Sex in the Hood Saga

by White Chocolate

  But that pussy, going in circles in his face . . . the scent . . . the hot dampness like a warm washcloth, the thrill that this was where every motherfucker wished he could stay twenty-four/seven, face to face with a hot, hungry pussy, had him paralyzed

  Slam!

  A groan like Duke had never heard from his own mouth shot out from between his wet lips because she just slammed down on Timbo like she was a big cube of filet mignon poking herself on a skewer. Ready to sizzle.

  The shock of hot, tight pussy that was so wet he just slid in, made his whole body shiver and convulse like he was cumming, and she just got down on it. Her blue blowtorch eyes shot down at him in a way that was hotter than ever. She took a position like she was leaning forward on a motorcycle, so her ass pooted up.

  Timbo was deep up in the pussy. Damn, Celeste was sucking him in, squeezing him around, steaming right through this thick dick.

  “I’m gonna ride you,” Duchess moaned, “’til you beg me to pull over an’ let you rest.”

  She pumped her hips at just the right angle so Timbo slid in and out. Faster, faster, faster.... She bounced now. That ass on his thighs, slapping.

  “What cha wanna tell me, Duke?” she teased. “Thought you wanted to rap.”

  She fucked him harder, and he still couldn’t talk. Didn’t want to talk or think.

  Her whole body glistened with sweat now, from her long, pretty neck to her titties pressed between her fingers, her toned stomach, her thighs. Clumps of hair stuck to her shoulders. Some strands fell and caught between her fingers. He couldn’t have scripted a more sensuous scene if he were Hugh Hefner.

  “Rap,” she whispered, keeping a steady beat of her butt pounding his thighs. “I wanna rap as I slap my ass.”

  He smacked her butt, one hand on each cheek. It was so loud the slaps startled them both. She laughed but didn’t stop fucking.

  “Yeh, I’m crass. Jus’ ask the mask.” She nodded at the Egyptian artwork over the bed. “Witness this kiss”—she leaned to suck his mouth—“as I whisper my love like a glove on Timbo. I know he’s so fat, so I sat like a cat, with my pussy soft and squooshy . . .”

  Her pussy was pulsating like she was about to cum.

  “Oooohhhhh, yaaaaay-yaaaaahhhhh.”

  Celeste squeezed so hard around Timbo, it was like the head was going to pop off. Duchess was cumming so hard, it felt like an earthquake was shaking up inside that temple, threatening to break off this great black obelisk.

  “I love this dick,” she moaned. She sounded just like Duke would be thinking while he fucked, whether he was with Duchess or any other of the hundreds, if not thousands of pussies he’d had. Some were just OK, but right now Duchess was saying “I love this dick” the same way he would rate some really good pussy, even pussies that he couldn’t remember the name or the face they were attached to. Just good-ass pussy.

  “I love this dick.”

  Yeah, girl. Get yo’ groove.

  “I loooooooove this Duke.”

  It felt like fire was spreading all over his skin. In a bad way.

  Like she had just lit a match on The Duke.

  I gotta flip her over an’ fuck her senseless, squirt so much nut up in that pretty head it drown out any crazy-ass way o’ thinkin’ like a dude. Hell naw. The Duchess got juice, but it ain’t ev’a gon’ be equal to The Duke juice. Neva.

  He grabbed her thighs. He would just raise her up, now that she was weak from cumming, and tackle.

  “Seems like the better angle,” she whispered, glancing back at his knees. “Yeah.”

  Before he could grab her thighs, she spun on his dick like a toy top and faced his feet. It looked like two moons were rising over his stomach.

  All I can see is ass. Look almost as good as a face full o’ pussy.

  Duchess tried a stroke, thrusting her hips forward.

  “Oh yeah, tha’s it,” she moaned, sounding all black now.

  She made some round motions, like her hips were going in circles. Her ass was just grinding into him like she would never get tired. Then she moved faster, looking like a rabbit up there. His fingertips danced up her back, tickling her flawless skin. She shivered, moaned. “Ooohhhh, touch me so good.”

  Duke wanted to ask, “Damn, how can a girl be so erotic she shiver when you just touch her back?” But he still couldn’t talk. I ain’t even tryin’ to spend a ounce o’ energy on anything but gettin’ fucked wit’out movin’ a single muscle.

