Sex in the Hood Saga

by White Chocolate

  “You’re bionic . . . supersonic . . .” Orgasmic waves made Victoria go limp. Her arms and hands fell to the bed. Her head turned to one side. Her legs flapped in his grip. “Kronked,” she whispered, “out cold.”

  Yeah, he was bionic. Felt like they’d been fucking forever and a day. Like he could fuck her for eternity and then some.

  And I love it. The slap of skin on skin, their bodies gliding on a soft sheen of sweat, the fiery heat between them, their panting.... Victoria was just lost in erotic euphoria. No more sadness, no more worry, no more fear. Just pure pleasure, because this was the most mind-numbing indulgence, more than wine, more than eating a brownie, more than watching a good movie.

  Sex was pure opium. The perfect escape from all her worries.

  It was something she would take every day, her magic remedy for stress, anxiety. Yeah, Duke could sex her up every day as therapy to the mind, body and soul. She’d never worry again.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing?”

  His hands were reaching behind her, beneath her, taking her ass in his palms, squeezing his fingers gently into her flesh, tilting her hips up even higher, stimulating her even more. He pounded with more ferocity than ever, like he was going to split her in half, pummel her pussy into a banana split full of marmalade.

  “Oh, baby girl, we just gettin’ started. Before this life is through, I’m gonna flip you every which way you never imagined. Make you cum so tough you won’t know which way is up or down. The only word you’ll be able to say is ‘Duke.”’

  She exploded in laughter because that was exactly her plan for him.

  “Go for it,” she whispered, thrusting her hips up.

  Duke wrapped his hands around her ankles, raised them into the air, and thrust from his knees. He pounded and pumped, making her shiver and scream.

  “I’m ’bout to cum,” he groaned, laying down on her, kissing her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks.

  “Cum for Duchess,” she whispered. “Cum for me, Duke.”

  “Oh, baby girl. Baby girl.”

  He thrust with so much force, her whole body shivered. It was like a heat blast that was mashing their bodies into one delicious mix. Duke and Duchess, cream and coffee, blending into one exotic-erotic fusion of flesh, passion and purpose, power and potency.

  “Yeah, baby girl. Oooh yeah.” He shuddered, pressed his hot cheek to hers, sucked her lips into his mouth.

  She wrapped her arms around his smooth, broad back, tickling the baby-soft mounds and valleys of damp skin, pulling him deeper.

  “Oh, baby girl!” he shouted. “Duchess, baby!”

  He pulled Timbo out, yanked off the condom, and jacked his dick over her. A fountain of white cream sprayed over her bare, quivering stomach. His face twisted, but he focused hard on her.

  “You mine now,” he groaned then lay next to her, kissing her face. “I’m yours, Duchess baby. All yours.”

  Victoria couldn’t get close enough to him. She wanted to press her body right through him so their souls could touch. She had no words for this feeling. She couldn’t describe the magic he just worked on her body or explain the whole race-sex phenomenon she thought about constantly.

  Mommy spoke to me! She said this is the way to get what I want. Now I know . . .

  She suddenly felt overwhelmed with gratitude for her mother, her father and Duke, because their words and actions all helped her figure it out. It wouldn’t kill her to share her body; it would give her more power.

  But right now, all she wanted to do was curl up in the curve of Duke’s body and sleep for days. She hadn’t slept in half a week, but finally, she was safe in this sexy cocoon of silk and strong man, where a deep sleep in his arms would bring the same mind-numbing euphoria as the lovemaking she just shared with him.

  He pulled her into the spoon position. Lying on his side, he drew her back to his chest, her ass into the L-shape of his torso and legs, the backs of her thighs on the tops of his. It felt so good, she closed her eyes.

  But her lids raised just as quickly as she thought, He wants me to work for him. If he makes love to me like this all the time, I’d rob a bank if he asked me to.

  Not really, but what did he possibly want her to do that could be so bad? He was breathing softly in her ear, his cheek nestled in her hair on the fluffy pillows.

  No, she couldn’t sleep now. This sheltered suburban girl had to figure out how to play this game without losing to his slick street smarts, without letting sex influence her common sense or jeopardize her future.

