Sex in the Hood Saga

by White Chocolate

  Stop it, ma’fucka. She gon’ be fine. Just sleepin’, like she need.

  “Master Duke. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I went to sleep. Musta been four-fifteen yesterday morning.”

  “No, before that.”

  “We kicked it,” Duke said. “For a couple hours.”

  “Was she a virgin?”

  “Tight as a vise.”

  “Did she bleed?”

  Duke pointed to the aqua blue towel heaped on the white marble stairs leading up to the bed. “Not a drop. But ain’t no question—”

  “Does she have health problems? Is she diabetic?”

  Duke shrugged. “At dinner, she ate like it was no tomorrow. Salmon, salad, ice cream. Didn’t say nothin’ ’bout sugar.”

  “Asthma?”

  “She run track.”

  “That would account for her slow resting heart rate. Runners who are physically fit often have a nearly undetectable pulse.”

  “She said she hadn’t slept in half a week. Some whack shit had happened in her life.”

  Doc Reynolds nodded. “Victoria Winston. I saw her on the news. Exactly how long has she been sleeping?”

  “She was layin’ next to me when I went to sleep, but I don’t know if she was ’sleep yet. Then when I woke up at ten-fifteen yesterday morning, she was still ’sleep. I kept checkin’ on her all day. I did my business by phone, right here, so she was never alone.”

  “She’s the millionaire’s daughter,” Doc Reynolds said. “I just heard on the news the feds are questioning her grandmother. They’re aggressively searching for this girl, Master Duke.”

  “I already took care of it.” Duke had Henry’s nerdy-ass brother, Mike, who worked at a public relations company downtown, send all those reporters an official press release saying Victoria Winston had run away.

  Duke had told Mike to hold a press conference yesterday on Miss Green’s porch. He told Mike to say that Victoria Winston had left with her passport and just enough cash for a one-way ticket to Miami. That would keep them investigating motherfuckers scrambling for clues at U.S. Customs down in Miami, not on Babylon Street in Motown.

  “Obviously you missed the latest report about her leavin’ the country,” Duke said, casting a Doc Reynolds’ intelligent brown eyes. She wore no makeup but she was proof that black don’t crack because she was almost forty-five and didn’t have near a wrinkle. Even after all those years in the pen for prescription fraud.

  “Doc, I didn’t bring you up here to play fuckin’ Colombo,”

  Duke said. “An’ I know you always put Babylon confidentiality first.”

  “Of course, Master Duke. That goes without saying.”

  “Within Babylon, too. That mean Milan don’t need to know the who, what, when, where, how or why of nothin’. She ’bout to get transferred anyway, an’ don’t need no info’mation bein’ transferred wit’ her skinny ass.”

  “Understood,” Doc Reynolds said.

  “Now, tell me what Duchess need.”

  Doc Reynolds’s eyes cut to Duchess’ pale face like she was trying to figure out that this was Duchess.

  “This girl needs rest,” Doc Reynolds said. “When she wakes up, make sure she gets plenty to eat and drink. She’ll be disoriented and dehydrated, so give her orange juice, bananas, healthy food to get her strength back up.”

  “Her strength was fine night befo’ last,” Duke said. And she needed to be strong now. He was going to start Hoodology 101 yesterday, so they were already a day behind now that it was Tuesday.

  My birthday party Friday night. We got six days to make or break Babylon Monday morn in wit’ them Moreno ma’fuckas. She gotta be on so when Knight come back, he see The Duke be rulin’ this shit! By my damn self!

  “We gotta wake her up an’ get her energy back, pronto,” Duke said.

  Doc Reynolds shook her head. “Let me take this moment to let you know about Janelle. She’s retired. HIV and genital warts. Milan gave her walking papers.”

  “Dang,” Duke said. “Nasty bitch. Put out an alert to the B’Amazons an’ Barriors so she can’t creep up in here.”

  Doc Reynolds looked serious when she said, “Of course, sir. And Janelle is aware of the penalty for such an offense.”

  Beamer came jogging back in with a scary look in his eye.

  “Massa D, newsflash.”

  “I’ll newsflash yo’ ass if you think it’s more important than—”

  “It might be.” Beamer never looked that alarmed.

  Duke stepped down. “What?”