  She raised up so her upper body was upright all the way. She moved her feet out at his sides, put her hands on her knees, and raised up in a squat position, just like she had seen the Sluts do in the gym.

  Duke smiled. She couldn’t wait to try this shit. Without letting Timbo out of the pussy-vise grip, she squatted down, up, down, up.

  Dis da bomb! Faster, faster, she was shaking, moaning and crying out like she was cumming, banging down on his dick like she was nailing her soul to his.

  “Ah,” she sighed like her muscles were sore. She slid down to her knees and bent just a little bit, sucking Timbo up in that creamy pussy tunnel. Her hair was all clumped on her back. Sweat dripped down her ass, onto him, making a pool of hot, salty sweat in his belly button.

  Ma’fuck me! Something jolted through him so strong, his head suddenly filled with the image of sticking Timbo in a big electric socket.

  I’m gettin’ electrocuted up in here. Pussy shock treatments. That gon’ fry my brain an’ make me dumb as Frankenstein.

  He would be a kitten in her lap as she sat at the throne of Babylon with just a shell of The Duke at her side. She could rule and just have him fuck her whenever she wanted.

  Slam! She was ruthless, bouncing that booty, taking all of this dick and all of The Duke.

  Hell naw!

  “Ddddd . . .” Her name came out through his mouth as a grunt. “Ddddduuuuu . . .” What was worse, saying nothing or sounding retarded when he tried to talk?

  The scent of their sex made him as mellow as when he breathed in second-hand ganja smoke. Except Timbo was about to blow. Duke’s whole body was trembling. Her electric jolts made him convulse, making his dick feel like it was about to shoot with the force of a firehose.

  She was cumming again, shaking so hard her shoulders were shimmying, her legs twitching, and her hands were trembling. She was pounding the pussy like there was no tomorrow.

  Timbo was taking it, too.

  Oh shit, yeeeaaahhhhh. A ma’fuckin’ seizure takin’ ova The Duke.

  “I got this dick!” she moaned. “I got all this dick.”

  He groaned. Deep. Raw. Like he had never heard himself groan before. Like a bubble was rising up from the deepest part of his core. Like that sound that came out of Prince’s mouth as he died. It was a sound he never wanted to hear again, especially from his own mouth. Like a part of him was dying.

  Duchess glanced back. Her eyes looked supernatural, all glazed with lust, chunks of hair stuck to her wet cheeks, lips red, open, like a lion that just took the juiciest bite out of the panther it killed.

  She was still fucking. Her pussy squeezed as she came. His dick throbbed as he blew his nut, and their sex power juice mixed into some toxic chemical that was going to make both of them crazy.

  Duchess banged down more, more, more, until Timbo got tingly like his elbow when he hit the funny bone. He wanted to scream “Stop!” but pussy shock treatments stole his voice. He wanted to grab her, push her off, but his arms felt like lead. He wanted to buck up and toss her off, but the stallion was tame.

  So all I can do is lay here like a pussy an’ get fucked.

  Duchess shot up, letting Timbo slip out and collapse like a dead seal on his groin, which looked like a black sand beach frothing with their salty sex juice.

  Duke trembled, every muscle in his body. And he couldn’t stop, not even when she stepped off the bed and walked toward the bathroom. Duchess glanced back at him with so much power in her eyes, Duke felt sick. Look like my body language spoke loud an’ clea
r all right . . . that I’m the punk mafucka who layin’ here like some limp-ass jelly. Hell naw!

  Chapter 41

  Duke is crazy if he expects me to concentrate on super fly girl clothes, Ebonics, and ghetto psychology while Honey is prancin’ around in a tight little white dress.

  Duchess strutted across the white marble floor in blood-red patent leather stiletto boots and a sleeveless black cat-suit. She stepped up the stairs to the raised area where Duke was sitting on a gold throne behind the huge, thick glass desk.

  “So, you’re making me into a thugstress, right?” she said playfully, strutting the way runway models did it on TV reports of fashion shows in New York. “That’s a cross between a temptress and a thug, with a sort of Cleopatra feline look.”

  “You my chameleon who can switch between ghetto fabulous, Wall Street white girl, an’ sexy diva,” Duke said. “Damn, baby girl, yo’ booty be poppin’ in nat. Bend over an’ shake that ass.” His hand was over a huge bulge in his lap.