  She lay awake for hours, savoring every sensation of his long body behind hers. Her butt on his hard thighs. Her back against his stomach. His broad chest embracing her shoulders, his long arms wrapped around her, his hot breath on her neck. Their ankles twisted together. His scent all over her.

  She lay awake for another reason: fear. A little voice inside her was laughing. Alice in Ghettoland just danced past the DO NOT ENTER signs on the door marked HOME. And there was no EXIT sign.

  Chapter 33

  It was 6:15 p.m. as Knight Johnson rose from the hard brown couch in the rec room. The TV news was blaring, but Knight was too excited to hear it. He had to go call Duke. One step and he felt like he was floating over the beige tile.

  I’ve called Duke every Monday night since I’ve been in here. But tonight’s call is different, more important than ever.

  “Yo, Knight,” Lonnie shouted. “Eitha tha’s yo’ baby brotha or yo’ papa’s rollin’ stone jus’ turnt up a secret pebble on da news.”

  Lonnie, sitting on the couch at the edge of a dozen men on couches and chairs, turned his round, acne-scarred face. “Check ’im out.” Lonnie pointed at the TV. His legs stretched over the chipped wooden coffee table strewn with sections of today’s local newspaper. Knight usually read the paper in the morning, but today his energies had focused on something bigger. And better.

  “An’ drivin’ a Porsche wit’ gold rims!” Lonnie shifted, making the front page of the Detroit News crinkle under his leg. “I know The Duke ain’t that stupid to pose up in the middle o’ that mess. The media an’ five-oh? He askin’—”

  “You right, Lon,” Knight said with super-cool nonchalance.

  “The Duke ain’t about to get sprung up in that chick’s media storm. An’ you should know better. E’ry dark-skinned bald dude don’t all look alike.”

  “Depend who lookin’,” Marvin Dinkins grumbled from the other end of the couch. “Some look-alike the reason I be up in this shit hole. An’ don’t none o’ dese cocksuckas in charge wanna hear ‘It wasn’t me.”’ Marvin pointed a long, black finger and deepened his voice, imitating authorities. “‘It was you, nigga. Fi’teen years! No para’e!’”

  “Who you tellin’?” Lonnie scolded. “If anybody know dat, it’s Knight. That was some 1950s Emmitt Till shit they pulled on ma boy.” Lonnie focused back on the TV.

  “Dey go that white choc’lit chick who daddy be French kissin’ Smith an’ Wesson,” Marvin said.

  Lonnie pointed up to the TV, where the news report showed the young lady walking right past Duke and Beamer in the Porsche. Knight had seen reports about her father’s suicide over the past several weeks.

  “They talkin’ ’bout she look white,” Lonnie said.

  “Ssshhhheeeee-it. One look at that ass oughtta erase e’ry question mark on that page.” Lonnie nodded toward the newspaper, which Knight picked up.

  Nearly a whole page of articles and pictures surrounded a bold headline:

  CULTURE SHOCK: MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER FALLS FROM WHITE PRIVILEGE TO BLACK POVERTY.

  Under that, a smaller headline said:

  VICTORIA WINSTON’S BIRACIAL LIFE SHOWS HUGE GAP BETWEEN RACES.

  Knight bit down, making his jaw muscles flex. Why didn’t Li’l Tut know better than to sit in the middle of a media beehive? Didn’t matter if it was the Thanksgiving Day parade coming through the neighborhood. Duke did not need his face in the newspaper or on TV, even if he was wearing dark sungla
sses. He wanted to run Babylon, but didn’t have the common sense to stay out of the spotlight?

  He was thinking with the head in his lap.

  Was Duke just naively enjoying the spectacle of Victoria being dropped off at Miss Green’s house? Was he trying to meet her? Recruit her to work for The Squad? If so, Li’l Tut knew the recruitment of Sluts was always done on the down low, not in front of the media!

  The media was making sport out of this poor girl’s tragedy. Knight glanced at the newspaper, which even had a satirical sidebar and scoreboard, comparing what her white life was and what her black life would be like now.

  The TV newscaster drew Knight’s attention to the screen.