  “A Barrior jus’ dropped a dime on Knight. He out. Now. Plottin’ a take-over.”

  Duke bit down hard. His voice was cool and calm as he said, “Yo, B, go tell yo’ girl Milan to stop startin’ bullshit rumors that could get somebody killed.”

  Beamer’s eyes got almost as big as his BMW medallion.

  Duke made a shoo motion with his hand, making his diamond ring sparkle. “Go. You on evac. Now.”

  As Beamer huffed away, Duke spun on a heel and dashed back up the steps to Duchess. He shook her arm. “Wake her up!”

  “Sometimes after situations of extreme emotional duress,” the doctor said, “coupled with extreme sleep deprivation, the body can shut down into an almost comatose state.”

  “Aw, hell no!” Duke shot up to his feet, pacing the white marble platform around the bed. “Wake her up!”

  Doc Reynolds took that clear vial off her lap. She unscrewed the black cap, held the opening of the bottle under Duchess’ pretty little nose. Nothing. Duchess slept just as peacefully as she had before.

  “Can’t you give her a shot or somethin’?” Duke demanded.

  “She doesn’t need—” She held the bottle to her nose and cupped her hand around it so Duchess had to breathe in the bottle vapors.

  “Ah!” Duchess cried out. She coughed and tried to sit up.

  “Baby girl!” he cheered, punching his fist in the air like he was at a Pistons game.

  “Where am I?” Her voice was raspy and sexy as hell, but her blue moon eyes were huge, full of panic.

  “You wit’ me, Sleepin’ Beauty,” Duke said, leaning down to stroke her hair. He sat next to her. “This Doc Reynolds.”

  “Good morning, Duchess,” the Doc said.

  Duchess held the blanket over her chest, looking back and forth at everybody like she didn’t know up from down.

  “Duchess, baby girl, you been sleepin’ for a day an’ a half,” he said. “Worryin’ a ma’fucka half to death.”

  She focused on Duke. Her eyes were still as intense as blue flame blow torches. Now, his whole body prickled with sweat. And Timbo was on swole!

  She froze. The blanket dropped from her chest. Her cinnamon-colored nipples looked so good, they made Cinnabons look like dog biscuits. They were pointing straight out from her round, creamy curves of plump, round titties over her little tapered ribs.

  Duke shifted on the bed, letting Timbo roll to a more spacious spot in his jeans.

  Her lips curled a little. Something flashed in her eyes as she looked right at him.

  “Duke, why the fuck you got all these people in our room?” Her voice sounded deeper. “You said you’d make love to me soon as I woke up.” She smirked.

  Chapter 35

  Milan Henderson threw her cell phone onto the shiny, hardwood floor of the Sex Squad headquarters. It broke into two silver pieces at the base of the reception counter where three Sluts were checking in for their weekly exams.

  Milan didn’t care that they and the other Sluts and Studs were gawking at her as they sat on the couches, waiting for their exams. They hadn’t even turned on the TV. They were too busy watching her flit around, trying not to lose her mind.

  I will not become a stark raving lunatic in front of all these people, like they expect me to be. I will not!

  It was no secret that something outrageous and scandalous was going on. After all, nobody could miss the two big, barbaric prison wardens who’d b
een her constant companions since Sunday night, watching her every move, both yesterday and today. Now everybody was looking at her like she stole something. Whispering when she walked past. Laughing when she left the room. The hundreds of people in this building knew that Duke had been locked upstairs with that white bitch he brought here on Sunday. They were actually calling that girl The Duchess.

  Two days! Duke had been fucking that bitch for forty-eight hours straight! She couldn’t remember the last time she had Duke to herself for two hours. Even when she did, he was constantly answering his phone, making calls, telling her to “hurry up an’ cum.”

  Now he had obviously turned off his phones, because Milan had called dozens of times over the past few days. His voice mail was full. That was why she just pitched the phone.

  Not to mention, Beamer hadn’t spoken to her since their hotel room tryst. He hadn’t returned the phone messages she left, threatening to show Duke the videotape if Beamer didn’t call her to talk about their plan. Was he crazy? Peanut obviously had some other kind of plan of his own, but stupid as he was, it wouldn’t get anywhere. But why did Peanut come down here all in a fluster, escorting Dr. Reynolds out when she had important work to do?