  “Oooohhh, I’ve never looked so sexy,” she said as the designer, Gregor, rolled that giant mirror in front of her. In it, she could also see the rack of equally seductive jeans, dresses, skirts, and jackets she had already tried on.

  “Especially with this tan,” Duchess said, loving her darker skin thanks to the tanning booth Duke had installed in the penthouse for her. “I feel like one o’ those sexy comic book women with superhuman powers. Duke . . .”

  He looked pale.

  A soft cloud of Honey’s perfume—musky with a hint of floral—enchanted Duchess’ nose moments before she turned to see the girl’s titties come to halt just inches under Duchess’ mouth.

  I’m gonna drip pussy juice all over these clothes.

  Honey’s fingertips on Duchess’ arms brought to mind that lightning ball at the science center. The girl’s touch made purple bolts shoot through Duchess’ skin, through her body, lodging in a hot, sizzling glow between her legs.

  She attached two gold armbands in the inward curves just above her biceps.

  “Just like Cleopatra wore,” Honey said with a husky voice that flowed like slow molasses over her lips. Her honey-brown eyes mirrored the lust that was making Duchess feel like she could touch her finger to the bottom of a lightbulb and make it glow.

  “I love it,” Duchess said, glancing down at the gold cuffs on her arms and Honey’s fingers on her skin.

  “That cuff is superb,” the designer, Gregor, called across the white marble floor here in the Babylon HQ offices. The slender, cocoa-brown guy pushed his silver glasses up into a mop of black ringlet curls. Wearing a blue suede pantsuit, he made “OK” signs with each hand.

  “Duchess,” he said, turning toward the rack of clothes that Victoria Winston wouldn’t have taken a million dollars to wear in public. “The whole Cleopatra look is just spectacular with your long hair. I’ve got one more thing. Honey, get her some eyeliner.”

  Duke laughed. “The finishin’ touches on the sex monsta we creatin’. You still so horny, you turnin’ yo’self on jus’ lookin’ at yo’ own damn thighs in the mirror. You finally free to love how yo’ round ass curve up like two big buttered buns, makin’ yo’ pussy drip.”

  She threw a satin glove at him. “Stop!”

  “Gregor, you see Duchess musta hid yo’ iron between her juicy thighs. Honey, don’t y’all see steam shootin’ outta her pussy? Whoosh! Hot steam burnin’ e’rythang in sight. Come burn me, baby!”

  Honey giggled as she strutted over to one of the mummy cases flanking the desk. Duke’s eyes were on Duchess. She could see him in her peripheral view, while she watched Honey’s round, plump ass move under the flowy white chiffon of her little dress. Her thighs caused automatic mouth opening and watering.

  When Duchess looked at them, all she could do was imagine her open mouth sucking on that soft, flawless skin.

  As the designer jingled something behind Duchess, Honey opened the money case, which contained shelves. She bent over at the waist. The dress rode up, and wet, molasses-brown pussy lips smiled at Duchess. Honey’s pussy was fat and bare; shaved hairless, nestling a sweet brownberry treat with a side of fresh cream, displayed right under perfect curves of a plump ass.

  Duchess wanted to crawl up behind her and just eat. Her knees weakened; her whole body felt like she just fell into a hot bathtub. Celeste shot hot gusts of steam into the crotch of this sleeveless black bodysuit.

  “Here we go,” the designer snarled over that jingle sound.

  “You all can have a little sexcapade on your own time. I have three more clients.”

  “We’ll take e’rything.” Duke’s voice boomed across the office. He did not stop staring at Duchess as she watched Honey strut back to her. “Leave the rack.”

  Duke pitched a hand and tossed the money case. Gregor caught it. The suction sound of a tin being opened then closed inspired the designer to whisper, “Every day is Christmas at Babylon. I’m most grateful, Master Duke.” There was the sound of the clothes rack wheeling out, doors opening and closing, and Gregor was gone.

  “Yeah, all them clothes make me wanna have a sexcapade,” Duke said, “wit’ my chameleon. Hope you know how lucky you is. My baby mommas would suck dick for days to get all this loot for free.”

  Honey giggled, sending gusts of hot breath against Duchess’ neck. Honey’s mouth stayed slightly open as she leaned up with a black cosmetic pencil. Duchess closed her eyes as the soft tip lined her lashes, with one outward stroke at the comers of her eyes.

  The heat of Honey’s body drew Duchess’ nipples to hard points in the black cat-suit. Her chest rose and fell.