  “You may recall,” said preppy black anchor Orville Smith, “on Sunday, Victoria Winston was taken from this lakefront mansion in an elite, gated community in the suburbs to this decrepit house in one of Detroit’s worst neighborhoods. The business-savvy eighteen-year-old, who worked closely with her father, Daniel Winston, says he is wrongly accused of embezzling ten million dollars from his investors.”

  Knight was mesmerized and impressed by the young lady’s incredible poise as her elegant stride took her past a mob of reporters outside her lakeside mansion. She exuded womanly maturity and intelligence, yet the long, black ponytail bouncing just above her Betty Boop butt maintained her girlishness.

  As reporters shouted questions about her dead parents, her race, and her life, she stopped and looked straight into the camera. Incredible confidence flashed in her big blue eyes, set in a buttermilk face with very ethnic, come-kiss-me lips whose natural red color had the power to put cosmetics companies out of business.

  Knight was awe-struck by how she tilted her chin upward just a little bit. With a voice that was all at once sultry and brilliant, she told reporters, “I refuse to justify or even acknowledge your nonsensical, insulting questions with a response.”

  That girl has the power. He held the newspaper in front of his khakis. His dick was instantly erect.

  One look from me an’ she gon’ melt into some white chocolate fondue so I can dip my lead pipe in it. Victoria Winston is mine.

  That girl was way too much for Li’l Tut to handle. The potency in her eyes—the raw sexuality burning in that voice and that dewy face that had to be virginal—radiated with incredible force from the TV screen. The longer Knight stared, the more bewitching her power became.

  I can’t breathe. In or out.

  It felt like the day, years ago, when he made his first and last mistake relating to Babylon money. Prince slammed him against the exposed brick wall of the penthouse with such force, Knight slumped to the floor, not breathing. He thought he was dead.

  Finally, he coughed and never made that, or any other mistake, again.

  “Eh, y’all know what happen to a snowflake when it hit black pavement?” Marvin grunted. “Tttttssssssttttt! It melt.” He let out a sinister laugh. “She a snowball in hell right now. Ain’t got half a muthafuckin’ chance.”

  Marvin cast a cruel smile up at Knight and said, “Yo, G, if I was you, I’d hate any bitch wit’ mo’ dan two drops o’ honkey blood.”

  “I don’t hate white people,” Knight answered.

  “You should,” said Pete Washington, slouching in a chair with his arms crossed.

  “Jesus turned the other cheek,” Pete said, “an’ they beat the shit outta him.”

  “Condemning a whole race for the act of one gets us nowhere,” Knight answered, not so much for hopeless Pete but for the dozens of other men listening. “If a black man hurts a white person, should that victim hate the whole race?”

  A chorus erupted. “Hell naw!”

  “No, ’cause all black people ain’t bad,” Lonnie added. “Is jus’ some bad seeds sprinkled in the barrel.”

  “So we shouldn’t think this biracial girl is bad until we know more about her,” Knight said.

  “Y’all be quiet,” Lonnie said. “Now she wanted by the FBI!”

  “Federal investigators are still searching for Miss Winston,” the news anchor said. “They believe she may have crucial information about her father’s controversial business practices. But police say Miss Winston has disappeared.”

  Knight bit down hard, flexing his jaw muscle. Now there was no doubt Li’l Tut was all stirred up in her creamy mix.

  Otherwise, Duke would’ve told Knight all about the media spectacle on Babylon Street. He always told Knight everything that was going on in the hood, whether it was who was having whose baby or how Milan’s behavior was composing her own pink slip and eviction notice or who died or whose grandmother died or how the fallen powerline sparked a fire in an alley dumpster last week. Everything.

  Except that every media outlet in the city was there to watch a half-white rich girl find her black roots, and Li’I Tut was front and center.

  It ain’t right. Bringing someone that high profile and notorious inside the doors of Babylon no matter what purpose his horny little brother had in mind. It would only be trouble. Big, big trouble. It would be bad enough when Duke found out Knight was going to seize control of Babylon. When little Victoria took one look at Big Brother and fell madly in love, that would only make things worse for Duke.

  She was made for me. That voice inside Knight’s head spoke loud and clear. Knight had a gut feeling to follow his intuition. Right now, his intuition was telling him Victoria Winston is the One.

  “This just in to the Channel 3 newsroom,” Orville Smith said.