  Duke had better not let somebody up in here get a sexually transmitted infection. If word got out that Babylon’s Sluts and Studs weren’t as squeaky clean as they were reputed to be, it would be the kiss of death for this multimillion-dollar empire.

  Milan smiled. What a shame that would be. She could always call Janelle back for a job or two, or send her up to Duke’s bedroom so she could lay some HIV and warts on Duke and his new Duchess. See how long they live happily ever after with that shit.

  She clapped. Everybody turned, giving her their undivided attention. There, that was better. The way it should be.

  “Due to some unforeseen circumstances,” she announced, looking at all fifteen Sluts and Studs, “your exams for this week are cancelled.”

  “Naw,” a chick on the couch said. “I got some burnin’ an’ I don’t know if it’s just bladder irritation or chlamydia or what kinda shit goin’ on. I need to see Dr. Reynolds.”

  “Ain’t no way,” said the Stud sitting next to her. “All my years o’ workin’ here, we ain’t neva missed a exam. I’d get my dick checked e’ry damn day o’ the week, as many pussies as I be drillin’ in a day.” He shook his cornrowed head. “Half these bitches be beggin’ me to hit it raw. An’ they tip a couple hun’ed extra if I do! So I say, well, I’ma see Doc Reynolds to make sure I ain’t caught nothin’. So—” He crossed his arms, lifted the heels of his cow boy boots slightly, and banged them back on the floor. “I’ma wait ’til the doc come back.”

  “I’m here,” Dr. Reynolds said.

  How had Milan not heard or seen the entry door open?

  “And when The Duke hears about this,” Dr. Reynolds said, “I guarantee he will not be happy, Madame Milan.”

  Milan snapped, “I thought you had abandoned the premises. I was going to call in another doctor for today or reschedule everyone here.”

  “Naw, that ain’t what she said,” the Stud in cowboy boots said. “My cock ain’t fallin’ prey to her hate. She jus’ mad The Duke—”

  Dr. Reynolds glared at him. “That’s enough, Johnny. You can come with me.” She led him into the office. “Milan, you’d be wise to resist the urge to sabotage any computer files or employee records.” She shut the door.

  Milan’s cheeks stung. That bitch would be wise not to answer the phone when the IRS called to inquire about how she earned a high six-figure salary at the storefront clinic—which she owned—for indigent patients in the ghetto. She never went there, just let three employees, who may or may not be doctors, operate it. But even all that Medicaid and Medicare reimbursement couldn’t pay for her Benz, her big house in the suburbs, or her timeshare in Barbados.

  What was she talking about anyway? Did she just see Duke? Had Duke said something about Milan’s status here, or lack thereof? As partner? His children’s mother? His top executive?

  Milan stomped toward the door.

  I am going to see him right now to take care of this! I can not have people inferring that my status is anything but superior around here.

  She grabbed the doorknob, but the barbarians wedged in front of the door before she could pull it open. And she screamed.

  Chapter 36

  Duke’s body, glistening in the shower, was so beautiful Duchess couldn’t stop staring at him. Everything about him mesmerized her. She watched the way the water streamed over the succulent dark chocolate skin on his bald head, over his ears, those perfectly arched black eyebrows, his thick lashes, down his black Roman warrior nose, his high chiseled cheekbones and wide, clean-shaven jaw, to his thick, smooth neck.

  He look fine as hell. An’ he mine.

  Timbo was poking at her stomach, and Duchess couldn’t wait to feel him poke back inside Celeste. How could her pussy feel even more hungry for Duke’s delicious dick? How could she feel this wicked craving after hours and hours of fucking this absolute god?

  It’s called addiction, baby. You was a freak by yo’ damn self an’ you knew once you let Celeste loose, you’d be a worse sex fiend than yo’ freaky-ass parents. Good thing you hooked up wit’ a Mandingo stud ma’fucka who can han’le it.

  “Oh my God!” Victoria cried out into the hiss of the shower.

  It was like Duke was inside her head, talking through her voice.

  “Baby girl, you a’ight?”

  She took Timbo into her hands, stroking the shaft, loving the satin-over-rock feel of this giant magic wand she would worship until her last breath. Especially when it made Duke look down at her like she was his reason for living. Because that’s how she felt.