  “See, yo’ body heavin’ ’cause that homegirl within tryin’ to bust free,” Duke said, his hand on his dick. “Now you got a ghetto space ranger to the rescue.”

  “Here, let me adjust this,” Honey whispered, unfastening the halter top at the back of Duchess’ neck. It fell open.

  Gregor dashed back in, jingling. “Wait, one more”—he stopped in his tracks—“thing.” He was holding a gold chain with coins attached.

  Duke nodded.

  “Here,” Gregor said, attaching the belt around Duchess’ waist. “Hell, who needs clothes anyway?” Then he dashed out.

  “You gotta stay a chameleon,” Duke said. “I seen it on my kids’ videos, a lizard that change colors to match the background.”

  “Our colors match nice,” Honey whispered, curling her fingertips into the belt, gently scratching Duchess’ waist. She stuck out her tongue, and while staring into Duchess’ eyes, Honey tickled her tongue across those exposed nipples.

  “Mmmmm,” Duchess moaned and twisted, making the necklace jingle. “My pussy could boil an egg right now.”

  “I bet it would come out gold,” Honey whispered.

  Duke’s tone was all lust as he talked. “Wit’ Moreno, you gon’ be lily white in a pinstripe suit, an’ the baddest black bitch crossed wit’ yo’ daddy business brains on the inside.”

  Honey’s face was like a doll. Her lips were so perfect, Duchess had to taste them.

  “You smell like sugar,” Duchess whispered.

  “My lotion and lip gloss,” Honey said. “It’s called Brown Sugar. Taste.” She leaned close.

  Duchess’ head spun. She closed her eyes. She had kissed Tiffany so many times, but she’d never been so excited. Oh my God. Honey’s lips were soft fire. They parted when they met Duchess’ trembling mouth, and Honey just placed them there for a long moment, like she knew this was all new to Victoria, so she was taking it slow.

  Deliciously slow. Dizzying. Satin soft, hot, loving she could suck on these lips all day long.

  Victoria’s pussy convulsed. One touch and she could cum.

  Her entire being felt so electric, she felt like she could look up at the sky and make lightning shoot from her eyes. Touch her pussy right now, or let her just see Honey’s sweet playmate for Celeste, and thunder would pound the sky.

  Honey pulled back just a few inches. She was pouting. Her bea
utiful eyes glowed with lust, mirroring Victoria’s emotions exactly. Her back arched, rising and falling with heavy breathing.

  “Right now, we fadin’ to black,” Duke said. “An’ seein’ how you can become one wit’ female beauty.”

  Duchess was drunk, as if Honey’s lips were a champagne fountain. Honey pulled back then purred, “Aren’t we s’posed to be teaching you how to talk like a sista? As your executive assistant, it’s my responsibility. So,” she whispered, “if you ev’a meet up wit’ one o’ dem fed pinpricks, what cha gonna say?”

  “Ahm gon’ say,” Duchess jerked her neck a little, tightened her lips, “hell naw, I ain’t neva heard o’ no white bitch name Victoria Win—what?”

  Honey’s deep, raspy laughter was infectious. Duchess and Duke cracked up.

  “She don’t need coachin’,” Honey told Duke.

  “Yeah, she do,” he answered. “Let me sprinkle some wisdom on Miss Daisy. In the hood, rule numba one: Anything you say or do and anything anybody make up about you can and will be used against you, so don’t tell nobody nothin’.”

  Duchess could stare all day at Honey’s plump, dark brown breasts. They were all hoisted up in her face, mounds that invited her to rub her face all in the crack, on the soft parts, suck on those nipples forever.

  “I always had a ‘no information’ policy,” Duchess said.

  “Most things are nobody’s business, for sure.”

  Honey pulled both sides of her dress so that her nipples popped out. With her mouth open, Duchess moaned as she dove toward them.

  Oh my God, the sensation of stiff nipple against the soft, wet inside of my mouth . . .

  “For sure, Miss Daisy,” Duke mocked. “Now say, ‘fo’ sho’. Where you come from, Miss Daisy say ‘fer shewer.’ Now The Duchess say ‘fo’ sho.’”

  “Maybe you didn’t notice the big, pretty tittie that was in my mouth,” Duchess said, playing mad. She pressed her lips together, drew the corners of her mouth back, tilted her head slightly and said, “Quit pissin’ me awf, ma’fucka!”