, somewhere.”
“That’s rough. Wherever they go, I hope the lil’ dude finds an outlet for his talent like he has here,” Cruze commented, though he doubted if Barack would find another opportunity to get the kind of support system that was provided at HYPE.
He checked his watch. “Yo, I gotta run. I only dropped by to deliver the uniforms and sneakers.” Cruze wasn’t actually in a rush, but he didn’t want to overstay his welcome or act too Joe-familiar with Bret.
“I can’t thank you enough for the contributions you’ve made,” Bret said. “As you know, your donations are tax-deductible. Make sure you stop by the business office and pick up the tax forms on your way out.”
Cruze nodded. “Will do.”
Bret placed his hand on the door to the study center, and then turned and faced Cruze. “By the way, my wife and I are hosting a fund-raising dinner at the Ritz-Carlton Saturday night at seven. We’d love for you to attend as our guest.”
Cruze smiled, feeling honored by the invitation. “Say no more. I’m there. Do I buy my ticket online or can I get it from your secretary?”
“You don’t need a ticket; you’re our guest.”
“That’s cool. Thanks. I’ll see you there.”’
Bret went inside the study center to greet the kids and speak with the afterschool coordinator, and Cruze went on his way, breezing past the business office without stopping to pick up tax forms. Hiding behind several dummy companies, Cruze had cleaned up most of his dirty money since moving to Philadelphia. After years of slinging dope in the black community, he didn’t feel the government owed him any tax breaks for giving back to the people who had been most harmed by the drug epidemic.
Sexual Healing Page 3