  “Victoria Winston is now apparently a fugitive of the law. Let’s go to reporter Lisa Plateman. She’s live on Detroit’s east side.”

  Knight watched intently as live video showed a young black man in a suit on Miss Green’s porch, which was surrounded by at least a dozen reporters, TV cameras, and still cameras. He was holding up a purse, a suitcase, and a hand-written note.

  “This is a spokesman for the family,” the reporter said, sticking a microphone in his face. “Is it true that Victoria Winston ran away?”

  The guy held up the note. “Her grandmother found this this morning on her bed. It’s written in Victoria’s handwriting. It says she’s so grief-stricken by the loss of life as she knew it that she’s going to a warm, sunny place to escape the media spotlight.”

  “Can you be more specific?” the reporter asked. “Where is she?”

  “Her grandmother says Victoria left with her passport and just enough cash for a one-way ticket to Miami. She kept talking about her friends there, who were gonna loan her keys to a vacation home in the Caribbean.”

  “Where in the Caribbean?” the reporter asked.

  The young spokesman knit his brows.

  “Br’a-man need some schoolin’,” Marvin said. “Can’t lie worth a damn.”

  “He a’ight,” Lonnie said. “Just nervous.”

  The spokesman stared at the note then looked up. “It doesn’t say here, but the family thinks she might be either on the island St. John, St. Barts, or Antigua.”

  Knight bit down a smile.

  Or perhaps Miss Winston had slipped way below the white man’s radar, into the secret chambers of Babylon.

  Chapter 34

  I fucked her to death.

  Duke’s big hand shaking her arm did nothing to wake her.

  “Victoria!” he shouted. “Duchess! Wake up!”

  He slapped her cheek.

  Nothing.

  He put his ear to her mouth. Couldn’t feel her breath. He pressed his fingertips to her neck for a pulse. Couldn’t find it. Not on her wrist, either.

  “Baby girl!” Duke’s insides felt like they were turning inside out. Right now, his whole body stung with fear.

  Why didn’t I listen to whateva the fuck she was sayin’ about a sex curse? ’Bout how her daddy fucked her momma to death? I was so busy tryin’ ta get my nut, wasn’t listenin’ wit’ my head.

  “Baby girl!” he cried, sitting on the edge of the bed, rocking with her hand in his, raising it up to kiss her fingers. The
gold blanket was tucked around her neck; her head rested on one of the gold pillows. One shoulder and arm were exposed, the one connected to the hand he was squeezing.

  “You gotta wake up. I’ma die if I lose you this fast.” Duke hated feeling like somebody else’s life had this much power over his. If something really had happened to his Duchess, if she really were dead—

  I’m gon’ be th’ough.

  He squinted in the bright beams of sunshine slicing into the room from the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors leading out to the terrace. Even that bright-ass light on her face hadn’t awakened her.

  Damn, she looked like an angel. Her face was pure. It didn’t have one mark or blemish or pimple. But something wasn’t the same, like her skin was a little more yellow and her red, pucker-fish lips looked swollen. Her thick eyelashes still looked like black fringe, and her perfectly arched black eyebrows looked the same, as did all that hair fanned around her head like the prettiest peacock at the zoo.

  “Massa Duke,” Beamer said, rushing in. “Doc Reynolds here.”

  Duke barely looked back at the purple glasses on her fine-ass face, with her black hair all swirled up into a French roll. She wore all white, with white Nikes and a leather doctor bag. She pulled out a stethoscope and a little bottle with clear liquid inside.

  “How long has she been unconscious?” the doctor asked, pulling back the gold sheer fabric. The bottle was the size of her pinky finger. She set it on her lap.

  “More than twenty-four hours.” He scooted over so Doc Reynolds could sit on the bed. She leaned down, listening for breath. She took Duchess’ pulse at her neck. She used a stethoscope to listen to her heart. She felt her cheeks, her forehead. She pulled back the gold blanket to look at her whole body.

  “She dead?” Duke asked, hating the high-pitched panic in his voice. “Tell me she ain’t dead.”

  “She’s alive,” Doc Reynolds said. “But I need to know if she has any health problems that could cause coma.”

  “Shit!” The last thing he needed was some EMS ambulance crew coming up in here. It would be all over the news, and the heat would be all over him.