  No, I’m not all right. There’s a new voice in my head, making me talk black. Ghetto. Ebonics.

  Like all the people I’ve been around for the past two days.

  Her mind was spinning a million miles a minute . . . Thank goodness she didn’t have to stay at Gramma Green’s house of hell, and that Duke’s penthouse was as luxurious as home was. And she finally got some sleep. And she finally got some dick!

  Her heart felt like it skipped a beat. With terror.

  What now? I did what I said I’d never do. I unleashed the mixed race sex powers. Now I know this is the way to get whatever I want or need in life. But what do I want?

  Duke had just told her about the Miami-Caribbean story they’d fed to the media. Victoria Winston didn’t exist anymore, unless she wanted to face the feds who would turn around and accuse her of helping Daddy do something wrong. Could she go to the penitentiary for a white collar crime that she unknowingly committed? Would her own father have involved her in something illegal? Or was he truly wrongly accused as he’d claimed?

  Right now, after seeing the power of the federal prosecutor who was after Daddy and the power of the press to destroy a man to the point that he took his own life, Victoria had no desire to find out.

  I am Duchess, hear me roar!

  “Duke,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his firm, tapered waist. She buried her face in that hot, velvety crevice at the center of his chest, where the soft mounds of his pecks came together. “This space was made to cradle my face.”

  Duke tossed his head back, laughing into the streaming water. “You rhymin’ again baby girl? Tol’ you I was gonna go raw dog on that ass ’til you couldn’t talk!”

  “Yeah, lobotomize me, baby,” she said.

  “Timbo musta banged all the way up in yo’ brain to flip the black switch,” Duke laughed, “’cause you talk black now. Did you see Doc Reynolds and Beama’s eyes pop when you woke up?” Duke was cracking up. “Day-um. That was some hilarious shit right there.” He kissed the top of her head, ran his hands down the wet black cape that was her hair, tickling the top of her ass.

  “It’s like the little voice inside my head,” she said, “has been reprogrammed to speak hood.”

  “Yeah, t
hat’s that Mandingo dick,” Duke said, “woke the sleepin’ black diva within.”

  Victoria pressed her cheek to his chest as she laughed. His voice vibrated in her ear as he said, “The way you talk, that’s still gonna be part of yo’ Hoodology 101, to get you ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “Yo’ work for Babylon. As Duchess. This weekend I’m presentin’ you to Babylon at my birthday party. Then we got the meetin’ of the millennium comin’ up nex’ Monday. A week from Friday my brotha Knight comin’ home, so we gotta make you into the baddest bitch this side o’ the moon.”

  “Duke,” she whispered, real sultry, staring up into his beautiful eyes. “Every other minute that you’re not hosting my extreme ghetto makeover”—she reached down to stroke Timbo—“can I be the first contestant on Extreme Pussy Takeover?”

  Duke’s deep laugher echoed through the shower.

  “Yo’ sex coma already got us a day behind in yo’ trainin’.”

  “Kiss me.”

  As the water streamed over their faces, he pressed his satin hot lips to hers.

  How could one guy’s kiss feel so different than another?

  Brian’s lips were hard, puckered in a way that felt uninviting, tense. But Duke’s lips were relaxed, soft, moving gently, like little nibbles. Her plump lips against his plump lips equalled one sensuous dance of hungry mouths finally tasting the flavor they’d both been craving.

  He kissed her forehead then cupped her jaw in his giant hands, tilted her face up so he could focus those beautiful, black kaleidoscopic eyes down at her.

  “Duchess, I ain’t neva even thought this befo’, but when you was ’sleep and I thought you was dead,” his voice cracked, “I realized I can’t—don’t wanna live wit’out you.”

  “You never have to,” she whispered. “In my eyes, you’re like this masterpiece of manhood and I was made for you,” she whispered. “I could stare at you forever. Kiss you forever. Make love with you forever.”

  He French kissed her so good, she felt dizzy. Then with his hands on her slippery waist, he turned her around.

  “Put your hands on the wall,” he said, spreading her fingers against the warm, wet stone. He bent her at the waist, grasping her hips like they were hinges he was adjusting to just the right angle. She looked back. Timbo pointed like Cupid’s big black arrow at her milky round ass.